Leaping Through Fear

Not ten minutes ago I e-mailed my submission to literary master John Rechy and my new writing group.

John Rechy is an amazing writer, and an equally talented teacher and critic. I have taken his course before. A fellow journalist who also harbored secret fictional fantasies turned me onto him. Go, he told me. He is amazing. And he will love you.

Well, he turned out to be one of the most gifted editors I have ever come across. And all I did was work with editors. He held his literary workshops in a small apartment. First he would greet you politely at the door, as if you were a Queen, or celebrity from a long ago, more civil time. Then he would lead you, in my memory it is by the elbow, to the back room, where he showed a shelf of his own books, and a shelf of books written by students in his seminar.

Then the seminar began.

You have to write to get in, but he waived the admission requirement for me because I was a professional journalist. This is good, an honor, but also intimidating. Would I have gotten in if I had submitted my fiction? I don't think at that moment I had even written anything. It created doubt in me.

It took me weeks to submit. I watched as he critiqued the writing, and taught us gentle lessons about ourselves, about observation, about writing. At times he could be cutting, and flashed a wit that was wonderful to witness, but left you praying he would not turn his keen powers of observation on you. But of course he saw all. That is what he does!

The night I submitted, I went last. I was so anxious I felt weak. I remember my face was bright red and I wondered if I was going to faint. It was shocking even to me. I mean I wrote every day. But I was always hiding behind the conventions of journalism, which dictates that you never show yourself. This was like being stripped naked before strangers.

He looked at my red face, and said, "Darling, are you alright? Look at her, class, she is so red..." Oh, I know he was much funnier, his adjectives more precise. Listening to him is like eating the richest of desserts for someone who loves words. He fishes out delightful words that are all but dead and flings them around so they sparkle. If only everyone talked like that all the time, with such precision, with such joy, using all the words we have, rather than sticking to the 500 we lead our lives wit!

When I fell in love with Jonathan I made him come to a John Rechy seminar. I felt like I could not marry him--even if I loved him--unless he saw, and appreciated--how great John Rechy is.

Years have passed, and now, due to the gentle persuasion of a woman I adore, I am in again.

This afternoon the call came for submissions. The typical Hilary said, Oh, wait a few weeks. See what people submit. Make sure you are OK. Just wait. But then I thought, NO! This is the point! I have to jump in! If I want to write, I have to leap in, be fearless. I have something written. No, it is not great. It is a rewrite of a novel written in month, itself written in a month -- which I guess makes it doubly shitty.

But I have to own what I am. I am a person who loves to write, who loves stories, who uses many cliches, but also can touch on the universal. It is no literary masterpiece, and yet something is making me keep going on this. I am here to write, to learn.

I had thought that with more years, my fears would abate. But I know I will feel just as faint when he clears his throat to begin his critique. And I felt weak just pushing the send button, sending my submission out to 10 people I do not know.

But I did it!!!!!!! I am not hanging back. I am leaping in, with whatever I have, and facing my writing head on. Procrastinating won't make it any better. It will just allow me to harbor secret delusions of grandeur for a few more weeks, until I am faced with reality.

So here goes! Into 2010 and the rest of my life!