Of all the classes I took fall semester, I classify Magazine and Feature Writing as the hardest of them.
The class itself was very enjoyable and laid back, with reasonably spaced assignments. The pain in it was the frequent requirement of submitting my work to publications–As if I was entirely confident in my ability to write professionally, as if I could take rejection without a heavy heart and pick myself back up from the depths of my embarrassment, as if I had the audacity to extend my work forward into the mix of submissions from much more skillful writers.
Freelance is stinkin’ terrifying, and I didn’t realize this until I took that class. In the beginning, I was shocked into wanting to hide in a corner with my scribblings and never give them out to be read over, thought about, ignored, rejected. Now I feel a little better about it.
I have wanted to write professionally since I was eight years old. I made a goal to publish my stories, because I don’t want to keep my inspiration to myself. So I will take the risk. I will pursue this goal even as reality leans in.
I wrote on my novel this afternoon, and after finishing this blog post, I intend to keep working on it. I am nearing the end of it, and then I will be launched onto the next step–unprovoked submission to a writing market, probably to be rejected several times before I find a place.
As I am nearing this phase, I am again faced with that deep, troubling question: Why does my voice matter?
Why should anyone care about what I have to say? Do I have what it takes to make my voice heard?
At this point, I hold firmly to the belief that everyone’s voice matters, and that, by definition, so does mine. I can expect rejection and frustration in this journey, but I know God has me.
A passion so longstanding is worth fighting for, after all, and I intend to see it through.