I hung up the phone and drove to the address on the card. It was a small set of four apartments. Hers was on the bottom floor. I walked up to the door and knocked.
Estrella answered with a warm smile and gestured for me to step inside. I felt incredibly awkward alone with a stranger. She seemed nice enough, if not a bit eccentric. But what could she really do to help me with my writing?
“So tell me about yourself and your writing, Samantha.” She led me into a living room that also seemed to serve as an office.
“I love to write. Right now I have a blog, but I’ve started working on a novel as well.”
“Now I see the problem. You skipped the most important step.”
“What step?”
She leaned forward and smiled at me. I could see something like a sparkle in her eye.
“Poetry.”
“Poetry?”
“Yes. You see, when you write a blog you are revealing some of yourself and when you write a book, you are revealing a little as well. But when you write poetry, you are revealing everything. Writing a poem is like walking around naked.”
“Well, I don’t know if I want to do that.” I laughed.
“If you want to write—truly write—you must do just that.” Estrella emphasized each word with a swift pound to her palm. “When someone reads, they can tell if they are reading words or emotions. If they can feel your emotions, then they will be enraptured by your writing. But if they are only reading words, then they will get bored.”
“I’m a very emotional person so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
I was thrilled I had finally found a use for what I sometimes considered my overly sensitive feelings.
“You might be emotional, but you’ve also learned to try to hold back those emotions. That’s what you have to break free from.”
The living room was dimly lit by lamps. Some were placed high up on a shelf, some were placed behind furniture. For how many lamps were in the room the lack of light was baffling. It was as if someone had intentionally used low-power bulbs.
“Welcome to my humble abode.” She sat down behind an ancient wooden desk that was piled high with books.
Chapter 6
Estrella was probably the shortest woman I’d ever seen. She appeared to be in her seventies and wore old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had seen someone actually wearing a pair of glasses like that. In many ways, I felt like I’d stepped back through time.
Was she a sage? Was she the writing guru that would set me on the right path of creativity? I felt an urge to fall to one knee and ask to bask in her good graces.
“Sorry about the mess. I’m going through my library. I have to keep the lighting in here dim because some of the books are older than my mother.” She laughed a high-pitched laugh that was in complete opposition to her speaking voice.
“Oh. What a nice collection you have.” I managed a smile. I felt silly for thinking that she had created some kind of sacred writing cave.
“As a writer, reading has probably been my favorite pastime. I have always loved books—in a way that could get me accused of obsession.” She patted a stack beside her. “They can be anything you need—a lover when you are lonely, a friend when you are isolated, an inspiration or a tragedy, depending on what you need at the time.”
“I never really thought about it that way.” I looked over the stack of books. “Are any of these yours?”
“Mine?” She shook her head and scrunched up her nose in disgust. “Oh, no. I never read my own work. I write and toss it to the editor, to the publisher, to whoever wants it. Reading my own work is like sitting in a pile of my dirty laundry. It might be mine, but it still stinks.”
“But to be a published author—doesn’t that make you proud?” I stared at her with wonderment.
“It makes me a published author. A writer is no less a writer just because the right person has not found their work to be inspiring enough to throw money at. Real and true writers don’t write for money. They write for survival. They write because they can’t breathe otherwise. Do you understand what I mean?” She pinned me with the dark eyes behind her strange glasses.
I started to deny that I did know what she meant, when it struck me—I knew exactly what she meant. There were times when I was exhausted, when the last thing I wanted to do was open my computer and type out my blog, and yet I couldn’t rest unless I did. I didn’t feel complete unless I had gotten my emotions out through writing.
“I think I do.”
“I’m sure you do.” Estrella waved me over to a wingback chair in front of her desk.
I sat down and lifted my eyes to meet hers. She appeared to be scrutinizing me. I doubted that I would meet her approval. I hadn’t met the approval of the other writers.
“So tell me, Samantha, are you a writer?”
“I would like to be.”
“That’s not what I asked you. It’s a yes or no question. Are you a writer?” She met my eyes with a level of intensity that I didn’t expect.
“Yes.” The word popped out of my mouth before I could even think about it. “But the people at this writers’ group didn’t seem to think so.”
“Yes.” Estrella smiled as she repeated my answer. “I spoke with Charlie about this group he’s in. Here’s my perspective on some of these little writers’ groups. I think it’s wonderful to want to share your work. Many people do. But these new writers are trying far too hard to put a label on what writing is. Writing has never been anything but a form of art, a form of expression. They are forgetting about the creativity in search of a definition of what is good writing.”
“But there has to be some tipping point between novice and actual writer, don’t you think?” I asked.
“When it comes to writing, technique can always be learned. Trust me, there are plenty of people that will be more than willing to correct your grammar and the structure of the story for you. However, that is not what a true writer needs.”
“Then what is?” I looked at her eagerly. I really did want to know.
“Writing is a craft—an art, just like painting. Many people can paint a pretty picture, but very few can capture the essence of the moment that they are painting. That is true with writing as well. The key is to discover what sets words on paper apart from good writing.”
“Emotion, like you said?”
“For some it is. There are as many different kinds of writers in the world as there are readers. So you can’t always please every reader. That shouldn’t be the goal. You’re writing to express yourself, and if someone else gets something out of that, then good for them. But if they don’t, oh well.”
She smiled as if rejection was the last thing on her mind.
“That kind of takes the pressure off.” I felt some relief at the idea that I could just write without questioning who I was writing for.
“It does. But the key is still the same. All good writing is naked writing, and if you’re going to be a good writer, you have to be willing to strip.”
“I guess I could try it.” I frowned as I wondered how exactly I could accomplish that.
“Be somewhere and some way that makes you feel the most vulnerable. Then let your words flow. Don’t worry about rhyme, don’t worry about who will be reading. Just write what you honestly feel. It will create the kind of flow that you are looking for. If you have any trouble, just come back to see me.”
“Okay, I will. Thank you, Estrella.”
“You’re welcome. Remember, no one gets to tell you if you’re a writer. Only you know that for sure.”
Chapter 7
I stared at Estrella, astonished by her wisdom. I felt the moment was rich with emotion. As I stood up to leave, I didn’t want to tarnish the moment with another spoken word.
When I turned toward the door, I found a lamp in my path. I leaned to the side to dodge it and managed to knock into a pile of books. As the books collapsed, I lunged forward to try to catc
h them. In the process I caught my foot in the cord of another lamp. I tumbled forward and just avoided landing in the pile of books.
“Samantha, are you okay?”
Estrella walked over to me. I sat up ready to apologize, but Estrella didn’t look angry. In fact she was struggling to hold back her laughter.
“I’m sorry about the books.”
“Don’t be. They will be fine. I think that was the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time.”
“Well, if you think that was funny then you should be around me more often, because it seems to happen all the time!”
“You can use that in your writing too, my dear. A little bit of humor goes a long way. I think that you are going to figure out your voice as a writer—hopefully before you break any bones.”
“Hopefully!”
I smiled as I stepped out of her apartment. I was feeling much better than when I had stepped in. Estrella had reminded me to use my passion.
Now I just had to find a way to get naked.
After returning to my apartment, I sat down to think about what Estrella had said. I had no idea where I would feel the most vulnerable. I always felt safe and content at home. I was really only a little nervous when I tried new things. I couldn’t think of anything that might make me feel vulnerable, except maybe telling Max my true feelings for him. I certainly wasn’t going to do that.
The only place that I could think of feeling very insecure was in a dressing room. Then all of a sudden it hit me. I was my most vulnerable when I was in front of the mirror. I felt the most insecure when I was naked.
Estrella was using nudity as a metaphor, but in my case, it just might be the key to getting emotionally naked as well. I was excited by the idea.
I went into my bedroom and turned on some loud music to get me into an expressive, creative mood. Then I began dancing and stripping off my clothes. As I tried to tug off my pants and wiggle at the same time, I lost my balance and fell back on the bed. It was a much softer landing than the one at the cafe had been. I laughed at the memory of it.
Once I was completely nude I turned to face the mirror. Instantly I felt the vulnerability of my own reflection looking back at me.
My weight was a battle I’d been fighting for a very long time. My reflection was proof that I was beginning to make progress, but not as much as I would like. I was trying to find the beauty in my own body, but I still struggled with it.
As I gazed into the mirror, I felt all of the emotions I had carried for so long. This was where I felt the most vulnerable, in front of the mirror with no clothes to hide the size and shape of my body. But I didn’t want to feel that way about my body any more. I wanted to love it no matter what size it was.
After a few minutes of twisting and turning I found that I could truly look at my curves with affection and confidence rather than insecurity. I felt a huge urge to write.
I grabbed a pencil and some paper and began scribbling words out as if they were breath escaping my body. By the time I was finished, I had a complete poem. My first real poem.
When I read over my own words, I had tears in my eyes. There I was—there was the true me that I’d been looking for. Estrella had been right. I couldn’t truly express myself unless I was naked.
I stood in front of the mirror and began to read my poem out loud. When I finished, the CD I was playing finished too. I realized then that there was someone knocking lightly at my bedroom door. A fear shot through me.
“Sammy?”
“Max?” I gasped and lunged for the sheet on my bed.
“Can I come in?”
“No, don’t!”
I tried to wrap myself in the sheet, but it kept slipping off when I thought I had it secured. I rushed toward the door to close it all the way but my feet got tangled in the sheet. I tripped forward and slammed my hands into the door, causing the door to shut hard.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been knocking forever so I just let myself in. Weren’t we supposed to have drinks?”
I glanced at the clock. I’d completely forgotten that Max and I had agreed to meet to discuss how the writers’ group had gone.
“It’s okay, Max. Just give me a minute. I’ll be right out.”
“Okay.”
I heard him walk away from the door. I took a moment to silently scream in horror at what he had almost walked in on.
Max knew he had permission to walk into my apartment whenever he wanted. However, usually I wasn’t naked and reciting poetry to my own reflection. I could only hope that he hadn’t seen me. The door was open a crack, but I didn’t think it was enough for him to have gotten an eyeful.
Chapter 8
I hurried to pull on some clothes. I tucked my poem into my pocket, as I wanted to post it on my blog after Max left. When I walked into the living room, he was sitting on the couch. He had already poured us both a glass of wine.
“Hey, I’m sorry if I interrupted you. It’s just that I was knocking and I heard the music. I tried texting you—”
“It’s fine.” I smiled as I sat down beside him.
“So how did it go?”
“Not well. I’m not a writer according to them.”
“Well, they are idiots.” Max made a funny face.
“Well, they may be idiots, but they know what they’re talking about. They’re all working on publishing books.” I shook my head. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re right. But I did meet an amazing woman who helped me to find my poetry groove.”
“Oh?” He smiled secretively. “Is that what I was hearing?”
“You heard me?” I asked.
“I might have overheard something.” He grinned and then seemed to get more serious. “Anyways, where do these people get off telling you if you can write or not? You shouldn’t listen to them, Sammy. You are an amazing writer.”
“I wouldn’t say amazing. But I do have a passion for it. I just need to find a way to show my emotions through my words. Max, I want to read this to you, okay?”
“Of course.”
I sighed and sat back against the couch. My heart was beating fast. It was silly to be nervous about reading my poem to Max. He’d never been anything but kind to me, and out of all of the people in the world, I trusted him the most. If I couldn’t share my writing with him, what hope did I have to share my writing with the public?
“Okay.” I took a deep breath.
“Wait, is this a dirty poem?” Max poked me lightly in the side. “Is this like one of those genre novels that pretends to be romantic but is really all about good old-fashioned smut?”
“No, it’s not dirty.” I elbowed him in the arm. “Would I write something like that?”
“I’m pretty sure that you would—I mean, maybe if you were naked at the time.”
“Max!” I glared at him. “You looked in my room, didn’t you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He tilted his head to the side as he looked at me. “Now read it.”
I laughed a little as I realized that Max had worked his magic yet again. He had allowed me to become more relaxed, and for a moment I had forgotten how nervous I was.
As I began to read the poem, I felt my fear leave me. The words, and the power they had over me, became all that mattered. I had packed a lot emotion into what I’d crafted. However, I hoped it would be vague enough that Max would not be able to understand that it was about him. Or maybe in truth, it wasn’t as much about him as I’d first thought.
I felt my vulnerability, my hope, and many other emotions shining through. As I read the final words I boldly met his eyes.
“Well?” I was impatient to hear his reaction. I knew it wouldn’t be scathing, but his opinion mattered to me.
He lifted his gaze to mine and I was startled to see what looked like pure admiration in them.
“You wrote that?”
“Do you think I’m lying about it?” I laughed a little.
He broke into a smile and shook his head.
�
��No. I just never expected something like that to come from you.” He shook his head with amazement.
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I was starting to feel anxious about what he really thought.
Chapter 9
Max reached out and took my hand in his. The warmth of his touch was all it took to sweep away all my fears. I knew whatever he had to say was going to come from a place of kindness.
“The poem is powerful, Sam. I just didn’t know you were carrying such heartache.”
“Heartache?” My breath caught in my throat.
Had he been able to figure out what the poem was about? Was it more obvious than I realized?
“Isn’t that what it’s about?” He stared into my eyes.
It was another one of those moments—a chance to confess how I’d felt about him for so long. He was looking at me so openly, almost eagerly. But I simply could not bring myself to do it.
“It’s about heartache in a way. It’s about me feeling disconnected from my passion.”
He continued to stare at me, waiting for more.
“My writing,” I clarified and lowered my eyes.
“Oh!” He laughed a little too loudly. “Oh, wow. I didn’t catch that. But it makes sense now. No matter what the poem is about, it’s really great writing. You know I’m no expert, but you certainly know how to convey emotion.”
“Well, thank you.” I tried to sound cheerful.
I was happy that he liked the poem. But I was disappointed that I hadn’t been bold enough to tell him the truth. A part of me wanted to write that story, to see where it ended up. How would he react if I looked him right in the eye and told him that every last word told how I felt about him?
“I do have a question, though.”
“What is it?”
“Why are you reading this to me when you should be reading it to that writing group you signed up for?”
“Oh, them.” I shook my head and stared down at the piece of paper in my hand. “I don’t exactly measure up to their standards.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. They’re all about getting published and how every word has to be thought through. I read them some of my novel and they just really tore it to shreds.” I sighed and tucked the paper back into my pocket.
Single Wide Female: The Bucket List Mega Bundle - 24 Books (Books #1-24) Page 35