It was around 1993 when I established a writer’s group I called Wordweavers. I found out a year or so ago that the name has since been copyrighted by someone else, so sadly I can only refer to my own “Wordweavers” outside of that official name. My mission was to provide a group where writers of all ages would be encouraged and equipped to discover the creative writer within.
I conducted a survey at the beginning of the first Wordweavers workshop, asking each writer for his or her impressions on the topic of creative writing. The responses were varied, but very informative:
“I loved creative writing when I was younger, but my high school English teacher edited my papers to death and my love for creative writing drowned in an ocean of red ink.”
“I would write letters more often if they didn’t seem so boring.”
“I’ve written a couple of poems, but I’m afraid to show them to anyone.”
“I think my writing is pretty good, but I’m too shy to let anyone see it.”
“I just want to write something people will actually read.”
“I have plenty of writing and no way to share it with anyone. But deep down I’d love to see my writing in print someday.”
“I’ve written from my heart all my life, filled 23 journals with my thoughts and experiences, and I need to know how to turn that into a life story.”
I’ve watched writers from seven to seventy catch the spark that ignited a brightly burning desire to write creatively. Some of the writings have brought us to tears. Some have simply left us all sitting with our jaws on the table. Some have made us laugh till our sides hurt. But all have encouraged writers to write.
One ten-year-old girl, when given the word ‘wish’, wrote: “I wish I could travel to Mars, so I could dance along the red moon without dying.” We all sat speechless as those few words captured our imaginations and gave us a glimpse into this young writer’s heart and mind.
One woman wrote a poem to the baby she had not yet been able to conceive, even after longing for a child for several years. Her poem touched our hearts and gave us a tangible view of her empty arms and yet-unfulfilled dreams. A short time later, barely able to speak through her tears, she shared her poem at a Mother’s Day banquet. She finished the reading to a standing ovation from a roomful of friends, symbolically celebrating the imminent birth of her sweet baby boy.
Whatever was written, we all celebrated together. That was the goal—the celebration of words and those who wove them, and the hope that the weaving inspired. That remains my goal, and I don’t see that ever changing.
And you, my friend—what is your story? What words to you long to weave that wait patiently for their moment to come? Dare you to start weaving.