Blocks on the creative path

“It is always necessary to acknowledge creative injuries and to grieve them. Otherwise, they become scar tissue and block your growth”

1. Ms. T: When I was in 1st Grade, I was assigned to write an essay on the Titanic. Thinking I was a clever, I wrote the essay with a completely new re-imagining of what had went down. To tell you the truth, I may have flubbed up a few details in my story, enough to catch the attention of one Ms. T. In my experience in Hickam Elementary School, Ms. T was one of the first teachers who had made it a “concern” that my imagination was getting the best of me. I recall when I received the essay graded “F,” the kids in my class pointed at my paper and began “Oohing” and “Ahhing.” I had felt a deep shame for my grade, but not for my story. So when I was required to have a parent teacher conference, I remember sitting next to my mom. I leaned to my mom’s shoulder as Ms. T listed all of the wrong I had committed. It was the first time I had seen an adult so visibly upset at an assignment, that I started to believe it had little do with my story and more about me. I don’t think much about M. Tahara these days, but I wonder if some kid like me had the courage to stand up for their vision, no matter how invented or unoriginal it may be.
   
2. Intern: I had been a library assistant at The Center for Fiction for a couple of years. I wasn’t a well-read person, nor did I have the literary knowledge to equip me with the spunk to have dynamic reader’s advisories. For a long time, I believed that being in proximity to a place that was literally its name, I could be a novelist. Hell, that would be the case if I focused on the actual part of writing and less about my insecurity of figuring out my life during that time. It was an imperfect period, one where I had betrayed myself and others in many ways. But the biggest offense I had committed was believing that I wasn’t made for the literary world. I recall being excited to submit a packet to a well known writing nonprofit (one that involved a big yellow bird and a grumpy old green dude in a trash can) when I shared my intention with an intern. I did it to myself really – sharing the details and what I had intended to do if I could explore such an opportunity. The next couple of words that came out of the intern’s mouth changed the trajectory of my path forever. I looked them in the eyes, and they did their best to contain a chortle. “Good luck,” they said. In a way, I could be mad at this person, but I’m not. I’m only upset that I was seeking out validation, and I didn’t actually keep going.
   
3. Pops: “Why don’t you become a dentist?” It had been a crucial time in high school. Junior year, the year before you get your ducks in a row and decide where to lead your life. I was unaware of what path I could take, but I knew deep down that I had always wanted to write. I didn’t care if that meant looking like a complete idiot, or failing miserably only to return back to that sad old rainy town in Alaska (which I did). “I don’t think I want to become a dentist.” But before I could tell him what I actually wanted to do, I shoved down the thought of even admitting that the writer’s life was for me. “You know, I might try to join the military or something.” As I sat in the back seat of my dad’s car, I began plotting my plan to become a military officer. I could see myself in a uniform. I could see my father in a crowd of people who had visited the university to pin me as a military man. I had lived in his shadow, following the long and narrow path that had stretched out before me. I didn’t want to be any of these things. All I wanted was to be myself.