“THOUGHTS
I think I’d like to live on Mars,
On any of the neighbor stars;
I’d look down on the earth and see
How very busy folks can be;
I’d watch them running round and round
Intent on looking at the ground.
If I could build a brand new sky
I would not make it half so high,
I’d hang it on the tops of trees
Where I could reach it at my ease,
I’d climb up through the evening bars
And see the wrong side of the stars.”
--Tracy Hickman, at age 8
You read that right. Eight Years Old. Amazing, isn’t it?
This post has been brewing in my heart. I felt it could not be complete without Tracy’s beautiful poem and it is with his gracious permission that I’ve included it above.
On June 8th of this year, I attended the
Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers conference in BYU. I had no idea that it would change and save my life.
I had expected to attend a 5 day early morning workshop, choose from many afternoon workshops, and mingle with agents, editors, and authors. I had expected to journey to and from with my critique group, meet up with dear friends, and hopefully make new ones. I had expected to work on my craft, glean from the wisdom of those who have paved the road before me, and come away feeling rejuvenated and ready to jump back into writing.
I wasn’t prepared for the staggering amount of talent from the other writers in my workshop. I wasn’t prepared for the mirrored reflections of my soul in the form of other people—people who understood me on such fundamental levels. I wasn’t prepared to face my darkest Demon and come out on top.
As for all the wonderful day-to-day stuff, I’m afraid I won’t be able to fill you in on all of it. Not only is there so much to say but I feel that right now isn’t the time for me to say it. The best thing I can offer is the link above (if you’re a writer or illustrator) and encourage you with every ounce of my heart to attend if you can. You’ll never regret it. Ever.
What I can offer you is my experience. I can offer you a glimpse into the depths of my heart—though it will never be enough to encompass what change was wrought in me that week.
It began with a turned corner and the sound of my name ringing out. I hadn’t even a chance to enter my workshop room when I was hailed and welcomed. One by one, I got to know my group members and have found in each of them limitless talent and hearts of gold.
(I’ll link those with blogs in another post.)
As we settled into our workshop, I was overcome by the ease I felt. Never had I been among people who “got” me like these writers did. All writers understand one another in a way but when you spend time among those of your same genre, you might find yourself astounded at the similarities. Words, thoughts, and emotions that I had always perceived as solitary and alien to all but myself were golden threads tied to each of us.
This commonality was natural and heartfelt but when expounded upon by our teachers,
Tracy & Laura Hickman, it became more than a common link. Tracy and Laura live their passion—and it
is a passion for them. Never had I seen two people who loved their craft like the Hickmans do. Never had I seen people apply it to every aspect of their lives like they do. And after watching it and listening to it…I finally understood myself.
The Hickmans fostered this understanding and we, as group members, became more than attendees at a conference. We became a sort of family. Ideas, stories, feelings, experiences—all of these were passed like dishes at Thanksgiving and everyone was filled. Our creative wells brimmed, humor abounded, and each moment was golden.
Camaraderie aside, our little brains were so packed with information, it became an ache. If you want to learn the ins and outs of Speculative Fiction (and even if you don’t write speculative), Tracy & Laura are the people you want to learn from. Their workshop is crammed with so much knowledge that you wonder how you’ll ever retain it. Thanks to their excellent planning and hard work, we had workbooks, videos, and even a website that allows us access to their brilliance. When the Hickmans set out to do something, they do it in style!
I’ve written before about the choice to be a writer and how I struggle with it. It isn’t because of the workload. It isn’t because of the statistics of success or failure. It’s because of my own personal Demon. I have fought this Demon of mine for as long as I’ve been a writer (and that started at age 8.) Sometimes the Demon wins and I give up. Sometimes I win and write happily for months. Despite the war, I still get up to battle it because I’ve never been able to ignore the lure in my soul.
Thursday night, June 11th, 2009, the war was won
for good.
That night, our teacher Tracy was the guest speaker for the banquet. He shared with us his story of the journey, starting with his own writings from an early age (the poem above is one such). He told a beautiful story about a book of his he’d co-written with his friend Margaret Weis. He spoke of the difficulty in choosing a character’s fate. He skipped forward in time and told us about a book signing he’d gone to where a young, injured soldier spoke to them about the impact their book made in his life. This young soldier, facing incredible odds, performed a miraculous feat of bravery because of a lesson he’d learned from that same character written long ago. That young soldier saved a dozen lives and was awarded The Red Cross and The Purple Heart for his courage. In turn, he wanted to bestow those honors on Tracy and Margaret because of the truths they had given him in a work of fiction.
As Tracy closed his speech, in a room full of sniffles and tear-streaked faces, he said to us, “You are not just telling stories.”
It was followed by thunderous applause and a standing ovation.
For me, it was not just a moving story. It was not just a beautiful speech. For me, it was the banner to which I rallied and found the strength to end my own personal war.
The Demon that had haunted me for the whole of my life had whispered long and hard that what I did, the genre I wrote in, the “stories” I was telling—that Demon told me they were worse than valueless. That Demon told me that I had cause to be ashamed of them because I wrote about good and evil. I wrote about bitter darkness. The Demon convinced me that I would have to stand before my Maker someday and answer for the way I had misused my talent.
And on that late Thursday night, the Demon was done away with.
Like a child, I sobbed, unashamed of the tears coursing over my cheeks. I clapped until my arms hurt, and when I had a chance, I embraced the Hickmans and told them how they’d saved my life. It may seem little to some but it is not to me.
That truth saved my life and vanquished a life-long fear. It gave me permission to be myself in very essence, to embrace my talents, and I, at long last, found peace between me and my Maker. Whatever I may have to answer for, the choice to be a writer will not be one of them. That’s a debt I’ll never be able to repay.
Let my story be a lesson to you. Don’t waste time doubting your talents. If you think your words don’t matter—
know that they do. Find your banner and rally to it. Take up the fight again and again until it is done. You are the hero in someone else’s story.
Hard to believe? Maybe so. But where would I be today if there hadn’t been a little boy, long ago, who dreamed of rearranging the universe?
“I’d climb up through the evening bars
…And see the wrong side of the stars.”
