For the past two months, almost, I've been facilitating a writing workshop for a group of women. It's the second time I've done this. The first time was over one year ago, and I was super nervous and questioned myself the whole time. This second time, I didn't have time to be nervous. The first day I showed up to an old writers' group after taking several months off, the women in the group asked me to facilitate until the regular facilitator recovered from an injury. I quickly gave them an idea of what we could do; they said they liked the idea, and I said, "Okay, well, let me know if you would like to do that, and we'll plan it out." They said, "Well, this is it. We're letting you know that we want to start. Let's do it." I felt silly, doing what I oftentimes do, overthink and overplan. I chuckled and said, " Okay then." That same day, before the end of the meeting, as agreed, I gave them a prompt for our next session.
It was February, and they wanted to write about love. The prompt was to write a love story that was not romantic. My life friend had just passed away, and I wrote about her. About us being born together and how I thought we'd leave together too. I wrote about all that she unknowingly taught me–about joy, unconditional love, and sharing. She was such a joyful and sharing person.
Having been born only ten days apart, we were joined by birth and also by culture. Our moms were from the same village in Oaxaca and spoke their language when they interacted, so we'd say we were cousins. We had the same babysitter, and we went to school together from first grade all the way up to our twelfth year. As it usually happens after high school, friends go their separate ways, and we did too. She went to college, graduated, became a teacher, married, but had no children, and traveled a lot. I got married before even graduating from high school, had children, and switched between being a stay-at-home mom, a working mom, and a student. Needless to say, our lives took very different directions. Despite that, we stayed in touch, imperfectly, but always there, just a phone call or text away. I have our last text message. It was a short interaction in which we agreed to meet up on March 7, just two weeks from then. We didn't meet up.
I tried to write about her. I couldn't. The pain and confusion were still too fresh, and what came out on the page was choppy. Nonetheless, I brought it to our writers' meeting the following Wednesday, excited to be among fellow writers. After each woman read, we gave our feedback, they each gave theirs, and I gave mine. Before what would have been my turn to read, the woman who had been subbing for the facilitator asked, "So, Espe, do you want to give us another prompt for next week?"
"Sure," I said. I was officially facilitating a workshop. People often tell me that they feel creative around me, but I haven't really figured out what that means or how to "lean into it."
During our last lunch together, my life friend asked me how it was going, sharing my artwork on Instagram. I wasn't able to answer. I said it was going fine and then explained the reason I was doing it. That was the end of that topic of conversation. The honest answer would have been to admit that I felt scared. She would have been confused about my feeling that way because she always liked my artwork. In fourth grade, she asked to pass my coloring page as hers. After some clarification about my fears, she would have let me alone, trusting that I would be able to figure it out on my own.
Last week, my husband said to me after a long conversation, "I think I get it. You just want to let your creativity out." It made me want to cry. In very few words, he summed it all up for me. I hadn't realized how much creative constipation can hurt until then. But I'm learning this: the best antidote to creative constipation is doing for others, giving freely, and expecting nothing in return. With the help of the writing group, my creativity is finding flow. Their desire to write and create inspires me to do the same.
By mid-June, each of the women will have finalized a short piece that will become a zine. They are all very excited about it, and so am I. Every Wednesday, I look forward to hearing their stories and witnessing their growth in both their writing and critiquing. They've given me so much more, though–a hint of a belief in myself as someone who can teach writing and whose creative itches and ideas have value. It makes me want to cry just thinking about it.
It's been an amazing experience with an amazing group of women that I am very grateful for. My life friend will never be replaced, but finding bits of her in the people I come across, such as the women in the writing group, is good enough.
Have you or do you ever feel creatively constipated? How do you help it flow again? I'd love to know.
Or if you'd like the writing prompt for yourself, here it is: Write a non-romantic love story.
Thank you for reading y ¡hasta la próxima!