 #throwback (unknown date … 1996?)
"It's a fine thing to be able to write a story; an exciting way to live." Andy Hoffman (my writing teacher commenting on my first short story) How do I define myself as a writer? I've grappled with this question for the past five years, asking myself initially (more importantly?), Am I writer? Or, is it something I merely aspire to be? Sometimes I feel like I'm not - I haven't read enough or written enough. enough that's good ...enough that's entirely made up. I write too much about myself or people I know... stories so real they're fake, a fiction fraud. A friend, imagining me teaching a writing class, jokingly said, "Leah's Guide to Creative Writing: Hang out with people who say clever things and take good notes.” Is being a writer a state of being or must I create product? Achieve success? (I mentally list my stories: Fortune Teller Fish, Kamikaze Butterfly, Scars, Proof, The Sandal Dilemma -- DONE; Picture Yourself, Mary Elizabeth, Distance, The Interview, Role Model - IN PROGRESS; and visualize promising, hand-written rejection notes from Story and Seventeen). Can writer-status be self-proclaimed [imagine something like that person standing with the sign, "I am an artist," except the person holds a pen with the inscription, “I am a writer"], or must it be earned, like a degree? Or, are writers determined by critics, by time? My stories have been a combination of imagination, prediction, and life description. In my first story, I wrote characters who were people I wanted to be, wanted to know. But then I started writing about things that happened to me. Issues I was struggling with or those affecting friends and family. Recently, I've had my phase of angst - chronicling tales of obsessive thinking and family psyche. Not necessarily because I had nothing else to say, but because that's what I needed to write at the time. Now, I wonder if my strongest stories are the ones inspired around me instead of inside me or those I've yet to write. "The voice is the triumph of the story." My stories are more about voice, less about plot. More than once my work has met with the criticism: "But nothing happens." Something to work on ... DEADLINES. I need them. I thrive on them. I fear I'll fail without them. Every finished story (and most of the works-in-progress) was a product of workshops. Without a class to prompt me, I've gone years without finishing anything. Does this make me a non-practicing writer (like my absence from church makes me a non-practicing Catholic)? CRITICISM. I need that, too. Someone to say, "Add this, subtract that." confirm. People-in-the-know who say, "This is good. Publishable." Affirm, (Something I might not believe if it's only my opinion.) How do I define myself as a writer? It's not so much dependent on what I've done so far, but what I want ... what I need to do. Read more (every day). Write more (every day). Take risks. Be bold. And, make things up.
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 Just
by Leah Connor If I just let things go If I just stopped to enjoy the show If I just made the shots If I just stopped the incessant thoughts Who would I be? If I just paid the fines If I just stopped looking for signs If I just let them go If I just stopped begging to know Who would I be? “Just married” “Just breathe” “Just sold” Just need “Just keep swimming” “Just have fun” “Just do it” Just run This just in…. I’m still here. I won’t disappear. I’m sincere. A pioneer. I persevere. Despite my fears. I take souvenirs. This just in I’m still here. Justice seeker. Imagineer. If I just let blame go If I just stopped made room to grow if I just stopped if I just paused If I just stopped the pain I caused Where would I be?  Pacifier
by Leah Connor To pacify or persist To renounce or resist I’m sorry but I must insist These problems be fixed Telling the truth is my only way So please just demand an NDA Give my friends a vacay Stop working to save me from the spiral The desperate dream that my complaints go viral My intent is pure Talking the cure I knew it wouldn’t be easy Unveil the secrecy Expect some decency My urge to save the next From a similar mess Was never obscure To be the change To know for sure When I did my best Shared my strengths, my sorrow, and all the rest In the end, ChatGPT showed more empathy Gave me hope in tomorrow I see the allure of its ease To fill some basic needs When the pursuit of what’s just is the hardest test In place of human morality Should I trust AI’s reality Fill the achy silence with any answer Accept generated words as my pacifier When I was an MFA student at GMU I remember a professor once told my class that if he ran into one of us years in the future and asked about our “work”, he’d expect to hear about our writing, not the job we had at the time to pay the bills. That comment occurred to me this weekend as I was both an employee and attendee of the Virginia Film Festival. An event that, in many ways, was 13 years in the making. In 2009, when I first attended VAFF, ecstatic to meet Alan Ball, asking him sign my “Six Feet Under” book and telling him the show saved my marriage because it gave us something to share together, I could have never imagined I’d end up being a seasonal employee and have the opportunity to meet another screenwriter, Meg LeFauve, who would inspire and encourage me to tell my stories. Before experiencing the magic of these five days in November, I had endured 100+ interviews and even more rejections from the countless other jobs I applied for but never advanced past the resume slush pile. I survived two years without permanent full-time employment (except for a three month position that ended with getting fired for the first time in over 27 years) and two years without resolution to a complaint I filed with the Virginia Department of Health Professions against a psychologist I saw over 1,000 times. It’ll take time for me to adequately describe how all of these things are intricately connected, but suffice it to say, it’s about facing shame and regret, needing validation, exploring vulnerability, quantifying worth, defining failure or success, seeking approval, wanting acceptance, and establishing connection. The journey from “I’ll pass” to “We’d like to make an offer.” This weekend I also recalled the advice from a coach who had said to runners training for a long distance race that the marathon should be a celebration for all the miles it took to get to the starting line. For so many runners it’s the hours on the roads, in solitude or with friends, that brings meaning to the sport, not the actual race. But when you earn the PR you’ve been striving for or finally get to the finish line in a race you’ve been struggling through, the completion of that goal is a feeling of joy and accomplishment that is like no other. There were so many meaningful and life-changing moments during the festival that as I write this now I don’t even think I’m ready to share all of them just yet. Maybe I can just start with a few of my favorite photos. I cackled. I cried. I danced. I panicked. I felt awkward. I felt pride. I was alone. I was with friends, new and old. And, most importantly, I shared experiences with my daughter and with my twin. So I’ve found meaning in all the pain I’ve experienced over the past two years and the memories from this festival are like race medals I’ll cherish forever.  Opening Night Gala with my Twin! Photo by Justin Ide  Working with Kat at a happy hour! Photo by Coe Sweet  My favorite photo! Photo by Justin Ide  Screenwriter’s Panel with Dustin Lance Black and Meg LeFauve. Photo by Justin Ide.  My daughter and me before a screening of “The Lost King”  Late Night Wrap Party, Photo by Eze Amos  I started this poem "Wellness Check" as a somewhat tongue in cheek reaction to a story I read about someone who was held captive and her family knew something was wrong because she wasn't sharing her Wordle score. I started to think about all the other things I could do or not do that would indicate I was in trouble. It took me all day to write and rewrite this and I'm still not 💯 satisfied but I'm so proud of myself. I haven't spent this long on creative writing since I earned my MFA from GMU in 2004. I loved reconnecting to that part of myself enjoys hunting for the right words to solve the puzzle 🧩 in my mind. #BeThe1To take a few minutes and reach out to someone you care about. #wellness#creativewriting #wordle #mentalheathmatters #suicideprevention  A related poem that I wrote when I was in college in 1993.  Another poem about identity from 2000.  |
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