Little Ole Me
- Jennifer Newhart
- 2 days ago
- 3 min read
For as long as I can conceivably remember, I have wanted to be a writer. I positively love every aspect of writing. I love the process of putting pen to paper, or more realistically, fingers to keyboard. I love the romantic ideal of living and struggling for your art. I love the challenge of taking a thought and turning it into something relevant and meaningful. But most importantly, I love the connection when something I have written resonates with another person. But almost as big as my love of writing is my paralyzing self-doubt, which has basically thwarted every writing attempt I ever embarked upon.
About 5 years ago, I had an epiphany. There was no lightning bolt in the sky, no fanfare. I was driving in my car, which, to be honest, is where most of my epiphanies take place. Usually, my alone time in the car plays out like a “seat of your pants” session of C-SPAN, which consists of me listening to the never-ending negative self-talk, which I lovingly refer to as The Committee. Unlike Congress, the Committee has no lame duck session and constantly serves to remind me of my poor life choices and many, many defects of character. The Committee is where self-esteem goes to die.
However, on this particular drive, something amazing happened. Amid the noise of the Committee, another voice emerged. It was a teeny, tiny little voice vaguely resembling little Jojo of Horton Hears a Who fame. This little voice grew louder and louder until I could no longer deny its existence. And this little voice asked a simple question –
“What if your favorite writer talked themselves out of becoming an author?”
This hit me. And hard.
I realized that it was not for me to decide if I truly sucked. I decided, at that moment, that I needed to give it the good ole’ college try and put my words out for others to see and let them be the judge of whether the Committee was right.
I began my writing journey as many do… On Facebook. I decided it was best to write what I know, which, in my case, involves overpopulating the world. Others might call this parenting. And so, Prose that Prove Unsound Parenting Practices (PTPUPP) was born. It began as my way of getting a handle on the swirling mass of thoughts that invaded every moment of my life. This dysfunction eventually evolved into a series of essays that charted my perilous and slapstick tales of motherhood. I truly enjoyed the process of putting my observations on motherhood out there for all to see because the essays melded my two great loves, writing and being a parent.
I was once told that I have no credentials to give advice. Gut punch, but who knows, this may actually be true. To be perfectly honest, I have no credentials. There is, of course, there is that pesky Bachelor’s degree in Communications and the teeny, tiny Master’s Degree in Education. But I am not a therapist or fruity self-help guru. Nor have I performed any random double blind samplings on what it means to be a perfect parent.
To be honest, I am not an expert in anything other than really bad reality television and useless 80’s trivia. But what I lack in credentials, I do make up for with experience (and panache).
My writing voice comes from what I call the “dirty underbelly” perspective. In today’s social-media-obsessed world, people tend to present only what makes them look “put together.” I find that dishonest — and unfair to those who feel like failures because their lives don’t resemble what they see on Instagram. I write with rigorous honesty, even when it makes me look bad. Not out of masochism or low self-esteem (of which I have in spades), but in the hope that someone struggling will read my words and think, “If she can get through it, maybe I can too.”
I write from lived experience, highlighting the emotions and real-world struggles that I have faced. To me, writing is about connection. Our stories may differ, but our emotions are universal — grief, joy, frustration, anger, love. I hope that my words resonate with readers and remind them that whatever they are feeling is temporary. None of us has it all figured out; we’re all just doing the best we can, even if it isn’t glamorous.
Comments