In fourth grade, I went to church camp (which is very much like actual summer camp, only with bible study twice a day). I thought I was ready for it. Day one was fine – I was high on the excitement of being away from home for the first time. The air smelled clean, there were so many kids to play with, and it was back-to-back summer fun: swimming, sports, and arts & crafts. It wasn’t my church; even thought I went to catholic school, and this was a Christian camp, my family wasn’t all that religious. But my best friend (this was her church group) promised that the bible studies weren’t that long, that the lake was always cool, and that there were bonfires every night. All of those things were true.
What she didn’t tell me was how far I would have to walk in dark, scary woods to get to the bathroom at night. Or that the girls in the sixth grade cabins were really mean. Or that we would have to get in a rickety boat and row into a pitch-black, tiny little cave for a field trip. My biggest fears: deep water, the freaking dark, and confined spaces. But the most important thing she didn’t tell me (probably because her sister was there and her father was a counselor, so she didn’t realize) was how homesick I would be. During the day, I was fine. Better than fine, even. During the day, I was having the time of my life. At night, I curled up in my sleeping bag, buried my face in my pillow to muffle the sound, and cried. From lights out until I passed out, the only thing in the world I wanted was my mom. I wrote many a heartbreaking letter that month – but I never mailed them. I was too determined to put on a brave face. I was a tough little pixie, after all – and I had a reputation to uphold.
A few months ago, my mom and I were talking about my summer at camp – and all I could remember were the fun things. But my mom had a confession to make. I’d forgotten to throw out the letters I wrote, and she’d found them when she unpacked my laundry. She told me that she’d read them all and cried the entire time – but never once did she mention them when I was bragging about my bravery and regaling her with stories of how much fun I had.
This month, I’m tackling camp of a different kind – and although the walk from my desk to my bathroom is short and brightly lit, this camp is more frightening. Not because it’s far away, or because I’ll be away from home (this camping trip is taking place at my desk). It’s intimidating – frightening, even – because it’s an opportunity to kick-start my dream. This month, I could finish the first draft/zero draft of a novel I believe in. It might not be the novel that gets me published, I know that. But every day spent writing is a step closer, a new learning opportunity. And I don’t want to waste another day. Seeing my words on paper, seeing my story unfold, watching my writing evolve over time – there aren’t words to describe it. If you’re a writer, though, I don’t have to. You get it.
But baring your soul, even into a word-document or Scrivener file, is tough stuff. There’s some part of me, no matter how small, in every character I write. Fears and insecurities, manias, phobias… passions. Fantasies. Dark and light, good and bad; My heroes are full of things I wish I was, my villains are full of the things I wish I wasn’t. Someday, in the best case scenario at least, someone will see those things. And for better or worse, they’ll know – they came from my heart to my mind to my pen.
This time, though, I know that when the road gets a little scary, I can go curl up at my mom’s with a blanket, a cup of cocoa and one of her many cozy cats. Maybe we’ll even make s’mores while we watch bad reality TV. And for a while, life will be good and I won’t be afraid.
ashleycliston 