A Moment with my 10 Year Old Self
A couple months ago, I had a conversation with a friend/co-worker. We often have meaningful conversations when we probably should be working, but this one has really stuck with me. He'd listened to a podcast or maybe it was a TED Talk that impacted him greatly and he wanted to share the experience with me. He told me to trust him and just do what he said and something magical might happen.
He first asked me to close my eyes and envision my bedroom back when I was ten years old. I thought a moment trying to remember - we're talking about a time nearly forty years ago. Then suddenly I was there. I could see the bright yellow wallpaper with green and white flowers running in perfect lines from ceiling to floor; the bright yellow book shelves that ran along the far wall of the room above my bed and all my stuffed animals piled neatly on them; my small student desk in front of the open window, a rain-scented breeze blowing in; the magnolia tree out front swaying a little; my bed with the comforter that perfectly matched the wallpaper.
Next he asked me to imagine my ten year old self. Awkward, a step above painfully shy, well behaved, polite, tomboyish, wearing hand-me-down dark blue Levi corduroy jeans with faded knees, athletic but not yet playing organized sport, able to throw a tight spiral with a Nerf football, really good at tetherball, wanted to be a lawyer or a journalist when she grew up.
Now, my friend said, enter the room and sit down next to your ten year old self. What would you say to her - what advice would you give her - knowing everything you know about life in general, your life, growing up, the past, the present, the future?
I thought for barely a second. In addition to everything above, my ten year old self liked creative writing. In fact, Fridays were her favorite day of the week. That was the day Mrs. Harwell gave the assignment for the following week. She'd draw a shape on the board and give the same instruction - draw a picture using the shape and then write a story about it. The drawing part always sucked - my ten year old self was no better at drawing than I am today - but the writing part... That was the best!
But then fifth grade ended and middle school started. My ten year old self turned eleven, then twelve, then became a teenager. English class was all about grammar and five paragraph essays and boring books no one wanted to read. History and science took over as favorite subjects and law and journalism transitioned to medicine. An elective creative writing class, combined with a healthy dose of teen angst, made her a poet. College turned her into a psychology major; grad school - the first time- into a drop out. Then life...as it tends to do...happened.
The stories, though, never stopped. Constantly they ran through her head - new endings for movies, sequels to books, odd little imaginings - but they never ended up on paper. Until as a full grown adult going back to graduate school she needed an elective and decided to take Writing the Novella.
So, knowing all that, what would I tell my ten year old self?
Don't stop. Don't stop writing. Don't stop creating. Put it on paper. Hand write it. Type it. Whatever it takes. Just don't stop doing it. Because one day someone will read what you've written and it will make a difference. And, shoot, if you're diligent, apply yourself, and work hard, you might actually make some money doing it.
My friend added one more question. Imagine now, yourself at eighty, what would you tell your forty-nine year old self? Same thing, I replied. Don't stop. Keep pursing your goals and dreams, put lots of checks on your Bucket List, write, run, travel, hit tennis balls, fear less, do more.
My friend was right. Something magical happened. I go back to that conversation often. The power those words would have had on me... I can't even imagine. I wish I'd known. I wish I'd realized I had a little talent and that with a little desire and determination, there's no telling where I might have gone.
That's why I listen to my eighty year old self a lot. She's smart, smarter than me. She knows everything. So I soak it all up and try to do exactly what she says. There's magic in that, too.
** Ok, your turn. What would YOU tell your ten year old self? **
He first asked me to close my eyes and envision my bedroom back when I was ten years old. I thought a moment trying to remember - we're talking about a time nearly forty years ago. Then suddenly I was there. I could see the bright yellow wallpaper with green and white flowers running in perfect lines from ceiling to floor; the bright yellow book shelves that ran along the far wall of the room above my bed and all my stuffed animals piled neatly on them; my small student desk in front of the open window, a rain-scented breeze blowing in; the magnolia tree out front swaying a little; my bed with the comforter that perfectly matched the wallpaper.
Next he asked me to imagine my ten year old self. Awkward, a step above painfully shy, well behaved, polite, tomboyish, wearing hand-me-down dark blue Levi corduroy jeans with faded knees, athletic but not yet playing organized sport, able to throw a tight spiral with a Nerf football, really good at tetherball, wanted to be a lawyer or a journalist when she grew up.
Now, my friend said, enter the room and sit down next to your ten year old self. What would you say to her - what advice would you give her - knowing everything you know about life in general, your life, growing up, the past, the present, the future?
I thought for barely a second. In addition to everything above, my ten year old self liked creative writing. In fact, Fridays were her favorite day of the week. That was the day Mrs. Harwell gave the assignment for the following week. She'd draw a shape on the board and give the same instruction - draw a picture using the shape and then write a story about it. The drawing part always sucked - my ten year old self was no better at drawing than I am today - but the writing part... That was the best!
But then fifth grade ended and middle school started. My ten year old self turned eleven, then twelve, then became a teenager. English class was all about grammar and five paragraph essays and boring books no one wanted to read. History and science took over as favorite subjects and law and journalism transitioned to medicine. An elective creative writing class, combined with a healthy dose of teen angst, made her a poet. College turned her into a psychology major; grad school - the first time- into a drop out. Then life...as it tends to do...happened.
The stories, though, never stopped. Constantly they ran through her head - new endings for movies, sequels to books, odd little imaginings - but they never ended up on paper. Until as a full grown adult going back to graduate school she needed an elective and decided to take Writing the Novella.
So, knowing all that, what would I tell my ten year old self?
Don't stop. Don't stop writing. Don't stop creating. Put it on paper. Hand write it. Type it. Whatever it takes. Just don't stop doing it. Because one day someone will read what you've written and it will make a difference. And, shoot, if you're diligent, apply yourself, and work hard, you might actually make some money doing it.
My friend added one more question. Imagine now, yourself at eighty, what would you tell your forty-nine year old self? Same thing, I replied. Don't stop. Keep pursing your goals and dreams, put lots of checks on your Bucket List, write, run, travel, hit tennis balls, fear less, do more.
My friend was right. Something magical happened. I go back to that conversation often. The power those words would have had on me... I can't even imagine. I wish I'd known. I wish I'd realized I had a little talent and that with a little desire and determination, there's no telling where I might have gone.
That's why I listen to my eighty year old self a lot. She's smart, smarter than me. She knows everything. So I soak it all up and try to do exactly what she says. There's magic in that, too.
** Ok, your turn. What would YOU tell your ten year old self? **
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