I recently was jolted out of my long-held assumption that there was common ground between me, an old Second Wave Feminist 
and all the women with whom I connect as friend, teacher, organizer. I believed that we shared understandings about the planet, about being women and how we are constantly being brainwashed by what we read, hear and see. Then I taught four strong and intelligent young women students.
As I listened to their stories, I was surprised at the degree that sexism impacted them in their school experiences. I asked us what had happened to the work of early Feminism, especially the work in understanding how language shapes us and our gender roles. We began to talk about who we were and who we thought we were. I understood that my assumption that younger women had the same understandings and knowledge about Feminism that I did was wrong. And I understood that to some degree, many younger women are not aware that the lives they live would not have been possible before we Second Wave Feminists fought for women to have those lives.
Today I talked with two other young women about what I had learned. We promised to carry on the conversation- not only with our voices, but with our written words. And, I have. Please write for at least twenty minutes about a wake-up call that shaped your life. Love to publish it.
Here is a powerful piece from writer, Elizabeth Venetiou. You might also write your response to it.
“Careful what you ask for…”: Breakthrough Tip for the week of June 20, 2016
Here are my 20 minutes on the line: “If I had my way, everything would change.” –Steve Earle
Everything does change and change again. When it’s not changing or the changes are not apparent, I make it change. New project, new idea. Begin something and walk away halfway.
The diamond fell out of my engagement ring nearly a month ago. It FELL OUT. No, I have no idea where it is despite rifling through dust, dirt, dog hair and Legos in the vacuum cleaner bag. No, I didn’t know that we were supposed to get it periodically appraised or I needed to get it checked to make sure the prongs were secure. Clearly, I didn’t know how to, the right way to, own a diamond ring.
But I loved that ring. It sparkled like none other. Beautiful. Made me smile every goddamned time I looked at it. About a thousand times a day. I’m left handed and that’s where it sat.
Insurance called today. They have a replacement diamond ring. A replacement. At least as good or better. It doesn’t feel better. It doesn’t feel like my diamond at all. I keep hoping it’ll show up. Will I love this new one as much? Should I get something completely different?
I’ve been reading Steven Pressfield’s book No One Wants to Read Your Sh*t. It hits me even now on this last day of school for the kids during my last two hours of quiet before the summer. Before I begin teaching in the fall full time and all theses quiet hours vanish. I didn’t know the right way to be a stay at home mom or a full time writer either.
Dorothy Allison told me that the Macarthur grant is the worst thing to happen to a writer. All that time and no pressure. Diamonds are carbon under pressure. Aren’t they? Most of my pressure is self-inflicted. Internally driven. All drive all the time.
My diamond was valuable but it was also just a thing of beauty on my hand. My husband bought it and surprised me on the mountaintop with a proposal. I’ll miss it always. But as Tom Petty sings, “Everything will change and then change again.”
My writing will not take flight, fill lungs or breathe air until I love the act of writing more than I do writing about writing, thinking about writing or reading about writing. I ran a 2:06 half marathon in May. Newburyport River Run with a nasty headwind. My fastest time ever. Because even though I do, at times, think about running, I actually run. Even though I fantasize about qualifying for the Boston marathon, I actually run.
Two pieces of mine will be published soon. Short essays. No monetary value but tremendous personal value. My short fiction continues to get tossed aside. Slow trickles of rejections come in. My husband says I need to find my audience. I stubbornly aim for literary but like the diamond, it’s not in my wheelhouse.
Will I always feel like an imposter? A poor kid living a stable middle-class life? A transient in a permanent home? A restless generalist as an expert on communication? Always waiting for that tap on the shoulder. Even acceptance emails for my work seem like thrilling mistakes. Shhh. Enjoy it until they figure out how hollow my work is. Thunk it like a watermelon to hear the sound.
But my diamond—what it meant to me was not fake. I didn’t love it because it was a near carat with very good ratings and only one inclusion (my husband showed me the certificate). I loved it because he took my breath away when he proposed on the hike above Zuma beach. Because I didn’t see it coming and didn’t have to be involved in the engagement ring selection process. I loved it because it sparkled. It was a beautiful companion to my life every day. I never felt like a fraud wearing it. It was always mine from him. It was us.
How does that connect to writing or the much harder work I’ve been doing of not-writing? It’s exhausting to be a not-writer. I keep having to fill my time with the care of people around me. Otherwise I would selfishly sit down and write. Or read. Or nap. But all of those are self-serving. Maybe we’ve come to the crux.
I’ve had a few things published but nothing lucrative enough to call work well paid. That may or may never happen. Does my writing have value? Perhaps. But I just love it because writing to me sparkles. The act of writing is the sparkle. I’ve been too bogged down in the appraisal of my writing. The value others place on it that I forgot why I loved it in the first place. Lost, my diamond is more real to me than when I had it. Now, I see the beauty of my wedding band more. It’s simple, elegant and unique. —Elizabeth Venetiou
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