Have you ever resented something you loved—even just for a second? Maybe it’s been a rough week or just the ‘Everything’ of it all weighing down on your shoulders. You turn to something you love to make things better, but it just doesn’t help the way you want it to and for even just one second that precious thing you love is a target for every bad feeling you have.

This has been my latest curse. I love writing. It’s been my favorite outlet since I was little. I’ve been losing myself in Word documents since I could type! It just made sense. Writing made worlds suddenly exist with a handful of sentences and magic with a few syllables. It wasn’t something I thought about; I just did it. It made sense to me in a language I didn’t even know I spoke.

But as I’ve gotten older things have changed. I studied literature in school—got a degree in it and everything—but somehow that’s made writing harder. I overthink—over analyze before I ever get anything down. My fingers hover over keys and nothing comes out. If it’s not going to be good enough, why even get it on the page? I scold myself, because I don’t have much time to write anymore between work and life. If I’m not going to take advantage of the time, then what am I even doing?

There’s a quote I heard forever ago that I cannot source but roughly goes, “To be a good musician a musician must love notes. Similarly, to be a good writer a writer must love words for the nature of art starts with the assemblage of those smallest pieces.” I was thinking about that as I didn’t even bother to pull up a document, not wanting to face that cursed blank space. Maybe I was a writer, but I hated the words. They certainly seemed to hate me. Either they wouldn’t come or they would come in a way that was never correct, which was somehow worse than not coming at all.

I’d fallen out of love with words, and I didn’t know how to fix it.

My world was so busy it fell to the wayside. Between job applications, working ten hour shifts, scheduling doctor’s appointments, attempting to have a social life, and other various projects I didn’t have the energy to interrogate why words and I were feuding. I had a trip to a Renaissance Faire to think about—my first real break from things in what felt like forever. I was so excited to spend days in the woods, not worrying about anything but what performance I was seeing next and how full my drink was. We saw a number of fascinating shows, but only one made me grab my companion’s hand and book straight to see it.

It was a little circle of benches around a patch of dirt just below the balcony of the nearby tavern. In it gathered a group of people—volunteers at the faire from different corners come together to perform for the assembled crowd.

Shakespeare.

English Major Theatre Kid Catnip: Shakspeare with Costumed Rennies putting their whole chests into marvelous performances for passersby. It didn’t matter the character or the performer, everyone was anyone from the whole catalog. They did comedies, tragedies, histories, and everything in between. And then they opened the stage to the crowd for any who wanted to perform—and several did! They fit in perfectly with the rest, giving their whole heart to words they’d memorized to give like a gift to the patrons gathered in that precious semicircle.

I was overjoyed. My smile never left for a moment as brillant player after player took the stage and gave their all to every word in every monologue and scene. When it was all done, I spent the rest of the day finding whichever actors I could across the faire and thanking them.

These folks weren’t being paid. They weren’t a perfectly organized professional troop. They were a collective of random people who simply had deep love for this work performing on a noisy corner for whatever patrons decided to stick around. These performers took time out of their days volunteering at a massive Renfaire simply because of the love they had for these words—and god help me I loved it too. I loved every second of every performer who went up there.

I forgot how it felt to love the words: to not just read them but feel and embody them and give them as a gift to others, that the words themselves were the joy of it all. I’d forgotten how it felt, and I don’t remember when I stopped feeling it.

When I told the performers we were coming back the next day, I was quickly asked “Are you going to perform tomorrow?”

Of course I immediately knew what passage I wanted to do. It didn’t take much coercion. The next day I took my place in the crowd and when the offer came out I raised my hand. I performed a small piece and was met with such love and encouragement. It was everything to me and just a tiny part of those peoples’ day.

I’m still working on writing more. Words and I are working through our differences. I’m remembering why I started to write in the first place—finding the joy in the words themselves and the process of putting them together to craft something. I’m still not a perfect writer by any means, nor am I always happy with what comes forth, but sitting with a document doesn’t feel like a curse anymore. and when I find myself getting frustrated, I go back to the bard:

Gently to hear, kindly to judge.

Photos by Allen Castillo

1 Comment

  1. Sophia Medawar

    Aww Sam I resonate with this and know that feeling all too well. I had a long stint of frustration and aggression with my piano, which used to be my source of freedom and outlet. I am SO glad you performed and am so glad you are becoming reacquainted with your love for words. You are such a gifted writer!

    Reply

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