For the past two years, I have been amongst the many professionals in today’s workforce who have been forced back to the classroom, despite years of field experience, for a professional “upgrade.” I already had a Master’s Degree in Public Health, but insurance reimbursement for my billable services now hinges on my having a Master’s Degree in Nursing. OMG! After considerable thought, I obliged the almighty insurance companies and am now happy to report that I am done with school and liberated from academic assignments. This leaves me free to go back to spending my writing time pairing words and phrases with flare and wit instead of writing dry, factual content and substantiating it in APA format. With enthusiasm and a flight of ideas I arrived at my desk the other day only to find that my creative voice had been shushed for so long that I could barely hear it. Two years of writing papers for school had stolen my MoJo. My creative and humorous pith had all but vanished. Faced with feelings of a loss of identity and a desperate need to relocate my sense of self as a writer, I decided to go back in time to my humble beginnings as an avid correspondent. My passion for writing letters to friends and family from a young age led to my love of writing in general. Eventually, personal writing turned into authorship and the rest is history. I do use email, of course, but people I meet and those I love have for years been randomly selected as recipients of notes and cards throughout the year. I also remain amongst the stalwarts that send yearly holiday cards (sin the often uninteresting and tedious “family-update” letter) and Thank You notes. Recipients tell me I am a modern-day curio and that one day soon I will end up in a museum. Perhaps, but it is clear their commentary is heavily adorned with abiding appreciation for the “real mail” they receive from me.
Today and tomorrow I am off of work. I have lovely sheets of vellum, beautiful cards, decorative stamps, and my address book next to me on my desk; a sensual feast for my eyes, hands, and heart. With a bit of luck, my writer’s voice will emerge one letter at a time and I will be back on track sooner than later.
Copyright E. Resh, 11/2015.