The shoes that remind me I'm a writer

Elvis had his blue suede shoes and Dorothy her ruby slippers, but these are my shoes. The ones I'm most proud of and the ones that define me best.

Let me back up a bit, though, to 2010. I'd taken the fast track through graduate school, finishing in just a year since my husband's job took us to and from that city for only 365 days. Graduate school is no joke, and graduate school for a degree in writing (in a year) is really no joke. My brain and beliefs and abilities and stamina stretched farther than I thought it could, and I felt defeated and powerful all at the same time.

My degree was in writing and rhetoric, but the class I looked forward to most was a creative writing elective: Creative Nonfiction. I had no business being there. I'd never taken a nonfiction writing class in undergrad because my school was too small to offer it, so I entered the class with excitement, but not experience (journaling and blogging, it turns out, doesn't actually mean you can write nonfiction well). The class was also a workshop rather than lecture-based, but this green little sapling could have used more than a few lectures on what the heck I was supposed to be doing. Of the eight people in that class--an odd mix of undergrads, retirees, middle-aged professionals, and graduate students--I was by far the worst writer. And I was reminded of that every week as we met and shared our writing. Each week, I'd read and write and work as hard as I knew how to produce something that wasn't completely laughable, and each week I was met with lots of kind and not-so-kind criticism. What I would later come to realize was that this was the way of writers; you have to start somewhere, and no matter where you are on the continuum of "good writing," you'll always face criticism and could always be better.

My professor must have prayed every night that I'd drop the class, and she may have cried when the drop/add period ended and I was still showing up on Thursday nights to share my writing disasters. This went on for a semester. I had small victories, like starting to use contractions more often so my writing sounded less stilted, but overall, it felt as if I'd moved an inch on a yardstick.

Then came our final writing assignment. We chose the topic, and my professor looked at me after class one night and said, "Write about something that made you cry." "Okay," I replied, looking off and racking my brain for what that would be. I went home and spent the next several days in the world of Writer's Block. I was also reading Lauren Slater's Lying at the time for class, and something happened: Slater's book caught fire in me. Her words swirled and sang and crackled with warmth, and I was given nothing short of inspiration; I'd found my muse that so many writers talk about. I'd always thought the idea of a "muse" was a bit dramatic, but there she was.

I closed Slater's book and started typing the best story I've ever written, about the time I went to the funeral of a dear friend's husband who was killed in Afghanistan, helping her get dressed and ready to bury her young husband. The story was due the following day and I wrote for hours straight in a sort of frenzied passion, emailing it to the class for review after the deadline.

Thursday night arrived and I approached it with with my usual dread and longing, but this time with something new: expectation. I knew what I wrote was different; I knew it was good. When my story came up for discussion, it was met--for the first time--with praise, water in the desert.

Fast forward a few months to a nonfiction writing competition the English department was holding. The grand prize was $200, so pretty much the jackpot for a graduate student. What the heck, I thought. I'll just turn that story in and see what happens. I arrived at the end-of-the-year awards dinner with expectations to say some goodbyes and clap for others, but as I sat down with my plate of food, my Creative Nonfiction professor walked up. "Did you look at the program?" I had it closed to the right of my plate at the table. I mean, I was looking at it, but her question had me perplexed. "What do you mean?" I asked. "Just look at it," she said as she walked to her table across the room. I opened the program, scanning for...I wasn't sure what. And then I saw it. Creative Nonfiction Competition Award........................Cara Johnson. A laugh spilled out of me. I was absolutely the last person in the room deserving of a Creative Nonfiction award. I'd practically botched every nonfiction writing assignment all semester and had no experience and no business writing nonfiction, and I was the winner? It was the first time I'd ever been paid for my writing, and that same swirling, singing, crackling muse came swooshing back in with all its warmth. For the first time in my life, I believed what had been true all along: I was a writer.

So, the shoes--my shoes. I left the awards dinner that night wanting something to mark that moment. It was too late for dinner and my husband was working, so I did something I almost never do: I went shopping (because I had $200 that I had earned). But I went shopping my way--at T.J. Maxx. And there in the shoe section were my shoes; it was love at first sight. They were sensible-artsy. Make that sensible-artsy-comfortable. Actually, make that sensible-artsy-comfortable-affordable. And my favorite color. I've never once regretted that purchase. And while most days writing feels like playing dress-up and toddling around in my mother's heels, these shoes remind me that writing fits me, wraps around me snug, and moves me forward.

P.S. If you'd like to read the story I wrote that won the contest, please send me your email address and I'll send it your way!