Last night, I spent about thirty minutes digging through a box of my old work, stuff I wrote ten or twenty years ago and haven’t touched since.
The box bursted with at over a dozen journals, boasting colorful covers and wrinkled, scribbled-in pages. There were wide-ruled notebooks filled with rudimentary marker illustrations and poorly-spelled words, thin journals with teenaged handwriting in gel pen ink, long and slender sketchbooks meant for drawings that instead were filled with poems and song lyrics.
Though I was looking for something specific, I allowed myself a few minutes to browse mindlessly though these artifacts, the hundreds of pages that showcased what I’d always known: Writing, for me, is an irrevocable, relentless itch I’ve not fully scratched once in my twenty-five years.
I found two “books” that I wrote for a creative writing camp I participated in on two separate summers. They were mockups of the real thing: a card-stock cover, with an anime-style illustration from a counselor who had one drawing technique down pat. The contents were filled with words that caused both cringing and sighing in equal part, most definitely written by a tenderhearted girl of eleven and twelve. The back cover featured an old photo of me, looking as pensive and authorial as an eleven-year-old could get, hair white and frizzed from humidity, leaning up against a wall. Next to the photo was a short author biography.
Eva Parker is an author from Orlando, FL. In her spare time, she likes to read, write, and play Wii. She has a two younger siblings, a brother and a sister. When she grows up, she wants to be an author. Her advice to the world would be: “Live, laugh, love, learn.”
Reading the earnest reflections of my eleven-year-old heart, my eyes got a little teary. So much of who I am has changed, but many things have stayed the same: I still live in Orlando, despite trying not to. I still love to read and write and—let’s be honest—play Wii in my spare time. When I grow up—whenever that may be—I would love to be an author.
(We’re not going to talk about my advice to the world, though the sentiment, honestly, remains airtight).
As I scoured through the words of my younger self, it occurred to me that all this writing I’d done over a decade ago was like a never-ending collection of letters to my future self. Glimpses at how far I’ve come, of what my life once looked like, reminders that God is answering my prayers in unexpected ways.
For a brief moment, I let the tenderness of my prepubescent words soak into my heart. How could I not see that so much of what I’m doing today is in honor of her and the pure, unadulterated desire to write?
My spring has been insane. March was filled with weeks of travel back and forth from Miami, where my boyfriend lives, to spend a few weeks with him as he prepares to graduate from law school. April has been no less dizzying—double the travel, triple the distance, half the sleep.
Two weeks ago, I was in Grand Rapids, Michigan, at the Festival of Faith & Writing, held biannually at Calvin University. I shared an Airbnb with two close friends from graduate school, and met up with several others there.
Prior to the conference, I was already in Indiana visiting family. Due to my proximity, I rented a car and drove the four hours upstate, stopping in South Bend to get a glimpse at Notre Dame’s campus (gorgeous), then making a detour to a small town called South Haven, where I laid my eyes on Lake Michigan for the first time (breathtaking). Standing on the cusp of that giant lake, I tried to decide whether or not the sandy shores counted as a beach in my Floridian opinion (I decided I’d give them a pass).
The conference is four straight days of a writers’ paradise: breakout sessions, giant lectures, lunch groups geared toward a specific discussion topic, and an optional day of workshopping to boot. I took pages of notes, which, in reflection, will likely be rendered worthless as my note-taking skills border on senseless at best. In this setting, I felt like a hummingbird flitting from flower to flower, sucking nectar from each spindly stem.
The thing about conferences, at least for me, is that I’m absorbing so much good content that by the time it’s over, my brain needs at least 7-10 business days to truly recover. By the time I get home, notebook and brain bursting at the seams, I’m too tired to even consider most of the fascinating concepts I just learned. All I can do, at first, is reflect upon the days in their immediacy.
Then, last week, I traveled to New York City for another conference. This one was held by Mockingbird Ministries, one of my favorite organizations dedicated to providing fruitful commentary on faith and culture. Nestled in an old Gramercy Park church, breakout speakers wrestled with a broader topic: Nothing to Left to Lose. The question was this: If we, as Christians, truly have nothing to lose, how can we embody that in our daily lives?
We covered topics far and wide. I learned about breath prayer, we talked of the hope-filled future for Gen Z, I listened to a compelling speech on how meandering is the movement of God. I came home with a plethora of ideas to write on, all of which I’m excited to fully marinade on and share here in the coming months.
Though both conferences served me intellectually, what I found tended to my heart most was the community found with other writers, in a sharing a love for our work. As usual, you can learn a million things, but none of it would be worth it without the people there beside you. Not one bit of it would feel as valuable or important or even worthwhile.
What keeps me writing is not the itch that courses through my blood, though it does exist. And it is not some sense of impending doom that if I do not write, a cornerstone of my identity will be stripped from me, though that, too, is there. What keeps me writing, despite the fact that it is mainly a solo endeavor, is the sense of community I’ve gained in knowing that there are many people like me—many who will sit staring at a blank Microsoft Word document for hours on end. Many who will take a few days of PTO to attend conferences in Michigan and New York, where we might glean inspiration and hope from one another. What keeps me writing is the encouragement I receive from those who share my dream: to wrestle with words and ideas for as long as we live.
Arriving home on Sunday night, I was completely beat. Grand Rapids was homey and beautiful, her tree-lined streets a comfort to the southern girl in my soul. And I love New York with my whole being, so much that leaving the city always fills me with a strange, nostalgic sorrow. Despite these blessings, I slept hard in my rickety twin bed, slogging through my Monday with heavy bags under my eyes.
But then came last night, cross-legged on my bedroom floor, sorting through those worn-in journals. Each one overflows with the dreams that have filled my heart since I first knew to write. A fire lit in my heart, a renewed sense of grounding: She is the one I’m doing all of this for.
When my spring is filled with long, busy weeks of travel, leaning toward some light shining from an unknown source, I think of who I am doing this for—my past self. My future self. My past self would be so amazed, my future self would be proud. They see my sacrifices and know they are not for naught. One can see with full clarity how far I’ve come, one can see with full clarity the path I am paving.
Spring, that full and flowery season, you have both kicked and cradled me, but I am always looking toward the light, always expectant for what’s to come. It is my prayer that May is gentler and full of reasons to celebrate.
Reading:
Mercury by Amy Jo Burns
Listening:
Older by Lizzy McAlpine
“Reckless Child” by Milky Chance
“Co-Pathetic” by Novo Amor
“Every Time I Hear That Song” by Brandi Carlile
“Espresso” by Sabrina Carpenter (lol, I can’t stop with this one)
Sharing:
I saw Wicked for the first time last weekend (I know—for a Broadway fan like me, it’s been a long time coming) and the whole time I could not get over how talented the current Elphaba is. Her name is Mary Kate Morrissey, and she once did a stint as Janis from Mean Girls, but her current role as Elphaba stuns. Her costar, Alexandra Socha, is a livewire—bouncy and bubbly, everything a good Glinda should be. If you find yourself in New York with a desire to see this classic, I’d highly recommend catching them in these roles!
Love South Haven beaches! ;)