By Angela Firman, written December 2021
I almost didn’t show up that first night. I was cranky after another day in quarantine chasing my four-year-old son while juggling my daughter’s virtual learning schedule. I sank onto my bed and closed my eyes, desperately wanting a nap. “It’s the first session,” I reasoned with myself, “I have to at least check it out.” With trepidation, I logged into my laptop and clicked the Zoom link to my first writing workshop with Wildfire Magazine. That split-second decision changed my life.
I have identified as a writer for as long as I can remember, but no one knows it. There is a box hidden in the farthest corner of my closet full of my journals dating back to kindergarten. A reader is hard-pressed to find a descriptive detail among any of the drivel I narrated year after year, yet the emotion nearly leaps off the page. The hastily scrawled letters and trailing sentences reveal my urgent need to write. Growing up, I consistently received compliments about my writing from teachers and relatives who claimed I was “a natural.” I didn’t understand what made them say that because I never tried to be good at it. In fact, it directly contradicted my experience in algebra and chemistry where I put in an excruciating amount of effort yet received the lowest grades of my school career.
My journaling tapered off after college as I became consumed with my work as a teacher and then eventually as a mom. It wasn’t until a cancer diagnosis at the age of 34 sent me into a year of treatment involving chemotherapy, radiation, and surgery that I picked up the pen again. As at other points in my life, although not as intensely, I could not ignore the urge within me to write. There were points when I was seized with such intense emotion that the pen nearly jumped into my hand; the only relief from my scattered brain and breaking heart was to write—however incoherent. Dumping my thoughts onto the page in fits and starts, in sentences and phrases, in squiggles and stabs, calmed my heart and cleared my mind. This was especially true in the months following treatment. I was fortunate to have the chance to escape my identity as a cancer patient, but I struggled to pinpoint who I was after a traumatizing year. A soft-voiced writer in southern California gave me my first clue.
April Stearns, the founder and Editor-in-Chief of Wildfire Magazine, published my words first. Seeing my piece in print was as terrifying as it was electrifying. I felt exposed seeing my thoughts out in the world, but hearing that other women resonated with my story validated my urge to write. I felt like a toddler first learning to walk who is finally ready to release her firm grasp on the adult thumbs above her. I had heard I was a good writer before, and I even felt it myself when I emerged from an especially fruitful journaling session, but the publication was the affirmation that allowed me to forge ahead.
The publication in Wildfire was also how I found myself logging into a writing workshop hosted by April on a spring evening in 2020. During a block of writing time, I lifted my eyes from my notebook to spy on the other attendees hunched over their notebooks. Here were six other women like me, navigating their own battle with breast cancer, who felt the need to write. Some of us signed up for the workshop in search of community, some for the dedicated time to write, and some, like me, for the chance to learn. I was only an hour into it, and I had already tried two or three new techniques April suggested for bringing a scene to life. Although my low self-confidence prevented me from sharing what I wrote the first night, I was inspired by the other women’s courage. They brazenly shared newly written drafts full of unfinished thoughts and void of any coherent structure. The culture of the group over the next four weeks was so inclusive and supportive that I ended up sharing my own unruly, fragmented drafts multiple times during all our remaining meetings. As we got to know one another our responses moved from conspiratorial nods and thoughtful “mmhmms” to “I love that word choice” or “The imagery is stunning.” After participating in April’s workshops for another six months, and publishing more pieces in Wildfire, I was feeling confident and thick-skinned enough to start getting a bit bruised: to start receiving constructive feedback.
As it happened, one of the members of our writing group, Melody Mansfield, was a published author and former writing teacher. Mind-reader could be added to her resume because, just as I realized I was ready to take more risks as a writer, she offered to lead a second writing group geared for women who wanted to improve their writing. I eagerly logged in alongside five other women each Tuesday morning to drink in the sage advice and brilliant insight Melody offered each of us as we took turns sharing our writing. Each session was devoted to one writer. We heard the author read, then she muted herself and listened as the other women, with Melody’s guidance, refined her piece. We began by stating in the shortest way possible what the piece was about, then we offered up our compliments before explaining points of confusion. Masterfully woven into our discussions were lessons from Melody about writing techniques such as verisimilitude and economy of language. We ended by gushing about the parts of the piece we could not live without.
This group, The Refiners, as we came to call ourselves, improved my writing technically and stylistically, but that isn’t why I continue to log in each Tuesday. These women stopped being my “writing buddies” a while ago and have become some of my dearest friends who make me more than a better writer; they make me a better person. For through their writing, their feedback, and their endless words of affirmation I have learned the power of showing up for others. I have learned that being persistent in pursuing the things you enjoy can lead to much more than you ever imagined, and that hidden within your passions are unknown loves just waiting to be found.
To learn more about Wildfire, you can find their archives here and their workshops here.
Angela Firman is a Midwesterner at heart living a Pacific Northwest life with her best friend and their hilarious, sometimes demanding, roommates aged 4 and 8. Angela is an avid reader, a closet-cross-stitcher, and a fervent writer. While she has always enjoyed journaling, writing became a source of healing for Angela after being diagnosed with Stage III breast cancer at the age of 33. She found a place in the literary world in a writing group for breast cancer survivors—women who have grown to be some of her dearest friends—and now at The University of Washington where she is earning a certificate in editing. Her nonfiction writing has been published in Wildfire Magazine, Open Minds Quarterly, You Might Need To Hear This, and Press Pause. You can find her on Instagram @angelafirman11.
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Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women writers through publication and access to the literary arts. To learn more about publishing, volunteering, or donating, visityellowarrowpublishing.com.