How Flowers Brought Me Back to Writing (Though My Writing Group Deserves Some Credit, Too)

If you've never been to Texas, you have to visit in the spring, when fields blaze to life with wild bluebonnets. Every year I eagerly await the photos my friends in San Antonio and Austin post on Facebook of their own backyards and roadsides. Every year I wish I could make the trip myself to see places like this again:

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Bluebonnet season has wrapped up for the year, and it always makes me sad. I only lived in Texas briefly, but it's true what they say: you can take the boy out of Texas, but you can't take the Texas out of the boy.

But bluebonnets mean more to me than beautiful fields. They're more, even, than a memento of God's Country.

Bluebonnets were my first step back to writing.

If you've read the "About Me" page here, you remember that I claimed I've always been a writer at heart, and that with everything I was interested in I chose to earn a writing degree and never looked back. All of that is true, but I did need help along the way.

When I was nineteen I decided writing wouldn't feed a family, and I swore to not pursue it like I had when I was younger. At most I'd maybe keep a blog, but writing never would be more than a hobby to indulge in if I ever found the time. That decision never stopped the stories flowing to my head, nor did I stop imagining how I'd word the perfect sentence, frame the perfect scene, build the perfect plot. Writing haunted me relentlessly; for a while, I just thought I didn't want it.

And then bluebonnets happened. 

When my wife and I were dating, I took a weekend trip to see some friends in Texas. I really liked this girl and wanted to impress her with a super thoughtful gift when I got home. We hadn't dated long enough quite yet for me to know her taste in souvenirs . . . but it happened to be bluebonnet season, and who doesn't like a nice bouquet of flowers?

I arrived in San Antonio prepared with the means to carry wildflowers back to Utah: one of those awesome Spacemaker pencil boxes that were all the rage in elementary school. The box was made of sturdy plastic and could close securely, and it was just the right size for my luggage.

The 90s at their finest.
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Before my host family took me to the airport for my flight home, they let me pick some bluebonnets from their yard, since that was the only way I could do it legally. I wet a few layers of paper towels to line the bottom of the box, trimmed the stems to fit, then wrapped the box in packing tape once everything was shut inside (just to be safe). If any flowers stood a chance of surviving the flight, mine did.

But my gift from Texas needed something more--something from inside myself to make the flowers extra special. Inspiration struck me once I got onto the plane. I dug a pen and notebook from my carry-on and drafted a poem about bluebonnets for the girl I wanted to impress. I hadn't written poetry since high school--or anything creative, except for blog posts now and then--and my university creative writing classes were still another couple years away, so I cringe now when I think about that relatively poorly written piece. But after everything I've learned and written since, I still doubt that I have ever written anything with greater sentiment behind it.

I landed in Salt Lake a little before midnight, and at eight the next morning I delivered my poem with a bouquet of Texan bluebonnets--perhaps the freshest anyone had ever had in Utah.

Then, the dream awakened that I'd put to sleep so long before, I went home and wrote some more.

Now, if a man who you still barely knew carried fresh picked flowers a thousand miles to deliver them at your doorstep, that might put you in a slightly difficult position. At least that's pretty much how it was for my wife.

So, to avoid going on a date and potentially being alone with me that week, she invited me to her writing group.

At this stage in my career I don't believe I'm qualified to dish out much advice for someone starting out. After all, I'm kinda just starting out, myself. But here's one thing I've learned in my experience: it's hard to be a writer on your own. A good writing group does so much more than read your work and offer feedback. It's a support system that cheers you on through writing highs and creative slumps. It's a motivating force that drives you to the notepad and the keyboard because you know someone's gonna read and pay attention to your words. It's a playground where you're free to dream because everyone around you understands that dreams can be reality.

Joining my wife's writing group kept me writing after bluebonnets brought me back. The company of fellow writers pushed me when I needed motivation and taught me by example how to write, critique, and edit. Their association and support led me to finally pursue a bachelor degree in English--a decision I might not have made if I were writing on my own.

I don't know where I'd be right now if a bouquet of wildflowers had not inspired me to write a poem. I might be richer, maybe, because I wouldn't be a writer. But what is money next to happiness? What's success without a dream?

So wherever your life takes you, try to keep a flower patch in sight.