Find your Neverland

I started writing again after seeing a play last February in Detroit.

After retiring in 2013, I took a long break from anything journalistic, other than reading newspapers. I was dog tired, burned out and worn down to my core after 25 years in a pressurized PR job for a nonprofit. I wanted nothing to do with my former self, the person I had been through high school and since graduating college and moving to Miami Beach for my first real newspaper job. It took me awhile to relax and make my way through the fog of war. But five years into my retirement, I was ready. So, I decided to join a nearby writers group. From the get-go, I knew I liked the weekly format. We quickly formed a bond and a name: The Ladies of the Long Table, LOTLT, for short. The nine of us were kindred spirits, sisters from another mister, as they say. Honestly, the proverbial well was bone dry, and I had nothing in the can. I struggled all week about what to write for our first session. Some predictable topics: Family. Friends. Lovers. My dog. Diesel vs. gas. Then it hit me that Sunday while sitting in the Fisher Theatre’s Mezzanine, Row D, Seat 3 at the matinee showing of the musical “Finding Neverland.” “Finding Neverland” is the fascinating story of how Peter became Pan, the boy who wouldn’t grow up. And how the youngster and his three brothers inspire London playwright J.M. Barrie to write a grownup’s fantasy about a flying boy who battles pirates led by Captain Hook. The play is a hit, and the story becomes a children’s classic. In Act I, young Peter asks the rather staid Mr. Barrie, who’s stuck on his latest script, a simple question: “When did you stop playing?” Mr. Barrie’s reply: “When I grew up.” “When did you stop playing?” I thought. Ouch. A teardrop did a slow-roll down my right cheek. The antsy tow-headed kid seated next to me, my 9-year-old great-nephew, flashed a toothless grin as I carefully plucked a Kleenex from the plastic tissue pack in my purse. (Shhhh. No, it is not candy, Andrew.) Composing myself, I thought, “Jeez, I’m crying at a Sunday matinee about Tinkerbell.” My partner, Rebecca, leaned over, gently touched my arm and asked, “Hey, you got any candy?” (Shhhh. No.) But watching Mr. Barrie transform from a stuffed shirt into a carefree man was, well, wonderful. He called it “imagination with creative inspiration.” Something about all of it rang true with this kid at heart. “When did you stop playing?” A long time ago, I suspect. For some 30-odd years you write stories for a living, follow assignments, meet deadlines and fill up space with all the news that fits. It’s what you do. Because you’re a grownup. So how do you start playing again? Take a leap of faith. Embrace the fear. Keep going. Author Sue Shapiro says, “The first piece you write that your family hates means you’ve found your voice.” At home, I have a dog-eared postcard on my vintage Remington Streamliner typewriter that says, “What would you attempt to do if you could not fail?” Here’s my answer: Let’s play, Jennifer. Find your Neverland. And buy more Kleenex.