"A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people."
~Thomas Mann
When I was a kid writing came so easily to me. I did it for fun in the afternoons and on weekends. My favorite school assignments were the ones that required us to write a poem, story, or memoir. I remember turning in a 'short story' in middle school that was 10 type-written pages long. And that was after restraining myself from writing more...
So why is it so hard now? I'm still reading just as much as I did as a kid.
Okay, that's definitely not true. I was a book junkie. But I'm still reading a lot more than most other adults I know. Usually a book or two a week (more if I just got home from the library and can't control myself). There's no lack of inspiration, that's for sure.
I have lots of excuses for myself. I'm too busy--I'm a full time mom of a toddler, a part-time piano teacher, an almost-full-time volunteer at church and a homemaker. I have a lot on my plate. But if I can find an hour or so to waste on Facebook every day (and I can!) I'm obviously not that starved for time.
Here's what I think happened: high school. All through elementary and middle school it was standard fare for teachers to assign creative writing projects. "Write a story about your favorite pet." "Compose a poem about your favorite season." "Keep a journal and write in it every day."
And then high school hit.
Instead of creative writing, we studied great literature and wrote essays. Lots of essays. Occasionally the teachers would sneak in a creative writing assignment, but they were few and far between. That was fluff stuff--a detraction from the real work. By my senior year of high school, there was not a single creative writing assignment. It was a pure literature-and-essay diet.
Of course, my choice to major in English in college didn't change that route a single degree. I did manage to slip in one creative writing course, which was when I first realized that writing wasn't so easy anymore. Essays, on the other hand...I can still write a kick-butt essay at the drop of a hat. And why not? I had seven years of practice (four in high school, three years of college for those who are counting).
I don't regret those years of school. That was when I learned how to read, which is something most people never learn. I can recognize a good book within a few chapters. I don't even waste my time in the regular fiction shelves at the library--it's straight to the "Reading List" shelves for me. I read Dostoevsky for fun. In short, I am a hopeless book snob.
You would think that the ability to recognize good writing would lend itself well to becoming a good writer. In my case, I find it intimidating. Can you even imagine the number of junk writers there are in the world compared to the number of Tolstoys? Jane Austens? Albert Camus? It's depressing.
And that's where my struggle comes in. Who am I to try to make myself a great writer? What do I have that's so unique, so compelling, that people will want to read what I write? I don't have any of the usual 'inspirations.' I have had a ridiculously happy life. I have a great relationship with both of my parents, who are still happily married. My sisters and I had our fights as kids, but we grew out of that quickly. I'm in love with my amazing husband and thrilled to be a mom. I've never experimented with drugs or alcohol. I have no serious illnesses or injuries. I never had an earth-shattering religious conversion or apostasy. My closest experience with death involves my pet cat (which isn't to say that it wasn't traumatic. It was). I'm a perfectly happy, healthy, well-adjusted member of society. People like that don't write great books.
Or do they? Does a happy life leave nothing to write about? When Tolstoy writes, "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way," is that really true?
I have one glimmer of hope. My husband and I were discussing politics one night (this happens a lot at our house). We had just watched an interview where an African woman bluntly criticized the aid money that was flowing into her country. Instead of helping the country become self-sustaining, she claimed, the money was making them more dependent.
I had a hard time with this. Why isn't the money helping? Isn't money what's needed to 'solve' poverty?
Jon made an interesting point. Why, he asked, do we spend so much time, effort and money studying the causes of our problems (poverty, abuse, intolerance)? Why not, instead, spend our effort to find the causes of our successes? Why is a certain country more wealthy than another? What are they doing differently than someplace like Africa? What can we do to promote those 'good causes' instead of always trying to prevent the bad ones?
I never thought about it like that.
I guess that's what I want to do, one day. Figure out why my life really is so good. Is it just luck? Am I just blind to all the horrible things that are really out there? Will I wake up one day to find myself a stereotypical plot line housewife, trapped in a life of drudgery (even though up until that morning I was perfectly content)?
And that's what I'll write about. One day. In the mean time, I'll collect pieces. This will be where I write what I want to write. The things I kept myself from writing before because I didn't want to put them on the family blog. Don't expect anything grand. Just ramblings. But it will give me a chance to get back into the habit of writing again. Practice, practice, practice, right?
One day I swear I'll be as cool as my friends who are writing/have written a book. I swear.
"Everywhere I go I'm asked if I think the university stifles writers.
My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them.
There's many a bestseller that could have been prevented by a good teacher."
~Flannery O'Connor
