Writing days are here again

August 12, 2008 at 11:23 am (fiction, Inspiration, motivations, nonfiction, writing)

I’ve always loved writing. There’s just something amazing about playing with language, shaping it into the form you want. The first thing I remember writing was a Christmas poem in first or second grade; I showed it to my teacher, and off it went to the ditto machine to be included with the holiday curriculum for our elementary school. When the first thing you show someone else gets published, it provides a lot of encouragement to continue writing. If the only copy I have weren’t at my parents’ house, I’d include it here so you could laugh a little.

In second grade, one project for art class was to write and illustrate a book. I decided to make a Haunted Mansion (oh no!) and created cutouts of the characters so they could be moved through the illustrated scenes in the story. At the time, I had no doubt that this was the most fascinating story ever told. The teacher loved it. More approval, more motivation to invent stories. I dictated a lot of them to a Sears tape recorder, and usually made my mom listen to them — repeatedly. I was especially proud of a story about hares and hairs, as I recall, though the details now elude me. I was full of ideas, and confident that these ideas would be just as fascinating to everyone else as they were to me.

Of course, then I got older. By the time I hit high school I was writing horribly pretentious stuff, most of it bad, because I started trying to impress other people. There was a lot of bad poetry in there; if the term had been around at the time, I probably would’ve called myself emo. None of my stories had a happy ending, and all of the prose was, well, affected. I was never really happy with any of the fiction I wrote during this phase of indulgence in Oh I’m So Writerly and Depressed. I began to enjoy writing critical essays and research papers, and so my writing focus changed for a while. I cranked out plenty of papers, both for school assignments and for personal enjoyment. And so the world of nonfiction revealed itself to me.

For years, I mostly stuck to writing about things that were real. Then one day I woke up with a story in my head, and a need to get it out on paper. Unfortunately it turned out not to be a very interesting story, and after 60 pages I abandoned it. Still, it made me think again about creating my own worlds, and setting characters in the worlds to see what they might do. Several things happened in my personal life around this time, and much of what I wrote was intensely personal and never meant to see the light of day. I took another break from writing fiction, mainly because I didn’t want to deal with the thoughts that came with probing my brain for ideas. I still wrote a lot of nonfiction; the drive to set things down never left me.

Then, last year, my mom passed away suddenly. It sounds horribly cliched, but this really made me consider the brevity of the time we’re given here. I realized I’d been stomping all over my creativity, trying to box it up so I didn’t have to think uncomfortable things. I decided the time had come to unpack those boxes, and I started writing stories again. I need to write these stories; it’s no longer so much an issue of wanting to or not.

I still love writing articles and essays, but I’m thrilled that I can now write from my imagination again. In many ways, I’m more patient than I ever have been, and that allows me to flesh out stories instead of charging ahead with tissue-thin plots and uninteresting characters. These are my stories, and I’m stickin’ to ’em.

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