StormTree Writer: By all means, call me carrots. Please.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

By all means, call me carrots. Please.

Remember that part in "Anne of Avonlea" when Gil proposed and Anne said no and a collective groan echoed throughout all womankind? "Anne, what the heck is wrong with you?" we all shouted at the TV. Remember the look on Gilbert's face when he whispered "Please say yes?" That hopeless/hopeful, heart-wrenching look? I mean, come on, who (besides Anne, with her ridiculous barrier of an imagination) could say no to a face like that? That's the face I wish I could send to the two agents currently reviewing my manuscript "Strange Bloom." "Please say yes" I'd whisper, and their hearts would melt. "Of course, of course when you put it that way we'll give you a chance, work with you, make your dreams come true." Too bad I'm not Gilbert Blythe. If only.

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Why I Write

I suppose I should say a little about myself- introduce my blog. You know, for all my avid readers. So here I go...

I'm a closet writer, really. I've been writing this and that for quite a long time (starting when I was about eight and wrote my first play, "The Haunted Mansion." I know, terribly original.). As a kid I liked reading far more than was good for me. As was evidenced by my grades. As a young teen I spent many a hushed night crammed into the hall closet with a flashlight, or sitting on the bathroom floor, a towel pressed against the bottom of the bathroom door to hide the light, reading, reading, reading. I can't say I had very refined taste- really anything with adventure, romance, fantasy, or science fiction was fuel for my fire. I was definitely not the kid reading Anna Karenina unabridged. No, "Boxcar Children," or "Goosebumps" went down just as easily as "Calico Captive" or "The Secret Garden." Anything and everything I could get my hands on (unless it was "Hardy Boys" or something equally boyish and boring), I would read.

I don't actually know when it started, the story writing I began to do in my head. Suddenly, I was a teenager and I would find, many nights, that if I didn't have anything to read, I would sit and make up stories in my mind. Mysteries, adventures, fantasy worlds. I would sit and stare into space and read the words (literally) as I created them. It sounds strange, I know, and maybe a little cuckoo, but I found a lot of enjoyment in being able to make the characters in my stories do exactly what I wanted. If I thought a character should die, they did. If I wanted to read about a strong-willed girl who wasn't just an overworked product of the feminist movement, then I created her. It was exhilarating.

Just as I can't remember when I first started writing mentally, I can't remember when I actually started putting words down on a page (or, more accurately, a computer screen). With all of the writing that was required of me in school and college, I can't say I was very successful in completing anything noteworthy, but I do have about eight sketchbooks full of really horrible poetry, abandoned book beginnings, and drawings to show for my continued love of storytelling.

It wasn't until I was married and done with my undergraduate degree that I really took a look at all of my disjointed work from over the years, and seriously regarded all of the hours I had spent creating stories in my mind. I decided to sit down and try to write entire novel. The result was... well, everyone has to start somewhere, right? (Maybe not; Orson Scott Card probably came out of his mother and immediately wrote his first draft of the short story that inspired "Ender's Game." Sheesh.) My book, which I angst-ily entitled "Place to Be" after the Nick Drake song of the same name, was about as awkward as a first time YA book could be. It holds a place of honor on my bookshelf to this day, right next to an old book of paper dolls I got for Christmas what I was a little girl.

I have since written two more books, a modest number of short stories (some of which I have posted on this blog), and a whole slew of abandoned book beginnings to show for my endeavors. I am by no means seasoned, and have a lot more to learn, but I feel I've come a long way in honing my talent. Every book, failed or finished, is another step toward truly seamless writing, something I hope to attain some day.

I mentioned at the beginning of this post that I am a closet writer, and, even though I post every once in a while on this simple blog as though I am attempting legitimacy, I have not told anyone other than my closest family members that I have set my sights on a goal so lofty as becoming an author. I'm just not there yet. There's a part of me that just can't handle the raised eyebrows (in person and from behind computer screens) that I know I'll get if I confess my little secret passion to my friends. You want to be an author? I imagine my literary friends from college thinking, only barely holding back surprised chuckles. If only I could announce that I have a book coming out before I admit to being one of the millions who think they can make it, I think in response to this fear. Hmm, wouldn't that be nice?

It's taken me a long time to even realize that I love to write. It's going to take a while longer to shout it to the world, and shrug off the skepticism. But I'll get there, you'll see, whether I ever get published or not. I'm on a trajectory, toughness-wise, so it's just a matter of time. And hopefully I receive support instead of sneers when I do.

One last interesting note: I still, to this day, write full-length books in my head. I love stores, love getting wrapped up in the emotions of my characters, and writing mentally (or mental-writing, which sounds just as kooky as I must) is a great outlet for me. It helps me practice character rounding, without the actual burden of writing a story that I know isn't original enough to try to get published. And make no mistake, getting published is a true obsession of mine. That much I know for sure.