So, I want to be a writer. I know I may write, but can I write? This is my internal struggle.
We write for reasons besides being successful. Almost all writers can benefit from the cathartic experience. Yes, it can bring peace. We let out all that angst, all that tension we feel but cannot express in any other way. We can live vicariously through our stories and become the person we cannot be. We also can comment on our society and postulate what it would take to fix what is broken.
But all the while we are pursuing those goals we must remember to keep the reader interested. And whatever you do keep that soapbox side of the writing very subtle so we can sneak up on the reader with new ideas. We cannot slap them in the face with our musings but rather weave those ideas into a scene or a plot. Of curse how subtle we are at weaving is defined by our target reader. Some need it spelled out, but others like to discover the gems on their own.
Besides our messages we must provide an interesting plot with believable characters and actions. And there must be a beginning with a hook, a middle with non-stop movement towards an end point, and a concise satisfying ending.
Today I was listening to NPR and heard an excerpt from a book written by a real writer. It went some thing like this. The protagonist in the book was always being given unsavory tasks in the North Korean orphanage. One of the tasks he was forced to perform was to scrape up the frozen urine on the floors when boys in the orphanage wet their beds. The “frozen urine on the floor”. Wow. With that sentence the author conveyed a fire-hose of ideas about the life and conditions in the orphanage. Can I ever write a sentence like that, ever? My life would be complete if I could do it just once. But now the idea of frozen urine is taken and I will have to think of something else.
Good writing is so complicated! Are we up to the task? How do we know if we are? By finding a publisher and selling a book? Even if that happens and we are one of the lucky few, the question remains: “Are we any good?”
I do not know if I am up to the task. My life up to this point was more interesting than most and I think I have something to say. As you can tell by my writing I am no wordsmith, but I can write a readable sentence or two. I have been told many times how creative I am. But what does that mean and am I really?
As you get older at some point you have to come to terms with the end of your life. Your career, if you are lucky enough to have one, is winding down. You find yourself asking the question, “Is that all there is?” Most of us spend the lion’s share of our waking lives pursuing a carrot on stick just inches from our nose, where it forever remains. As the end nears you realize that like water the cog in the machine you created fills in within seconds after you leave.
If we did a good job raising our children they spread their wings and make their own lives. Besides parenting, what was it all for? What benefit did my existence have on the human condition? When I finally leave this world what remains? A box of old pictures and papers?
Realizing all this while lying awake at night staring at the ceiling, I decided to try writing. I always thought I could do it, why not live the dream? So here I am. Over 200,000 words later I still do not know if I can do it. But I try…..
