(no subject)
April 2, 2009
11.
Years ago, I started a diary. A few years later, when I made friends at music camp, I started writing postcards and letters. I continued my diary through college, though I usually didn’t write at the high volume I did in high school. The amount I wrote in my diary corresponded at least once with how well I was doing at USM; the more I wrote in my third year, the more I could crank out for academic writing. Or was it the other way around?
I wrote some fan fiction, a few SF stories, poetry, none of it very good and very little informed by the Great Books. I threw most of it away, but I still kept at writing fiction, prose, my own original stuff.
In my second round of college I learned how to write copiously and well. I presented a paper at an academic conference. Grad school required a lot of writing but I grew quickly tired of my assignments. That being said, I wrote one paper that I presented at another academic conference. I particularly liked that paper but am hazy on the details of exactly what I wrote.
A boyfriend encouraged me to write, but restrain myself to writing only two hours a day. I left him for bigger reasons, but his restraint would have have forced me from him eventually.
Over the years I got a lot of discouragement. I could never make a living as a writer. I would not make enough income as a writer. I would have to do something regular and sensible, forty hours a week, with benefits. I was too shy (and not bright enough) to try to combine a serious writing life with my daily maintenance.
I was unable or unwilling to provide all my daily maintenance several years ago at the expense of writing. But I never would have attempted writing that could have maintained me. That would have been a rebellion against the conventional wisdom I’d been brought up with. And I was a good girl.
Well, I just spent a day at work doing my data entry and alternating it with hops onto Facebook. I wrote several notes to friends and finally wrote two obits for my deceased high school teachers. The sympathy letters I still need to write to my cousin (about his wife) and to my mom (about her father) nag at me. Anyway, I couldn’t back off on the missives to friends for the life of me.
At the end of the day, I realized I was just screaming to write. Write those letters. Write more letters to friends as soon as I get their addresses. Update my LiveJournal. Update my Facebook status more frequently and identify people in photos, tell stories about them. Tell stories about me, joke and tease with old high school classmates.
And with this immense drive to tell stories of all sorts, I want to dive right back into writing again. My book. My fanfic. The stories I haven’t even thought of yet.
11.
Years ago, I started a diary. A few years later, when I made friends at music camp, I started writing postcards and letters. I continued my diary through college, though I usually didn’t write at the high volume I did in high school. The amount I wrote in my diary corresponded at least once with how well I was doing at USM; the more I wrote in my third year, the more I could crank out for academic writing. Or was it the other way around?
I wrote some fan fiction, a few SF stories, poetry, none of it very good and very little informed by the Great Books. I threw most of it away, but I still kept at writing fiction, prose, my own original stuff.
In my second round of college I learned how to write copiously and well. I presented a paper at an academic conference. Grad school required a lot of writing but I grew quickly tired of my assignments. That being said, I wrote one paper that I presented at another academic conference. I particularly liked that paper but am hazy on the details of exactly what I wrote.
A boyfriend encouraged me to write, but restrain myself to writing only two hours a day. I left him for bigger reasons, but his restraint would have have forced me from him eventually.
Over the years I got a lot of discouragement. I could never make a living as a writer. I would not make enough income as a writer. I would have to do something regular and sensible, forty hours a week, with benefits. I was too shy (and not bright enough) to try to combine a serious writing life with my daily maintenance.
I was unable or unwilling to provide all my daily maintenance several years ago at the expense of writing. But I never would have attempted writing that could have maintained me. That would have been a rebellion against the conventional wisdom I’d been brought up with. And I was a good girl.
Well, I just spent a day at work doing my data entry and alternating it with hops onto Facebook. I wrote several notes to friends and finally wrote two obits for my deceased high school teachers. The sympathy letters I still need to write to my cousin (about his wife) and to my mom (about her father) nag at me. Anyway, I couldn’t back off on the missives to friends for the life of me.
At the end of the day, I realized I was just screaming to write. Write those letters. Write more letters to friends as soon as I get their addresses. Update my LiveJournal. Update my Facebook status more frequently and identify people in photos, tell stories about them. Tell stories about me, joke and tease with old high school classmates.
And with this immense drive to tell stories of all sorts, I want to dive right back into writing again. My book. My fanfic. The stories I haven’t even thought of yet.