Writing has come as a surprise creative outlet for me. Going to conferences or reading authors writing about themselves, I realize that I should have been an avid, bookworm all my life, always scribbling down stories, keeping a journal etc. I should have certain books that "saved my life." I should be someone who is meticulous about grammar and spelling--feeling outraged and bothered by the mistakes I see in print. I might even go so far as to correct people who say "good" when "well" is appropriate. I am none of these things.
I was not a great reader. I loved picture books--still love picture books--but more for the pictures. As a teen, I had trouble getting into novels. If it didn't grab me right away, I tended to put it down. I rarely finished books, even for important things like book reports. I am still an abysmal proofreader. I have only a vague idea of when to use a comma. Don't get me started on the semi colon--is it ever appropriate? I am okay with periods--most the time. My spelling is largely phonetic until Spellcheck gets a hold of my work. I don't even see mistakes in print--even when it is pointed out to me. Doesn't bother me a bit. I sometimes wistfully imagine what it must have been like to live in Chaucer's time when (it seems to me) rules of language were more malleable.
Yet I write. Am compelled to write. It is a bit crazy to face this struggle day after day. Even if I were to sell my work the only real benefit that I can expect is to be sharing it with readers. I don't expect to support myself from my labors in writing. I know enough writers, have heard enough to know that if it isn't total fantasy it is a long way off. In the mean time labor that does pay competes for my time.
I tried to quit once. It didn't work, but it had a good effect. This may sound strange but it is kind of like the guy in A Clockwork Orange after he jumps out the window. Once you have survived the worst-in his case suicide, mine quitting-nothing matters anymore. It released me from the peer pressure that publishing is the only measure of how whether what I do is worthwhile and the need to devote chunks of time selling instead of writing. Time I don't have. Did I miss the whole point of A Clockwork Orange? It's possible. I just remember him going back to his old ways after jumping out the window. I have never been able to watch that movie a second time and it was a long time ago. I apologize to all those cult fans of the movie, if I somehow took away a skewed, or trivial idea. The point is quitting freed me. Everything, all the time I eked out to write, was a gift.
Actually this blog was going to be about art not writing. Oh well. Next time. I guess I needed confess first. Though I allow myself to write I still need to justify it partly because my first impulse when I could hold a pencil was not to write a story it was to draw. That is where this was supposed to be going but I won't tax your patience.
