ghuffman
Basic
I started writing because I was arrogant. I told my well-read aunt one day I was going to write a novel, about something or other. And made some quip that I could do it better. I mean, I think I was 17, or 19. Damn young. Naive.
She had cancer, and was dying. Of course, she didn't tell me that. In fact, not anyone. She read over my work, and smiled. She knew the road would be long, and one day, after her sickness became too obvious to hide, she told me that I needed a wordsmith. She wanted to help, to be that wordsmith, but said she didn't have the time. I think that was her way of saying, you aren't ready, and I'm dying.
She gave me books, instead. "Read these", she said.
I didn't, not for a long time. In my twenties, I wrote, but she was gone, so it became a hobby, a second thought. Bills needed paying, and I had the hard skills to do that. But one of my life goals, and a promise I made to my wife, was to write a book. That seemed like a tough goal, something worthy of a lifetime. And it was. Hilariously, when I started at 19, I thought it would only take a few months. How hard could it be?
In my thirties, I've gotten serious about writing. I have a career, it pays well. I try not to buy into the notion that there's no money in writing novels, not unless you're gifted or very lucky. But it's usually both, I suppose, the more I learn. The feeling I get after a writing session, though, it isn't the same as after an American hard day's work. The writing, the revision, the story. It fills me up, helps plug holes inside me I didn't know I had.
So in my mid-thirties, one day I said the hell with it, this is the year. I threw off my pride and rose colored glasses and picked up those books my aunt told me to read. I strapped in, a la The War of Art. I didn't know it then, but I was acting like a professional. I wrote six days a week for a year. I cranked out those 140k words. I have the grey hair to prove it. Soon after, I examined my goal and realized it no longer served me, it wasn't forcing me to improve. I changed it to publish my novel.
Well hell, that changes everything doesn't it? Standards, tough ones, come into the equation; other human beings. Rejection. Judgement. I can't hide away, I have to show this work to people. And for me, I have to publish this book. I think the reasons are obvious: a debt to pay back, a dedication that needs written. So I go around and around, drafting and drafting, revising. I don't know if this work is commercially interesting, but I love the process, and even after all of these years, this story compels me to come back, to keep on keeping on. In short - the hubris, can you imagine! - I believe the world would be a richer place with this story, even if just by a little.
My questions for you: Do you believe the same about your stories? Why do you write? Can you put words to the way it makes you feel? What drives you to come back to that blank page time after time?
She had cancer, and was dying. Of course, she didn't tell me that. In fact, not anyone. She read over my work, and smiled. She knew the road would be long, and one day, after her sickness became too obvious to hide, she told me that I needed a wordsmith. She wanted to help, to be that wordsmith, but said she didn't have the time. I think that was her way of saying, you aren't ready, and I'm dying.
She gave me books, instead. "Read these", she said.
I didn't, not for a long time. In my twenties, I wrote, but she was gone, so it became a hobby, a second thought. Bills needed paying, and I had the hard skills to do that. But one of my life goals, and a promise I made to my wife, was to write a book. That seemed like a tough goal, something worthy of a lifetime. And it was. Hilariously, when I started at 19, I thought it would only take a few months. How hard could it be?
In my thirties, I've gotten serious about writing. I have a career, it pays well. I try not to buy into the notion that there's no money in writing novels, not unless you're gifted or very lucky. But it's usually both, I suppose, the more I learn. The feeling I get after a writing session, though, it isn't the same as after an American hard day's work. The writing, the revision, the story. It fills me up, helps plug holes inside me I didn't know I had.
So in my mid-thirties, one day I said the hell with it, this is the year. I threw off my pride and rose colored glasses and picked up those books my aunt told me to read. I strapped in, a la The War of Art. I didn't know it then, but I was acting like a professional. I wrote six days a week for a year. I cranked out those 140k words. I have the grey hair to prove it. Soon after, I examined my goal and realized it no longer served me, it wasn't forcing me to improve. I changed it to publish my novel.
Well hell, that changes everything doesn't it? Standards, tough ones, come into the equation; other human beings. Rejection. Judgement. I can't hide away, I have to show this work to people. And for me, I have to publish this book. I think the reasons are obvious: a debt to pay back, a dedication that needs written. So I go around and around, drafting and drafting, revising. I don't know if this work is commercially interesting, but I love the process, and even after all of these years, this story compels me to come back, to keep on keeping on. In short - the hubris, can you imagine! - I believe the world would be a richer place with this story, even if just by a little.
My questions for you: Do you believe the same about your stories? Why do you write? Can you put words to the way it makes you feel? What drives you to come back to that blank page time after time?
