You know the message board posts that get the (bloggy) disclaimer in the title? Yeah, this is just going to be a bunch of self-absorbed musings, so read at your own risk. :)
The first (and pretty much only) time I ever thought of myself as a writer, I was five. I wrote a little story about a rabbit called, "Where's my PJs?". I never said PJs, always pajamas. But I knew that this little rabbit would say PJs. He just would. It was exciting to have this character in my head that did and said things because he was, not because I was consciously creating it.
I was always making up stories in my mind, but they didn't make it to paper. I actually disliked the physical writing. And if it was a requirement? Well, obligation can destroy the joy in just about anything. School just about strangled any pleasure in writing permanently. By sixth grade, I would skip over any written exercises and pencil in D.L. (for Do Later), and just go over the exam sections. I never did go back and do them later. When I got to college, my distaste for writing was so cemented in that I only took the two required Freshman Comp classes, and chose electives and instructors based in part on the probability of not having to write papers for their classes.
I have never, ever, ever been able to write from an outline. My mind simply won't work that way. It doesn't go from A to B to C. It loops from A to Q to F to J to B to X. In classes where I was required to provide an outline, I would write the paper first and then go back and create an outline. I also found that I stink at editing. I very quickly reach a point where I can't see it anymore. I am just done. Even when it doesn't feel right and I know it is messy, I simply can't force myself to clean it up once I have spent a certain amount of time on it.
So, I have never considered myself a writer. Even blogging has always just been for fun to me, a way to mount soapboxes and process things that I was wary of boring my real life friends with. Whenever someone would compliment me on a post, I would inwardly laugh one of those awkward, embarrassed laughs because I couldn't quite imagine that anything I wrote would matter to anyone else.
When I started this blog, I fully expected to write a few posts with weeks in between them, and drop it altogether within a few months. Somehow, that didn't happen. I began to write more and more. And I found a whole world of amazing friends. Now to my complete shock, I am finding other people who are interested in what I have to say, and it is scary and wonderful and surprising and exciting.
I have had the honor or working with some amazing authors whom I admire with all my heart, and their encouragement can literally bring me to tears. Today I asked myself for the first time, "What if this is really more than just playing? What if I should take it seriously?" Not seriously as in turn it into a burden and strip the fun out of it. Been there, done that. But seriously as in, maybe this is really something important. What if this is a part of who I am created to be?
It makes me tremble.
I keep shying away from that idea, but when I think of all the times that you and I have connected somehow, my gratitude just spills over. I know that your comments have, without exaggeration, changed my life.
It is only 8:00 PM, but this is the kind of stuff that is really my 3:00 AM ponderings--all emotional and dramatic and stuff. ;) Sometimes it was just too many tacos for dinner, I think. But sometimes there is truth there, too. I am starting to believe that maybe it deserves more than an indulgent pat on the head.
Thank you for listening. I think the fact that you are here and that we can encourage each others' souls deep down is my answer.
The first (and pretty much only) time I ever thought of myself as a writer, I was five. I wrote a little story about a rabbit called, "Where's my PJs?". I never said PJs, always pajamas. But I knew that this little rabbit would say PJs. He just would. It was exciting to have this character in my head that did and said things because he was, not because I was consciously creating it.
I was always making up stories in my mind, but they didn't make it to paper. I actually disliked the physical writing. And if it was a requirement? Well, obligation can destroy the joy in just about anything. School just about strangled any pleasure in writing permanently. By sixth grade, I would skip over any written exercises and pencil in D.L. (for Do Later), and just go over the exam sections. I never did go back and do them later. When I got to college, my distaste for writing was so cemented in that I only took the two required Freshman Comp classes, and chose electives and instructors based in part on the probability of not having to write papers for their classes.
I have never, ever, ever been able to write from an outline. My mind simply won't work that way. It doesn't go from A to B to C. It loops from A to Q to F to J to B to X. In classes where I was required to provide an outline, I would write the paper first and then go back and create an outline. I also found that I stink at editing. I very quickly reach a point where I can't see it anymore. I am just done. Even when it doesn't feel right and I know it is messy, I simply can't force myself to clean it up once I have spent a certain amount of time on it.
So, I have never considered myself a writer. Even blogging has always just been for fun to me, a way to mount soapboxes and process things that I was wary of boring my real life friends with. Whenever someone would compliment me on a post, I would inwardly laugh one of those awkward, embarrassed laughs because I couldn't quite imagine that anything I wrote would matter to anyone else.
When I started this blog, I fully expected to write a few posts with weeks in between them, and drop it altogether within a few months. Somehow, that didn't happen. I began to write more and more. And I found a whole world of amazing friends. Now to my complete shock, I am finding other people who are interested in what I have to say, and it is scary and wonderful and surprising and exciting.
I have had the honor or working with some amazing authors whom I admire with all my heart, and their encouragement can literally bring me to tears. Today I asked myself for the first time, "What if this is really more than just playing? What if I should take it seriously?" Not seriously as in turn it into a burden and strip the fun out of it. Been there, done that. But seriously as in, maybe this is really something important. What if this is a part of who I am created to be?
It makes me tremble.
I keep shying away from that idea, but when I think of all the times that you and I have connected somehow, my gratitude just spills over. I know that your comments have, without exaggeration, changed my life.
It is only 8:00 PM, but this is the kind of stuff that is really my 3:00 AM ponderings--all emotional and dramatic and stuff. ;) Sometimes it was just too many tacos for dinner, I think. But sometimes there is truth there, too. I am starting to believe that maybe it deserves more than an indulgent pat on the head.
Thank you for listening. I think the fact that you are here and that we can encourage each others' souls deep down is my answer.
