In the last four weeks, I’ve sat through one creative writing lesson, a poetry group, a session on submitting short stories to competitions, an editing workshop, a talk on what to consider when dealing with publishing companies, four three-hour lessons on what I need to know about writing, a feedback-based short story group who were discussing one of my stories along with that of my group writing buddy, and an all-day fiction festival featuring panels of authors from various genres. You know, the standard writer type stuff.
In addition, every day, I’ve reviewed previous work or crafted new poems and stories. I’ve entered two writing competitions, one for poetry and one for prose. It will be many weeks before I hear anything about any success, but since nobody tells you if your work is no longer being considered, I’ll only know that I didn’t get anywhere when the winners are announced.
Two years ago, I thought writing a book would just mean putting down a reasonable number of well-crafted words in a logical order and then sending it to a publisher who would discover my talent and launch me into the world of authors. People would be lining up to ask me to sign their copies of my instant bestseller. Gee, I was wrong.
I had no idea how much I didn’t know. While words pour out of me on a regular basis, I didn’t understand how to properly structure a story or most of the jargon surrounding writing. I didn’t know what to look for when editing my work. I didn’t know about the need to market myself to prove to potentially interested parties that I’m worth supporting or to keep up interest in my published writing. Working with Wendy Manzo on The Voice in the Paint (https://tinyurl.com/TheVoiceinThePaint) and Brush Tales; Silent Stories (https://tinyurl.com/BrushTales) was eye-opening, exhausting, encouraging and exhilarating. Attending a class on story structure every Sunday afternoon for the last thirty weeks has been tiring but essential in understanding what people want from a writer, even down to the understanding that publishers and judges have expectations from works in various genres. Honestly, I thought you just wrote something, and people either liked it or they didn’t.
By day, I’m an Education Assistant for an alternate high school. When I’m shopping for supplies or setting out laptops for the next class, nobody cares that I started my day writing and will likely end it the same way. Since we no longer use dip pens, my fingers aren’t stained with telltale ink like Penelope Featherington from Bridgerton. I’m a proud left-hander, well used to having pencil and biro stains on the edge of my hand from moving over freshly created words as I write. However, these days, I mostly use a computer or swipe on my phone, and nobody sees the evidence of all my efforts.
For most, there’s little fame in being a writer. I don’t move around with flashing lights above my head, advertising that I have something to say. I simply possess a burning need to release the words that tease or haunt me until I do. One of the panelists at the Festival of Fiction referred directly to this when she advised that if we could be anything else, be that instead of a writer!
And yet, a writer I am. It owns me. Pursues me. Delights me. Consumes me. Whether people read what I write or not, I will continue to produce page after page of words, hopefully ones that make sense, but sometimes just random lines and story starts that may or may not be incorporated into something else later. I used to think this was a strange thing of mine, but from hanging out with others similarly afflicted, I’ve come to see that this is what being a writer is all about: writing because you have to. Because you have something to say. Because you need to clear your head of the words swirling about, even if that just makes space for more. Because it brings you immense pleasure to see a story forming right in front of you. Because it’s amazing when someone reads what you wrote and enjoys or appreciates it.
Whether I’m famous or infamous or forever remain an unnoticed nobody who burns the creative candle at both ends because that’s how inspiration works, I will still write. I will still learn. And I will still share my words because that, my friends, is what writers do.
A Glorious Mess 