Why I Write

Coleridge was a drug addict. Poe was an alcoholic. Marlowe was killed by a man whom he was treacherously trying to stab. Pope took money to keep a woman's name out of a satire then wrote a piece so that she could still be recognized anyhow. Chatterton killed himself. Byron was accused of incest. Do you still want to a writer--and if so, why?

- Bennett Cerf

I love this quote! So, on the second 0-word day of my na-novel I have decided to write about the reasons that I am doing NaNoWriMo to begin with and why I write altogether.

You may want to grab some hot cocoa and settle in somewhere comfy. This may take awhile.

You good? Good. Here goes.

My love affair with all things writerly began in the third grade, although according to my mom, I have been winning writing contests since I was in kindergarten. I'm not so sure about that- I mean kindergarteners can barely write a simple sentence, right? When I became old enough to realize my mom may be exaggerating just a bit, I decided that I wouldn't be the one to kill her dream. So I smile and say, "wow. I was a smart kid, huh?" To which she always agrees. Of course she would, she's my mom!

Anyways, third grade. My third grade teacher, whose name I have long since forgotten, ignited this passion for writing when she added creative writing to her curriculum. On creative writing days (which I initially thought meant I'd learn to write really fancy), she handed us each a picture and told us to start writing about what we thought was going on in it. So on that first day I studied the picture and began writing. And writing and writing and writing. Not about the same picture, of course, but I wrote all the same.

I spent much of my elementary days from there on writing short 3-5 page stories. And I spent almost all of my junior high school years writing in class- any class where I felt struck with inspiration- when I should have been learning other things. Like how Columbus and his crew handed out pox infested blankets to the Native Americans, effectively committing one of the first acts of biological warfare. Perhaps this is also why I am terrible at math. I was too busy writing to be bothered with dividing fractions and multiplying decimals!

I always carried a notebook, which filled quickly with misspelled words and whole rows of eraser marks (this was long before I discovered the beauty of electronic media). I wrote poems, stories, plays (which my friends had the lovely fortune of acting out for me), essay contests (which I occasionally won)… Writing was like breathing- it came so natural to me. I can't tell you whether I was really any good or not. And it hardly occurred to me when I was younger, to care. I just wrote. It was what I did. And everyone knew it, besides me.

Somewhere around nine or ten years old my parents, recognizing my love for the written word, bought me a typewriter. You know, those clunky old school typewriters with the knobby thing that held the paper and moved along as you typed so that you had to hit the carriage return lever to move onto the next line. It had a case, so I dragged that thing from room to room with me so that I could type whenever I wanted. I loved that thing to death, and still remember the sound of those keys hitting the paper that was rolled through the knobby thing. Even today, I am partial to the sound that the keys make as I string one letter after another to form words, sentences, paragraphs and pages. It is the sound of production- the sound of progress… it's comforting.

Then, when I was about eleven or so I got one of the best gifts I've received throughout my childhood- an electric typewriter! I think it was a brother, I don't remember. But it was fabulous! It even had a correction function. Remember how you could hit that correct button or whatever and the carriage would move back a space and lay some correction stuff over the letter and bam! Just like that you're mistake was gone. Kinda. Except for that telltale patch of white out, but whatever.

Looking back I realize how cool of a thing it was for my parents to even think of getting me one to begin with. They saw a passion for writing in me, and believed in me enough to give me a few of the tools to facilitate and encourage that passion. I was pretty lucky. Maybe one day I'll publish something, and get paid a nice royalty for it, and make them proud. Maybe some day.

Somewhere around high school I began writing mostly poetry ( I think it was that whole teenage angst thing), and then eventually the whole writing thing sort of tapered off. I still wrote occasionally, but I never finished anything. And even after I stopped actually writing, I still had ideas here and there, prancing through my mind, daring me to pick up a pen and lay them all down. But I never could find the time or motivation to really do it. And then having your boyfriend at the tender age of 20, tell you that you're latest idea was stupid because "it sounds like what's going on in your own life" and therefore unworthy of even bothering with, didn't help, either. I stopped writing completely for years after that. Poems, short stories, grocery lists… anything. I just didn't write.

But I never let go of the idea that someday I would write again- someday I would have something worth saying, worth writing and then I would just do it.

That day came in the fall of 2001 when I read a newspaper article about honor killings. Something about the story just got me. I thought about it for weeks, began surfing the net for information and started a file. Plot, check. Protagonist, check. Antagonist, check. Climax, check, check, check. But when I began to start actually writing it, I just couldn't. I had all the essential elements of information, but I could not get myself past the prologue. Because, what do I know about honor killings, really? How do I know how a 15 year old boy gets a hold of a weapon? I couldn't even accurately describe a gun! Paralyzed with uncertainty, the project came to a halt 10 pages in. But I couldn't get this story out of my mind. In my mind I had a powerful story. One that would make people think, that would give them another perspective of the world in which they live and knowledge about the parts in which they don't. It would be original and profound (to this day I have seen only one novel written with this topic in mind, and while I haven't yet read it (it's on my list), reviews I've read tell me that the direction of that novel is not the same as the one I have in mind for my tale). Months later I found the fountain of ideas began flowing again and soon I had about thirty pages and a blossoming plot line. But then over half of those hard wrought pages disappeared into cyber space, and I was completely deflated. I couldn't get those words back, so I couldn't move forward. They were gone forever and so was my dream of seeing this idea come into fruition. But the idea stayed- haunted me, even. To this day I still find my mind turning over the idea, trying to find ways to put all the pieces together. To this day I still believe that, if written well and at all, it could be a very poignant and thought provoking book. And I still want to write it. Maybe someday, I will.

*side note: It took Barbara Kingsolver 30 years to write one of my favorite books, "The Poisonwood Bible." It is now a national best seller and has made her nice and rich. Rightly so. The book is beautifully written and a lot of research and heart went into the writing of it. I think about this when I think about my book-that-is-yet-to-be.*

I didn't write anything again for another few years. Then in 2005, just as I was separating from the Air Force, I had an idea about a girl who marries a Jewish boy and then has to wrestle with her own religious beliefs as she decides whether or not to convert to Judaism. I'm particularly fond of the title- "Shiksa." Shiksa is Yiddish slang for a non-Jewish woman. How fitting, no? Although it's not particularly a nice term, I'm keeping it.

Anyways, I actually got over one pages written! And everything was progressing nicely until, again, I came to an impasse. I don't know anything about how to become a Jew! I've read books, and found articles, personal essays, I found forums and asked people who've been through it, but I still felt that I was lacking something really important that I needed to keep going. I even knew what the ending was going to be, I just didn't (and still don't) know how to get there. So I took a step back and gave myself time to think about. I'm still thinking.

It was at this time I learned about NaNoWriMo. I had already started writing "Shiksa" by then, but I was fascinated with the idea and so last year I did it.

Again, idea, plot, protagonist, antagonist, climax, ending- I had them all in my 12-chapter outline. All of it was spelled out. I would tear down that wall that kept blocking me! I was prepared, motivated and intent on getting those 50,000 words! And I got them, with about a week to spare until the end of Nano. Once again, I fell pray to some force that would not allow me to connect the middle to the climax to the end. I just didn't think I could do it. So there that novel sits, in the Tupperware box I bought for my failed attempts at authorship. I have come to look at this box as a grave yard of sorts. A final resting place for my ideas and my hope that I would one day finish a book. I'm not looking to get published, or make a million dollars, although that would be nice. At this point I'm writing because I want to, and because I can. Until I can't.

NaNo this year is shaping out to be quite the failure. Half way in and I've still only got 4,000 and some change in words. And the last two days I haven't written anything. It's not like the idea isn't there. As history has a way of repeating itself, I'm sure you can fill in the blanks- I have most of what I need to get at least several chapters in. But in reality, I just started chapter two. And I enjoyed writing what parts I did write. I'm having a lot of fun with the MC, whose turning out to be kind of a quirky bitch and I love it!! But for some unknown reason, I can't go any further. I just can't. I will not see 50,000 words this year. I'll be lucky to get out 5,000.

And that's okay. Because Nano has given me something to look forward to all year. Nano inspires me to keep writing, even though lately I haven't been doing much of it (on my na-novel). November will end, and with it, the craziness and excitement of NaNoWriMo. But my efforts don't have to. I can continue to work on this novel at my own pace throughout the next year. And truly, I fully intend to. Nano got my foot in the door. It's up to me to kick it wide open. Most novels weren't written in 30 days, after all. Unless you're Steven King. But that's beside the point. The man is touched. That's the best way I can describe it.

I write because that's what I do. I'm finally being able to say that it is also who I am. I am a writer. Because even when I'm not actually "writing", the words never leave me. They're always there. Just like they always have been.

From childhood until now. And God willing, for all the tomorrows I've yet to face.

So, there you have it. My love of writing from conception to present.
For those of you who made it this far, thanks for hanging in there. I love you for it!

Good night.

Feeling a little literary today

A. is on a rhyming kick. She's been making up songs with rhyming words. Except that at least one of the rhyming words are complete gibberish. Like "light" and "gite" ("does that rhyme, mama?"). It's rhyming gibberish, but rhyming all the same.

So I remembered one of my favorite poems, and thought that maybe she would like it because of it's great alliteration and has tons of rhyming in it. When we got home I looked up Bells by Edgar Allen Poe, printed it out and read it to her- all 3 pages of it. And it got me thinking about all the poems I've loved over the years, but that have become piles of dust in my memory. I began to feel slightly reminiscent of the years of my life given over not to just the written word, but to rhythm and prose in long form and short. I wrote poetry prolifically for a long time (but what teen-ager doesn't at least try their hand at a few poems?). I spent hours not just closed up in my bedroom with candles and silence writing poetry, but also during class- any class- in which I felt myself inspired or moved to pen words and stanzas and streams of consciousness. I've even written poems- that actually made sense- in other languages (but don't ask me what they were though, those words have long since abandoned my memory and those papers have possibly been recycled into the Sunday's newspaper edition by now).

One of the best gifts I've ever gotten was a book of great American poems from my Uncle and one of my cousins. I cherished that book for years, poring over the words, highlighting and folding down the corners of pages, and finding inspiration in between the line breaks and artistically used punctuation.

Poetry was my escape from a world and a reality I felt burdened by.

And then one day, it all just stopped, and I hardly thought about it again. Until tonight. So, while I'm feeling reminiscent, I would like to share some of my favorite poems (by other poets. I don't even know where any of my writings are anymore).

First and foremeost, I loved Invictus by William E Henly Somewhere around eighth grade my English teacher assigned us to each pick a poem to memorize and present to the class. I read this poem and immediately knew I would carry those words around with me forever. It made such an impact on me- this is the way I wanted to live my life, I realized. I wanted to meet every challenge with my shoulders bared and my head held high. I would not become a victim of circumstance. I would forever be "the master of my fate, the captain of my soul". Invictus became my manifesto.

And what is any young girls life without a profound belief in romantic love?

Some of my most favorite poems were written by one half of, what I think, is the greatest couple in history. They are not, surprisingly enough, Meredith and McDreamy, but rather Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning. I have long since stopped believing in love at first sight, but they're story is still so beautiful to me. For those who don't know, Robert Browning read and became an avid fan of poems that Elizabeth had written and published, and began writing her letters telling her so. Even from his very first letter, Robert wasted no time in conveying his admiration for her writing and her persons. Thus began a wonderful correspondence which eventually led to their first meeting and secret marriage ceremony.

What is so beautiful was not that he "fell in love at first sight." I actually find that a little ludicrous. But that they were so passionate about each other. In the course of twenty months, they exchanged approximately 600 love letters to each other! Elizabeth was an invalid from her early twenties due to an unidentified ailment which left her morphine dependant, and I think even physically impaired, for the rest of her life. Robert learned of her condition, and while he suspected that her condition was even worse than it actually was, he decided to marry her anyways- knowing that he would most likely have to take care of an invalid for the rest of his life. He "was sure enough of his love to regard that as no obstacle" And while Elizabeth's own feelings about love in general appeared to be ambivalent, she deeply loved Robert, and seems to have both fully embraced and enjoyed her marriage to Robert.

Her greatest works, Sonnets of the Portugese, were inspired by her growing relationship with him. They were married for about 20 years before she died. My favorite sonnet- well, there are several- but the one that made me think of my dh when I first read it and when I read it now, is If thou must love me.This poem signifies my idea of the greatest expression of love; that you don't love someone for any physical characteristic or personality trait, no matter how positive and charming they may be. What if they stop writing you sticky love notes every day and sticking it in your briefcase or bdu pocket? Will you still love them? Probably. But no doubt feelings would change shape a little bit. One might become insecure and feel abandoned once such loving attention wanes. But if you love to love, the transitory things won't matter a bit. The good things will merely be fringe benefits, and the bad things will simply be challenges. Love me for me, and not how good I am to you, or what I do for you. Just love me "for love's sake, that evermore; Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity."

They are legendary, and for good reason-they were a passionate, but not tragically dramatic couple who loved each other through severe and chronic illness and inspired each other to literary greatness. It doesn't get much better than that.