Many times when people ask me about writing they say, "Oh I could never do that." And yet, they seem intrigued by the idea. I can hear it in their voices, see it in the glint of an eye. I tell them truthfully I believe they can.
I wasn't born a writer. How many times have I heard an author say, "Oh yes, I wrote my first play as soon as I could hold a pen."? No, that wasn't me. I didn't write a word of fiction until I was almost 40, when I penned a children's book for my daughter. On a whim I showed it to a writer friend who encouraged (read "lovingly badgered") me to continue.
I've finished four novels over the years and yet every time I start a new project I'm overcome with self-doubt. I can't write an outline to save myself. When my fingers hit the keys in those first paragraphs, the words come slow and clunky. I can't find my rhythm. I stumble forward bemoaning the loss of any talent I might have possessed. And then, as I persevere and the stack of pages grows, something magical happens. I lose myself in the world I've imagined. The characters become real people with unique personalities. Conflict builds. In my mind, the setting grows rich in color and aroma. I have found my way to that creative river that runs through us all and have dipped my ladle.
I ponder the source of creativity. It seems so fluid, so unpredictable--one day like a conduit running at capacity, the next, tightened down until only a few drips slip through. And yet it seems that the gods of authorship reward a stubborn heart. The very act of putting one's butt in the chair and fingers on a keyboard claims their attention.
So to anyone who has ever been so inclined, I say give it a try. Bring a couple of characters with you to the keyboard. Put them in a parlor of an old Victorian, or in a kayak in the middle of lake, or on top of a mountain in the middle of a snowstorm and see what they have to say, see what they do. They may have a story to tell. And you may be the author they've been looking for.
I wasn't born a writer. How many times have I heard an author say, "Oh yes, I wrote my first play as soon as I could hold a pen."? No, that wasn't me. I didn't write a word of fiction until I was almost 40, when I penned a children's book for my daughter. On a whim I showed it to a writer friend who encouraged (read "lovingly badgered") me to continue.
I've finished four novels over the years and yet every time I start a new project I'm overcome with self-doubt. I can't write an outline to save myself. When my fingers hit the keys in those first paragraphs, the words come slow and clunky. I can't find my rhythm. I stumble forward bemoaning the loss of any talent I might have possessed. And then, as I persevere and the stack of pages grows, something magical happens. I lose myself in the world I've imagined. The characters become real people with unique personalities. Conflict builds. In my mind, the setting grows rich in color and aroma. I have found my way to that creative river that runs through us all and have dipped my ladle.
I ponder the source of creativity. It seems so fluid, so unpredictable--one day like a conduit running at capacity, the next, tightened down until only a few drips slip through. And yet it seems that the gods of authorship reward a stubborn heart. The very act of putting one's butt in the chair and fingers on a keyboard claims their attention.
So to anyone who has ever been so inclined, I say give it a try. Bring a couple of characters with you to the keyboard. Put them in a parlor of an old Victorian, or in a kayak in the middle of lake, or on top of a mountain in the middle of a snowstorm and see what they have to say, see what they do. They may have a story to tell. And you may be the author they've been looking for.
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