Sunday, August 26, 2012

The Write Time - Part I

We're an odd bunch. Writers, that is. We don't do what we do because of celebrity, fortune or expectation. After all, for the former two, there are much easier paths than writing. For every 50 Shades trilogy, Hunger Games, and Twi-hard novels there are millions of the rest of us, failing and banging the keyboard against the desk, screaming: "Why not me? Why not me? Mine is so much better."

Okay, perhaps that last part is just me.

And, while I know of many parents who expect their children to be doctors, lawyers, even scholars - not many parents bundle up their children before sending them off into the world, a pat on the head and an encouraging "Now here ya go, Johnny, it's time to slave away at the keyboard with the daunting reality that you're very unlikely to make it work."

In fact, it seems the polar opposite to be true. Parents, clad in sweater-vests and tennis shoes, walk into their child's bedroom and gasp at the Austen, Bradbury, and Orwell posters on the wall. The mother swoons and the father catches her. Their child ignores them both, fingers clacking away on the keyboard of their laptop as though a fevered fix has a hold on them. "We talked to her about drugs, sex, and drinking - but never thought she'd experiment with writing!" the mother exclaims. The daughter never looks up from her screen as she's overcome by the high of having complete control of this fictional world she's created.

So, that leaves the question: why do we do it? I can't speak for everyone. Well, I have letters at my disposal so I suppose I could. As a writer I could easily say that Molly Snuggins of Panama City declares this and Harold Juniper of Spokane, Washington says that.

For me, I think - and I'm using the term 'think' very loosely here - I write because I have something to say. Sounds crazy, right? Now, nine times out of ten I have no idea what that oh-so-interesting thing is, until, I don't know, let's say the work is finished and I've re-read it about eight times. Then, and usually only then, am I suddenly blindsided and say: "Oh, I get it now." I don't mean to call myself thick or dense. I'm actually quite brilliant, just ask my mom.

I have not the slightest idea when I first became interested in writing. I remember being young, though, and sitting in the backseat of our large SUV. I remember telling myself stories of people or animals as we drove along roads while my sister read books comfortably beside me.

Maybe, in hindsight, the curse became my gift. See, whereas my sister and I both adore reading, I cannot read in the car. I'm devastatingly prone to motion sickness. No lie, I have become carsick from sitting in a parked car. My sister and usual co-author, Kym, can read backwards upside down in 105 degree heat in a moving minivan packed with eight people and a wet dog and not so much as blink about the whole thing. So she read. And I occupied myself with stories.

To this day those roles haven't changed much.

I didn't make friends easily in grade school. I was always the chubby girl who was too smart for her own good and was a freak for getting along better with her teachers than her peers. I didn't like sports, except for field hockey when I dislocated a few people's fingers and broke one girl's toe, and I never had enough confidence to try out for the school play. Except that one time in fourth grade where everyone had to participate. It was called A Bug's Wife and I played a spider who danced to the Beatles' song "I Wanna Hold Your Hand."

My imagination never suffered though. In fact, the more of an outsider I felt the more vividly my stories became. I played outside a lot - and since what little girl doesn't love animals? - tree trunks became crocodiles and branches became horses. I was a spy a lot too - who rode a horse. And a crocodile.

I entertained myself at home too. While my sister was pretty good about playing with me, she is eight years older than me - my brother is eleven years older than me, so he was just useless - and didn't find the same fascination in Beanie Babies and Barbies that I did. But since my siblings were a lot older, I was also exposed to more complex story lines. Barbie had cheated on Ken with whatever that red-headed Barbie's name was. Ken was having orgies. The monkey Beanie Baby rode the horse, but also flew on the butterfly. And I'm pretty sure my brother's old GI Joe's were in there too. They might have had their own trysts with Ken.

But then I became just a little too old for toys and dolls and stuffed animals. I was supposed to be focusing on more important things, like who Jessica had a crush on and if Robbie and Samantha were really holding hands - how scandalous!

My imagination could have died. It could have been announced DOA right there at the floor of junior high. After all, how can imagination compete with training bras and braces and unchaperoned play dates?

But then, when all could have been lost, I read O Henry's The Gift of the Magi.