On Writing
I was 24 years old before I realized that every time I stood up and walked away from my desk, my mind was whispering, "And then she mounted her horse and rode away."
I'm not joking. I may not have the wording precisely right, but that's what was going on in my head, any time that I wasn't otherwise engaged: working, reading, watching TV, driving, being with SubHub. I wish I could tell you that I took the hint and began trying to write from that moment on.
When I was 26, I was a stay-at-home mom with a toddler. On a junk shop tour, I found an old desk with a mended leg and brought it home with me. I had a little typewriter, very much a product of its time, which required no ribbon - it would type on thermal paper, of all things. It was almost instantly made obsolete by PCs and laptops and I don't even know what became of it.
I put the typewriter on the desk and thought I'd write. I think I started a regency romance once. I doubt if I typed more than a page or two. I had no idea how to do it. And I had no stick-to-itiveness. And that is too a damn word.
When I was in my late 30s/early 40s, my son (the one who will graduate from the Iowa Writer's Workshop next month) would see me in the AOL chatrooms or playing games on the computer and say, "Why don't you write, Mom?" Because he certainly was writing. I wrote a clever comment or two here and there, but never a story.
I can remember reading Stephen King's On Writing then. As I recall, he had a writing prompt in the book, and he encouraged readers to write the prompt and send him that they'd written. I wanted to do it. I wanted to do it so badly. But I can remember sitting on my bed with the prompt and a pen and notebook and crying because I couldn't do it.
I have no idea why.
And then, loving Potterverse, and being so impatient to have Book 6 in my hands, and finding Mugglenet online one day during a quiet spell at work - and then finding fanfic. And reading through the categories out of curiosity. And then reading through the pairings under Romance for jollies. And being freaking HORRIFIED to find Severus Snape/Hermione Granger on the list. And not just one sicko writing a story about a 30-something man and his school age student. Nearly 100 of them (at the time). I clicked on one and began reading. When I wasn't at work, I was still thinking about the story. And finally it occured to me that I could log on at home and read the rest of it. And then another and another and another and then Ashwinder.
And then, "I could do this."
Fast forward 11 years. I've written 13 novel and novelette length stories and many one-shots and drabbles. This month is the 11th anniversary of me discoving fanfiction. And I'm still trying to write. Trying. It's all we can do. Keep trying.
Enough reminiscing from me. Carry on, my friends.
I'm not joking. I may not have the wording precisely right, but that's what was going on in my head, any time that I wasn't otherwise engaged: working, reading, watching TV, driving, being with SubHub. I wish I could tell you that I took the hint and began trying to write from that moment on.
When I was 26, I was a stay-at-home mom with a toddler. On a junk shop tour, I found an old desk with a mended leg and brought it home with me. I had a little typewriter, very much a product of its time, which required no ribbon - it would type on thermal paper, of all things. It was almost instantly made obsolete by PCs and laptops and I don't even know what became of it.
I put the typewriter on the desk and thought I'd write. I think I started a regency romance once. I doubt if I typed more than a page or two. I had no idea how to do it. And I had no stick-to-itiveness. And that is too a damn word.
When I was in my late 30s/early 40s, my son (the one who will graduate from the Iowa Writer's Workshop next month) would see me in the AOL chatrooms or playing games on the computer and say, "Why don't you write, Mom?" Because he certainly was writing. I wrote a clever comment or two here and there, but never a story.
I can remember reading Stephen King's On Writing then. As I recall, he had a writing prompt in the book, and he encouraged readers to write the prompt and send him that they'd written. I wanted to do it. I wanted to do it so badly. But I can remember sitting on my bed with the prompt and a pen and notebook and crying because I couldn't do it.
I have no idea why.
And then, loving Potterverse, and being so impatient to have Book 6 in my hands, and finding Mugglenet online one day during a quiet spell at work - and then finding fanfic. And reading through the categories out of curiosity. And then reading through the pairings under Romance for jollies. And being freaking HORRIFIED to find Severus Snape/Hermione Granger on the list. And not just one sicko writing a story about a 30-something man and his school age student. Nearly 100 of them (at the time). I clicked on one and began reading. When I wasn't at work, I was still thinking about the story. And finally it occured to me that I could log on at home and read the rest of it. And then another and another and another and then Ashwinder.
And then, "I could do this."
Fast forward 11 years. I've written 13 novel and novelette length stories and many one-shots and drabbles. This month is the 11th anniversary of me discoving fanfiction. And I'm still trying to write. Trying. It's all we can do. Keep trying.
Enough reminiscing from me. Carry on, my friends.