I envy those writers who knew at a young age they wanted to write, they needed to write. The writers who have boxes of stories written at age five kept in moldy boxes next to old report cards and football plaques: tales about friendly mice, talking toadstools, heroic victories over school bullies. Stories seeped out their pores, words flowed in their veins, interesting sentences dripped off their fingers without a thought. You know the people I’m talking about. Some of them grew up to be prolific writers – like Stephen King. Others earned critical respect – like Jonathan Franzen (though in full disclosure – I’m not sure he scribed stories about friendly mice and talking toadstools). And still others disappeared into the post-high school afterworld, only to emerge on Facebook two decades later.
I am not one of those people. Sure, I have a Christa the Cardinal story in the basement somewhere alongside my musty orange and white pom-poms (Go Warriors) and faded report cards. But I grew with other dreams. For a while it was Harvard Law (I actually snorted when I wrote that – the absurdity of me graduating from Harvard Law), then advertising, then teaching. After fumbling about, I landed in technical writing – which I kind of liked. It combined aspects of education and writing. Unfortunately – this type of wordsmithy leaves little room for creativity. You have to write instructions that actually work. For instance, when documenting the steps on how to reboot your PC, you can’t write:
1. Push button to turn off computer.
2. Pick up computer and shake it like you’re making a martini (if you like Apple martinis, make sure to get your hips into it).
3. Hop on your right foot while continuing to shake PC. Note: Hopping on left foot will result in cataclysmic failure.
4. Set computer down.
5. Put your right foot in.
6. Take your right foot out.
7. Now do the Hokey Pokey and turn yourself around.
8. Push the On button.
Needless to say, I was less than fulfilled. I stayed home to raise the kids and struggled with my new identity. Then I got the bug. Out of nowhere – story ideas flew at my head and stuck. I found an identity – or rather it found me.
Now that I’m trying to write, I realize all the lost opportunities, lost time. I read about authors who published five books by age thirty. How I wish I could go back to my time in college, where I could hand my writing over and receive legitimate, helpful feedback: this scene has no tension, too much passive voice, your characters lack life. I took classes from some amazing writers and I lost a valuable opportunity to learn from them.
Then there is the other side. Back in my youth, I was too flighty to write well. Good writing taps into fundamental truths most youngsters miss even when it slaps them in the face and crawls up their left nostril; they can’t see through the beer-soaked haze and rosy glasses. With age comes, dare I say, wisdom; or at least a self-awareness and an appreciation of life’s gifts (oops – getting sappy here). At twenty, I didn’t have any awareness, wisdom, or the confidence to play with ideas, toss them about like a kitten with a ball of yarn, then share them with the world. I’m reminded of Grandma Moses who didn’t turn to painting until her arthritis made stitching difficult at age 76. Painting entered her life when she needed it. I’d argue her experience helped her capture the nostalgia and bucolic harmony of rural life that made her famous. I hope my past will play a similar role.
So, dear reader, while I lament my lost chance to learn from talented authors in college and lost time to practice the craft, I prefer the knowledge gained from experience. Hindsight has taught me to explore the scary emotions hid deep to find my truths, children taught me to find humor and wonder in everything, and technical writing taught me the importance of clarity, brevity, and the power of revision.
August 23 Word Count = 52,048
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