A natural place to start the blog is the curious question of why I started writing in the first place. What possessed me (and I use that word advisedly) to start writing as I enter the third act of my life? It turns out, I’m not unusual in that regard. A lot of people start writing later in life. One reason, I suspect, is they’re looking for a new purpose after the demands of family and work relent. Others might find they’re finally ready to tell their stories. As I sit here, my retirement countdown app shows I have more than 32 months, 16 days, 18 hours before the magic day. Writing to me has been like taking on a second job. A demanding, unpaid job at that. So, why?
Though I’ve only recently started writing, I’ve been telling stories for a long time. As far back as I remember, I’ve told myself stories in bed at night. How it started, I can’t tell you. It wasn’t to help myself fall asleep. I have too many memories of my exasperated mother dragging me, exhausted, from bed and herding me on to the school bus. From time to time, I still stumble on a story that keeps me up, but many of my stories are now so familiar, the sharp edges of inspiration are worn away. I’ve been visiting the same deserted tropical island for years. They help settle my mind when life’s anxieties intrude on my sleep.
So, why did it take me so long to write any of these stories down? Well, it didn’t, really. The earliest story I remember was about the conflict between a man and a rat trapped together on a desert island. Pretty weird, I know, but it had all the elements of a good short story: limited scope, existential conflict, escalating tension and an ending with a satisfying payoff. Least that’s how I remember it. I remember the rat story because it was the first time I tried writing one down. The problem is I’m a visual thinker and my stories are all image and emotion. After twisting myself into verbal knots trying to describe what I saw, I gave up. I won’t say I was devastated, but the experience left me with an inescapable conclusion: I can’t write. In Spirit Sight, Minna talks about her sister’s spirit as part of the kaleidescope that makes her what she is. The disappointment of that first attempt to write became part of my kaleidescope. Years of unpleasantness writing academic papers only reinforced that truth. What I know now, and what I’ll talk about in another post, is that writing is hard. It’s a craft that must be mastered through intense, sustained effort, and even successful, seasoned authors struggle to wrangle words into shape. If I’d only known. Oh well, fortunately ruminating over life’s regrets is not one of my many personal demons.
So, what changed? Why write now? I hate to disappoint, but I’m not really sure. What I can say is a little over two years ago I was in bed sifting through story ideas. For some reason I was thinking about magic systems authors create and how difficult it must be to come up with something original and compelling. At some point, I started telling myself a story that took place in a world in which the magically gifted absorbed magical potential from their environment. While they were young, before they could harness this power, it leaked out and caused pain in those around them. It’s always the emotion that is most interesting to me and something about the story hooked me. If a child didn’t have anyone to guide them, what would their life be like? I don’t remember the story. The details are lost in the novel that came after. The only thing I remember is the first line: “You’re leaking.” I think the reason it sticks with me is that it’s a line of dialog, not an image.
Whatever the reason, I woke up the next morning, went to a coffee shop and started writing. All I had to start with was that line and two characters who turned out to be Minna and Aron. The story eventually became a chapter near the middle of Spirit Sight. It was awful. Almost every paragraph started with something like, Minna smiled, Aron smirked, Minna said. It was frustratingly hard and the words still didn’t cooperate. Even now, in it’s present form, it isn’t what I see in my mind. But life has taught me a thing or two, and though it was as difficult as the rat story, I took a different lesson from the experience. I opened a channel to the hidden, playful parts of my mind, and said “Have at it!” For a short time the pesky anxiety monkeys that hoot and fling poo in the jungle of my mental health settled in to watch. I left the coffee shop with a feeling I can only describe as drifty and porous. I didn’t have publishing dreams, then. The decision to become a better writer would come later, but I knew I would keep writing. Despite the rejection, self-doubts, guilt about the claims on my time, writing has made my life immeasurably better.
I still tell stories at night. Many of them end up in a novel or short story. They sometimes keep me up, but now I often have the joy of seeing them come to life. So, that’s why I write.
Andsutra
