Letting Life Lead
When I first revived this blog back in January, I listed ten things that I thought made me a writer. There are a lot of voices and imagery in my head and it seems a rare thing that I am not thinking of something or concentrating on getting the things in my head out in some way. There is also that other voice that seems to come along with all of that thinking — the negative voice that constantly asks me what the hell I am thinking, and insists that whatever comes out of me is horrible drivel of the worst kind. What is this mess? It sucks! I don’t know if what that voice says is true. Maybe I have lost my mind and maybe I am as bad at prose as William Pratt is at poetry.
Above is my magazine rack of stories. It has been with me through six moves throughout my life. If I lost it, I think I would feel crushed even though what is in there is likely terribly juvenile prose and poetry. I couldn’t stop writing. I had a very prominent writer’s callous. There are a few pages in there that were typed on a manual typewriter (that means no electricity kids and you sometimes got your fingers stuck between the keys. No such thing as spell check or delete — if you made a mistake you had to break out the correction tape –and hope you could find your place again.) The yellow 3-subject notebook in there is one story that is 194 hand written pages long. The pink one next to it was the beginnings of a rewrite I began the first or second year I was in college before I stopped writing stories due to class work load. I didn’t even have time for pleasure reading.
This is not something I talk to people about because it can seem kind of crazy to always be imagining dialogue in your head between characters that don’t exist. What would they say in this scenario? How about in a different setting? Pause. Rewind. Edit. Action!
I do not know if I am a good writer, or even adequate, I just know that I have always been a writer from the first moment I understood what I was reading. I never even really stopped writing entirely, I just stopped writing fiction and focused my attention to other kinds of writing whether it was for school or ramblings on bulletin boards or playing on MOOs, MUDs, or MUCKs back in the day.
The stories are ever swirling in my head; never quiet.
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