Whether I Like It or Not: Writing Begets More Writing

I wrote my first short story as an adult in 1998. It was winter time and I had been meaning to write for a while (by “a while,” of course, I mean years) when I finally sat down and got some words on paper. It was essentially biographical in nature—apparently this is common among new writers of fiction—and recorded the moment before a young girl leaves her childhood home and the abusive mother who is her keeper. It is a decent story, even it is a bit cliché, and while its focus on one particular moment saves it from being completely trite, I’m not sure that it’s not trivial. I entered the story in the Glimmertrain short fiction contest, however, and was awarded an honorable mention in that competition. Over 1000 entries had been logged, 3 winners had been selected and 10 honorable mentions recorded. In other words, the competition had been steep and even though the story didn’t end up being published, it had been recognized by a quality literary magazine and therefore had been deemed “worthy” by the writing establishment. And although it is twelve years later and that story has never seen the light of day, it is still the work that put me on the path to writing with an eye toward doing it “for real.”

I signed up for a short fiction course at Writers and Books where I met my friend, B, a writer herself who loved my work and encouraged me. B. had attended a low-residency program in creative writing where she had earned her MFA in fiction and she suggested I look into the school. Ever susceptible to another’s faith in my talents, I did some exploring and ultimately ended up enrolling in the same program. For two years, twice a year, I would attend a two-week residency at the college where I would attend workshops on writing and commence working with an advisor; the remaining six months would be spent writing and reading and then sending the dreaded “packet” to my advisor for review and feedback. I remember constantly racing to the post office during the first semester, doling out the cash for overnight deliveries to A., my first advisor. In the beginning, A. was scary. I now know that A., in addition to being ambivalent about her role as a writer of fiction, is merely shy and circumspect with those she does not know well. But in that first semester when the names of students’ advisors went up on the board and I was assigned to her, people came out of the woodwork to ask me if I was ‘okay.’ At first, I was anxious. What had I done?! After all, I had placed A's name on my list of desired advisors, so I had, as the saying goes, "asked for it." Had I asked for too much? It turns out that I hadn't. I really loved working with A and sharing my writing with her--especially since I figured out relatively early in our partnership that the quality that struck fear and loathing into the heart of every aspiring writer who worked with her required that I use language masterfully and in a manner that was grammatically correct. Apparently, a lot of other students had difficulty with this demand. I did not. Grammar—even if I can’t necessarily explain why or how or under what circumstances certain things should happen—is my friend. I write cleanly and with little equivocation. A. liked me for that and we developed a thoughtful relationship centered around my writing and her fascination with the fact that I was an actor as well as a teacher and writer. Her son wanted to act and so she was curious about the sensibility of someone who chose to do so—especially when she, herself, was so reticent. I did some good writing that semester. Nothing fancy, but under the tutelage of an advisor who was invested in my skills and development, I felt confident. A. liked our literary critiques and responses to be creative, so I relished the ways she encouraged me to think divergently as an analytical writer, coming up with alternative scenarios for examining a book and critiquing it. That first semester was wonderful. I was experimenting. I was learning. And most important of all, I felt like a writer. It rocked. Seriously.


Then, I was unable to get the time off from school to attend the second residency. So, instead of returning for the next round with my cohort group, I was forced to take a leave of absence and complete the program during the summer months over the next three years. Along with this glitch, I ended up being paired with a collection of advisors who either didn’t much care for my writing or didn’t much care for me and I struggled to find the joy that I had experienced during the halcyon days of my first semester of study. I cannot blame this discomfort solely on outside circumstances, however. Rather, my dysthymia related to writing came as a function of my inability to tell a story. As much as I wanted to write fiction, I didn’t have stories in me. Oh, I had snippets and scenes and images and scenarios. But I didn’t have narratives. I didn’t have events that, layered one upon the other, arrived at some inevitable conclusion. Now, I am not sure—to this day—if this lack of story is a lack of willpower. Do I simply not have the wherewithal to see it through to the end? Do I become too easily bored by the same idea? I don’t think this is the case. I spend a lot of time on ideas centered around a particular theme, for example, I just don’t know what to do with them once I begin to pin them down. This flaw of mine became exceptionally problematic when I was confronted with consistent deadlines and advisors who were looking for me to produce. I froze. Often I wrote my 20 pages at the last minute, sending the packet in with a collection of texts that screamed “VERY, VERY ROUGH DRAFT!” I just couldn’t bring things around to the end. I thought if I focused on shorter pieces, it might work out for me. But that didn’t seem to work either. It didn’t matter how long the story, I didn’t know where or how it should end. I consider this an issue of discipline as I often struggle with getting an idea or a project started and then, for whatever reason, let it lie fallow until I am able to address it—which is, in most cases, never.

So, while I am a ‘credentialed’ writer, I often loathe writing simply because the act of it reminds me—assiduously so—that I have some sort of ‘block’ that prevents me from doing it the way that I imagine I want to. Sometimes I think that I just have not found my voice. But I’m 42, for God’s sake! Whose voice have I been speaking in all of these years? Other times I think I am just not cut out for the writing life; it requires so much intrinsic motivation-- so much discipline. There is only one solution to this problem that I continue to perseverate upon, however, and that is to write. So, here I am. Taking my own advice. For a change, anyway.