I created this blog months ago, yet I never mustered the courage to write my first post. It’s interesting, isn’t it? I created a blog about my writing life, and I couldn’t even bring myself to write. It’s time to stop procrastinating, and fearing, and cleaning and eating…and write.
It is Monday, and already I’m feeling the weight of the week on my shoulders. Mondays are never really pleasant, except for the fact that it precedes Tuesday, which happens to be the day of the week that my favorite television show airs. Yes, I’m a LOST fan. I’ll save my rants about my show for another time. Maybe a time when I’m struggling with writer’s block, which, let me tell you, HAPPENS. I’ve learned to roll with it. Sometimes I fight it. Other times times I turn my computer off and read, go for a walk, make some coffee, and forget that I am a writer.
I am preparing to write my Thesis. Fortunately, I’m working with a great writer, whose first novel recently became a motion picture starring Jeff Bridges. Aside from the fact that I like working with a writer who is actually known for his work, we’re very much on the same page when it comes to writing. You see, when I write, I am not fully acquainted with my characters. I don’t map out my stories. I simply begin a the beginning. I write a sentence, create a character, and then watch what they do. Most of the time I simply watch them make mistakes, become ill, fall in love, yell at their mothers, and learn something about themselves and about the world. They teach me something about myself and the world. It’s pretty lovely, actually. These people stay with me for years, and that is my joy.
My only hope is that I will only call myself a writer, and let others do so, if I do it well. What is the point of making writing my profession if I’m not good at it. Of course, a line always has to be drawn. When I’m sitting in my workshops, and someone tells me that they just feel like the narrator isn’t sympathetic enough, or that the end of the story just didn’t do it for them, or that Jill should’ve been wearing a pink dress instead of yellow, I have to look down and make a note to myself: These are my words. These are my characters. You don’t have to change it just because Bobby doesn’t like it when you use the word “horrendous” too many times on the first page.
Well, I must be off. I’ll leave you with this:
–When I was young enough to believe that life would never change, I played in Grandma’s garden. It burst with the smell of fresh, green grass and happy leaves swaying to the hum of the morning newborn flies. Four stone steps down, my hand in hers, we entered her domain. There was something about the harmony of nature that made my grandmother come alive. Her roses and daisies waved in the breeze as she floated by in her long pink nightgown. She touched them all, her fingers gently caressing petals and leaves, and weeding with bare hands. Her fingernails collected the brown earth that welcomed her care. I favored the snapdragons that stood tall with pursed lips. She guided my fingers, and together we squeezed each one. They opened their mouths and I giggled. They spoke, but I didn’t hear. Grandma was in constant commune with the garden.–