Why Do I Write? Or So They Ask.

Recently I was asked why I write. Or what the purpose was behind my writing. Or some variation of that question. The gist was the same or close enough, okay?

It was Friday morning. I was sitting in a windowless conference room across from a couple of people I’ve come to like in my office–both known to be neat people. All three of us were in this tiny, seven or eight foot by seven or eight foot, neutrally painted room. With the desk chairs I don’t like. And while I’m thinking of it–what is with windowless conference rooms? As if some meetings were unpleasant enough they have to take away the windows. In addition to being a word person, I’m a visual person. I need to see. I don’t like windowless rooms. Far too confining. Combine that with a rotten meeting and it’s just a recipe for a lack of creative thought.

Thankfully this particular meeting, when I was asked why I write or its purpose, was not unpleasant. In fact, it was in all actuality one of the best hours of my work week. Excellent conversation–even if I was under scrutiny. …No, really. I mean it. It was a great meeting, great conversation. …Even if there were no windows.

So. The matter at hand. Why do I write?

I’m a word person, as previously stated. But I’m a storyteller.

Having had a life thus far that has been rather…rootless…words, books, stories, they’ve been my companions more truly than most people. Not all people, just most. I write for more than one reason.

I write because I like stories. I’ve loved stories since I was little girl. There’s a certain magic in them. Everyone and every place has a story to tell in one form or another. It’s just a matter of uncovering and conveying them. We are our stories.

I write because it can help others. There exists the possibility to teach and learn through the stories of each other. What I have experienced you may not have, but you can learn from it. Directly or indirectly. Or maybe you have experienced what I have, but your take might differ from my own. So we share and we learn.

I write because it helps me. I have a side project I’ve been working on since the fall of 2007. I’m telling the tale of my brother’s death. How it changed my family. How it changed me.

From the moment I was asked why I write, or for what purpose that I do, and from the moment I allowed myself to tell these previous strangers about this side project of mine, it’s been on my mind. For the last two days my brother’s death has been on my mind.

It’s not often that I think of what happened. It’s been seven years. It’s not that I don’t think of him. I just don’t think of it everyday. But now I am. And I’m thinking of how his death has made me who I am. Today I walked down the road of What Might Have Been. In truth, if he hadn’t died, if that January accident had never occurred, I would likely be married with perhaps a child of my own.

Instead, I’m facing my thirtieth birthday from a different point of view. Not bad, just different. I’m single. I have a cat…which is living with my parents because I had to move rather suddenly and he couldn’t come with me. I’m living with two guys–who, for the record, are great roommates. On an up note, I have determined, with that inexplicable sense I have, that this will be the year in which my career truly begins…and I have to be ready for it and all it entails. My personal life…well, I’m sussing that out, but it’s looking up definitely. It’s true the people I associate with have changed…again, but I do feel sure of these people…these ninjas so to speak.

But that feeling of rootlessness remains. That same rootlessness I’ve had since my brother died. And maybe that’s why that side project started. A method of re-self-discovery. I began writing about how he died. A motorcycle accident born out of an 83-year-old woman from Michigan’s inability to stop before making a left-hand turn. Of how it took DeLand PD four and a half hours to notify my family. Of four and a half hours that scared my mother. Of how she saw the lights of the emergency vehicles at the site of his accident and how she couldn’t go to him. Of how I saw my father cry for the first and only time in my life. Of how my ex backed me into a corner and wouldn’t let me talk about what happened; and how I learned to fight for myself.

The subsequent fallout from all this was the $500 price tag put on my brother’s life–the fine Volusia county charged this woman from Michigan for violation of right-of-way. The juxtaposition that exists between me, my mother, and my father of distance and closeness. Having to get to know my parents all over again because they aren’t the people who raised me–people so determined to have a hand in my life and the direction it took. Them having to get to know me because I’m not same daughter they raised–a little girl who wouldn’t stand up for herself and who could be influenced by others too easily. …And to make sure you don’t forget you need to smile in life, of the three hams and other copious amounts of food given to my family that required the storage space in the homes of two other families in addition to the space for food storage my parents had…because everyone needs to smile.

The truth that I’ve come to know about myself is that I was raised to be independent, whether I knew it or not at the time. I suspect I was raised that way, but never really took to it until I felt alone. I know I’m not, but sometimes it seems that way. It’s probably why I’m writing this now–a means to explaining to my new friends why I am the way I am. …And to my Big Boss, who all six of us suspect of trying to keep tabs on what his new-ish social media team is doing.

I write this story because I know I’m not who I was seven years ago. I write because I know there are other people out there who lost a sibling. And some may very well be in my shoes: the one who’s still trying to adapt to being an only child–a successful one–and who feels they’re not managing it well. And speaking of which–what is success? I trained myself growing up to think of success in terms of career–which I think I’m doing pretty well at. Or is it more family oriented–the getting married and having kids part–because really? I have a  cat and I’m single. And at almost-30 I’m beginning to think my mother might just be wondering if I’ll only be thirty, single and the owner of a cat. She’ll love me, of that I have no doubt. But she knows I want more than that. And like any good mom, she wants me to be happy.

Truth? I’m not despairing for me. I like who I am–however flawed others might think I am. And there’s the story in the story. It’s okay to have such a huge, life-altering event happen to you. Success is still obtainable. Although I think I have a less-than-neat knack for pulling it off. Success still happens. Perhaps not in the way you might have thought. But it still is obtainable.

So. I write because there are an infinite number of reasons to. Because there are so many stories to tell. And stories within stories. Some have lessons and some are just for entertainment’s sake. I have both. And I will tell both. Chances are both will show up here. So maybe this post, at its core, is about letting out and letting go. Because really? Who else drives to Disney, turns around, drives back, orders Chinese food, comes home to her treehouse, watches the Walking Dead and writes some more? Someone who has stories to share with lessons and who entertains…or tries to.

Writers write because they know they’re not perfect and they’re willing to share stories. So. If I could go back to that meeting on Friday in that windowless conference room I would say to those two people not only do I write to entertain and with purpose, I also write for myself. Because the one thing about me that hasn’t changed in my almost-30 years is my need and love of stories–both to hear them and tell them.

…Okay really? Windowless conference rooms? Come on! They better hope I never reach the CEO’s office. Because if I do, there will be no more windowless conference rooms. Big stifling of creative, open thought.

Why I Hate Telling People I’m a Writer–Part 2

Are you ready for it? That’s right, it’s time for Part 2 of why I hate telling people I’m a writer. It’s like this is a secret identity or something–Sh! I’m a writer! Don’t tell anyone!

In yesterday’s post I brought up a couple of common responses to why I hate telling people, well you get it. Today’s Inaccurate Preconceived Notions are based on the one thing that American society loves more than anything, which is a shame: money.

Inaccurate Preconceived Notion #3

“Your life must be so exciting!.”

I hate to tell you this but I don’t live an exciting or glamorous life. No lofty apartment in the city; no artsy loft with exotic art pieces and such from my foreign travels. I live with two friends in house with their four dogs.  My cat lives with my parents because I don’t make a enough money as a professional writer to afford a place on my own, and one of my roommates is allergic to cats. I don’t wear name brand designer clothes or have some hip style to maintain. I wear jeans and t-shirts. I get up before dawn to go to my day job just like everyone else—well, minus the before dawn part; I know for a fact, thanks to some of my co-workers, that not everyone gets up before dawn. Oh want to know something really unexciting? I pay bills and file my income tax each year. See? I’m human.

I think the idea that writers have glamorous and/or exciting lives is thanks to magazines and some novelists. I mean, look at National Geographic! I’m not knocking that magazine; I love it, really. At one point in my life I wanted to be a photographer for them. But then I saw an article about with close ups of snakes and I changed my mind. Very quickly. But the idea is that writers go to places like Egypt and Japan and India and explore these places to write exciting articles. Sure, some writers are lucky enough to have that as a day job. Most do not. Most live ordinary lives. There is no usual outward sign that we’re writers. That’s how ordinary we.

This is also how we infiltrate society and gather material to write on. Beware of crossing a writer.

There’s also the idea that writers travel. Honey, I would love to travel the world while I write. However, being a professional writer does not give me the money to do so. And my cat would hate me for feeling like I abandoned him with my parents. I think this living on the road idea came from Hemingway and other writers who were known to spend their time changing locales. There’s this idea of a writer traveling to some foreign city and then sitting in a café while quietly penning their next big selling novel. Again, this doesn’t happen. Writers more often than not don’t have the money to travel. We chose to major in English so that we have mediocre day jobs that pay us just enough to live on. Then we go home, sit in front of our computers and fight with words to get the images, characters, places and stories that we see and hear in our minds out into a form that can be received and understood by others. This usually involves some frustration, swearing, angry mutterings, loud music and potentially throwing things. Stories are really born out of silence.

So no exciting traveling, no designer clothes or flashy styles. Writers live ordinary lives. Our stories don’t come from living exciting lives—they come from the places we have the talent to create inside our own minds. We don’t actually need to travel to create. Would I turn down a trip to Italy though? Probably not, but then I haven’t met many people that would.

Inaccurate Preconceived Notion #4

“I’m rich!”

Oh honey, please do not make me laugh. Remember that part where I said I’m living with a couple of roommates because I can’t afford my own place? I wasn’t joking. Being a writer means that unless your work has been not only published, but it has been successful and widely read, you are unlikely to be able to live off your writing or that you have lots of money.

People do not become writers because we expect to make lots of money. We become writers because we have a talent to tell stories, to create characters and because we already have an innate connection and understanding of words and language. At times we are plagued by stories and characters who will not shut up and give us a moment’s peace until we tell their story. It’s like being compelled to do something. It is similar to why artists choose to study their mediums—they already have an innate inclination to that medium, a feel for it if you will, as well as a drive to work with their medium.

I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t making up stories and places. When I was eight years old I was assigned to write a paragraph about finding a leprechaun. In second grade a paragraph is a lot; the way I hear it, a paragraph is sometimes a lot to some high school and college students. I didn’t write a paragraph. I wrote two pages. It was an epic chase involving underground caverns and waterfalls. I don’t remember how it ended, whether I got a pot of gold from the leprechaun or not. What I remember is the chase, the story. And there has been no looking back since. I wrote a novella in my junior year of high school during various classes when I should have been paying attention to lessons.

I didn’t write those two pages or that novella because I thought it would be cool. I did it because that is what the story and characters wanted. It’s a drive.

Unfortunately heeding such a drive means taking day jobs that siphon off parts of your soul so that you can study writing in college and so that later you can leave your work at the office, not be plagued by it at home and focus on writing a story. Such a life means that you are unlikely to have lots and lots of money. There is some truth to suffering for your art. The phrase didn’t come from nowhere.

When you meet a writer remember that the person you’re talking to is highly likely to have a day job, pays bills, does their own laundry and is not in town for a quick stint before jetting off to some other country to sit in a cafe sipping espresso while quietly giving birth in a dignified manner to a new story. We’re not writers for the money–remember that.

…I also apologize for the length. Yes, I got carried away. It happens.

Why I Hate Telling People I’m a Writer–Part 1

I hate telling people that I’m a writer. No, really I mean that. Even on a good day I hate it. There are so many preconceived notions that are not accurate, and explaining them away only makes my reality as a writer even less fun.

Don’t get me wrong, there are times that I love being a writer. After all I’m highly creative and imaginative; I have excellent critical thinking skills because I actually know how to use my brain for something other than basic motor functions; I have a strong command of English and understand that what people in the US speak isn’t English–it’s American. But the preconceived notions and trying to dispel them in a polite way so that the person I’ve just been introduced to doesn’t think I’m a raving lunatic gets old fast. And dispelling them often results in looks like I’m some kind of a failure or lesser part of society. Tell you what–if you think real writers are a lesser part of society, go hope in your time machine and tell Dickens, Dumas and Austen that they’re less than others. But the truth is that when you look at me like I’m a failure because I’m not the next Anne Rice at 27 it’s not a good feeling.

Inaccurate Preconceived Notion #1

“What books have you written?”

Here’s the truth, people: I haven’t written a book. A lot of people who are writers haven’t written a book either. Or they have and it’s not published because the industry is busy feeding the teen fantasy engine. Contrary to popular belief and to Stephanie Meyer, writing a book is a very labor intensive process. There is no sitting down for a few hours hammering away at a the keyboard and wa-la! A book! Better yet, a bestseller! It just does not happen like that.

My undergraduate thesis director Jeanne Leiby (may she rest in peace or be wrecking havoc wherever she chooses) once compared writing works to relationships. She said that a short-short was like a wink across the room; a short story was like a one night stand; a novella is like an awkward one night stand that lasted the whole weekend; and a novel is like a relationship. This is true. It is like a relationship. Those who work on novels have good days with their work and they have bad days. They have days when they don’t talk to their work. And they have days which can be likened to holding hands and skipping through a field.

But by no means is writing a book just a few hours and then you’re a writer with a book. Most of the time when you meet someone who says they’re a writer they haven’t published a book. However, they are very likely trying damn hard to do so while working a day job that sucks their soul out of them. Being a writer isn’t an achievement, it is a type of person. I don’t turn my writer switch on and off. I’m a writer sun up to sun down, for good or ill. That is just how my mind works and who I am. THAT is what makes a writer a writer.

And when you ask a writer upon meeting them ‘Oh, what books have you published?’ understand that you are forcing them to face the fact that they have not succeeded yet. A much better question is to ask a writer what they write. This makes writers happy.

Inaccurate Preconceived Notion #2

“I’m a writer too!”

Writers hate this. We really, really hate this one. Unless we know that you’re a writer. And by that I mean you have actually studied writing, the craft, the tricks, the techniques—all of that. That you have studied the form and the theories. Yes, anyone can write. Like I’m typing words—writing. Anyone can do that! That does not mean that you can tell a story; that you can sustain that story and those characters; that you can put a reader into whatever world or place you have built; that you can create from nothing multiple people and make them fully formed people; that you can suspend their disbelief. An eight year old can write sentences so that makes them a writer? Do not put me in the same category as an eight year old. I will turn you into some warty bastard in a story.

Writers put years into studying the craft and technique of how to tell a story, how to paint with words. Just because Suzy Q down the street thinks it’s a grand idea to make a blog or to put notes up on her Facebook, it does not make her a writer. It makes her a blogger. Completely different thing. And, as mean as this is going to sound, just because Suzy Q keeps a notebook with poems it does not make her a writer. It doesn’t make her a poet—unless she as studied the form of poetry and its theories and techniques. I’ve written poems in my day, but there is no way I would call myself a poet. I haven’t studied that skill, that craft, that theory, that technique. It would be an insult to my friends who are poets to call myself a poet. So don’t tell me that you’re a writer unless you have studied the craft of writing. Calling yourself a writer without having taken the time to learn the form only undermines my study, skill and talent.

So the next time you meet a writer and want to try to connect to this marvel of a person by telling them you blog, tell them you maintain a blog. Don’t tell them you’re a writer too. We can tell the difference.