My Turn
Last week, an old friend asked me when I was going to start writing my own stuff. When was I going to put all those great ideas onto paper? When was I going to display my passion to the world?
I didn't have an answer.
Come to think of it, I had never really written anything 'just for the heck of it'. Except for this blog perhaps, and even then I still think I take this way too seriously. I've always written for my editors. All my writing had to have a purpose and fun didn't count as a purpose. I think I'm one of the few writers who has a collection of half-hearted, half-empty journals. I could never just write. But I'm much better now. My little orange journal has more than 20 scribbled, cohesive pages.
I suppose I'm afraid really. Afraid that the ideas won't sound as good on paper as they do in my head. And the best writers I know are those who don't write for a living. They are people who write from the heart without the head editing each sentence.
So maybe I should allow myself to write badly. Then that monster will be slayed once and for all. The same way I practiced the headstand. I laboured at it for weeks, approaching it halfway then backing down, unable to swing my body up in case I fell. I finally got tired of this peek-a-boo routine and made a bed of cushions around my mat. Then I told my body that I wanted it to fall. After I got over the terror of crashing down, I had no problems going up again.
I fell. I survived. I got up. Now let's do it again. And again. And again.
Last week, an old friend asked me when I was going to start writing my own stuff. When was I going to put all those great ideas onto paper? When was I going to display my passion to the world?
I didn't have an answer.
Come to think of it, I had never really written anything 'just for the heck of it'. Except for this blog perhaps, and even then I still think I take this way too seriously. I've always written for my editors. All my writing had to have a purpose and fun didn't count as a purpose. I think I'm one of the few writers who has a collection of half-hearted, half-empty journals. I could never just write. But I'm much better now. My little orange journal has more than 20 scribbled, cohesive pages.
I suppose I'm afraid really. Afraid that the ideas won't sound as good on paper as they do in my head. And the best writers I know are those who don't write for a living. They are people who write from the heart without the head editing each sentence.
So maybe I should allow myself to write badly. Then that monster will be slayed once and for all. The same way I practiced the headstand. I laboured at it for weeks, approaching it halfway then backing down, unable to swing my body up in case I fell. I finally got tired of this peek-a-boo routine and made a bed of cushions around my mat. Then I told my body that I wanted it to fall. After I got over the terror of crashing down, I had no problems going up again.
I fell. I survived. I got up. Now let's do it again. And again. And again.
posted by starlight | 9:43 PM
2 Comments:
Hi Steph,
I should ask you the same questions as your friend.:-)
I would love to see your stories. You always wrote well.
But I admit & agree it's hard work to return to it properly especially if like me,you've done other things. But writing still has that power to encapsulate that adrenalin rush.
I know you had non-fiction published in the past. Would love to buy any other book you have out.
Go for it. xx
Thank you, Susan. I'm tentatively approaching that short story but I will get there soon enough :) Because yes, writing still has that power to encapsulate that adrenalin rush!
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