Ramblings on Story and Writing

Writing is frustrating. As I watch good stories on TV and read good books, I catch tiny tiny glimpses and feelings of... something. Something true or at the very least desired, something I want to put into my own stories. I've always felt that way, I think, it's just that now that I'm actually writing and attempting to exercise the urge I can identify it more often. I can see that I really do have a desire to write and not just a desire for a desire to write. But writing is so very slow! And it's tremendously encouraging that I do have this desire for it, that I seem to have always had it without really seeing it as such. But even if I can identify now with bits and pieces of the things great writers have said about this act of creation, even though that's hugely encouraging -- I know that it doesn't mean that I have the talent that they do. I may sound so wise if I quote Tolkien or Lewis and say that's how I feel about ___, but it doesn't really mean I am. I'm a child playing in a sandbox.

An ambitious child, though. Not only do I want Aedhira and the rest of it to work, to come together, to be finished so I can share them with you, but I want to be published. And not just published, but successful enough to support myself! Ha! I want to make my living at it, devote all my time to writing. Even though I'm ridiculously undisciplined right now, and most of the slowness of writing is my own fault. Partly it's just me being ornery. I'm an idealist, and I think a person ought to be able to make a living doing what they love, linguistics or writing. And not by teaching or working for the government, either. I've talked about that on here before. In fact, part of me is downright terrified by other people reading about Tessa, or Lariel, or Aethwen. It's so dreadfully personal. And I still don't even know whether I really do love writing! But... maybe I really am compelled to do it, as the great writers talk about. I can only hope that I do have some shred of talent, that it will be enough.

Contrary to the advice in The Weekend Novelist, my characters are multiplying like rabbits. I recently had a new story idea I love. But then it tied in with one of the Aedhira sequels, and then a new character (Aethwen, as I'm calling her) came out of it, and then Tessa had to push herself into this story as well, and this sequel already had a main character! So now I've got at least two main characters in Aedhira, three important ones here, and a different main character in the other sequel. Bleh. One. There's only supposed to be one of you. Or one per story. Stop splitting yourselves. And that's another thing. Now I've been working on this sequel instead of Aedhira. I take comfort in the fact that all writers are supposed to go about the process differently. It gives me permission to trust my instincts and have fun in my sandbox. But still, the sequel? Now? And if I do NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) in November and follow Joi's advice about doing it with something new, that'll be a third story... the stories might multiply like the characters. I guess it's okay as long as I really do go back to the first and finish it at some point. I guess that's the most important discipline, the vital one. Finishing. And so back to my prayer (in every sense of the word) from years ago, soon after the initial idea in Village and Tribal Cultures class, that this story idea would become real, that it would manifest itself on the page and not just stay in my head, in unfocused daydreams before dropping off to sleep. It's come farther than others. But still, that's not enough, and maybe it never has been enough. I wish, how I wish, that all the experience I'll gain from writing this, all the growth, could be applied to it, my first effort. This is my world. All my ideas come back to it. I desperately want to do it well, not finish it and move on to do something else well. But all I can do is keep writing.

A week ago today I wrote a poem that is much, much more vague than is generally my style. Sorry. It was inspired by Kathleen Norris, and since she's a real poet...

This is what I wrote in my journal: "Today and yesterday I've been reading The Cloister Walk. It's got me feeling poetic, and in general like I should write.

She shuts herself in
so no one can see
'The words won't come,'
she says.

'Little girl, little girl,
where have you been?'
'Off to the market,
to buy a red hen.'
'Little girl, little girl,
come back to me.
Tell me about your day.'

They say just to write,
Be messy.
What have I got?
Don't know.
Beautiful, earthy, chaotic...
but not?

Back to the story,
back to the song.
Back to the words
I had all along."

I Miss You

John left this morning for a week with the church's high school group. I miss him already. I've missed him all day. I've tried to see the positive in this situation, make the best of it. I came up with a few things: I only have to worry about my own dishes (and they're so easy -- just rinse right after eating and put in the dishwasher), a little less laundry, I even get my own daily parking space. But then, while we're talking about the little things, there's no one to show me which of the sound menus, buttons and knobs I've missed, keeping World of Warcraft mute. I miss some of the things I didn't always like at the time -- the ways he keeps me sane, reminding me that it's long past my bedtime, or that, despite the fact that it's my day off, didn't I want to take a shower before the day was over? His desire to play World of Warcraft keeps me from playing it all day myself. And of course, I just plain miss him, and his presence. The other things are diversions, to keep me from thinking about that. I think the old thought, at first, that I may be an introvert, but I grew up in a big family and I like being around people, even if I don't actually want to interact with them. But then I amend the thought. I've been married three years now, and it isn't "people" I miss -- it's you.

Tonight when I got back from SLOBS I decided to take out a bit of trash and get the mail. Fine idea, except I grabbed only the mail key, not my other set of keys, and locked the door. First time for everything. Well, maybe I did lock myself out once when John was home. So never mind, it isn't ironic after all. Fortunately I know where the apartment manager lives (it's not really advertised...), so after my trash/mail errand I went and knocked at her door. She told me she'd do it this once, but that this isn't an emergency. Maybe not to her. Not the sort of emergency you call 911 for, no... which is why I didn't (that and my phone was locked in). But neither did I fancy the idea of sleeping out in the hall with the june bugs, my water bottle, the mail and the mail key. Or of waiting until the office opened and showing up late to work. When I got back into my apartment I actually cried. Stupid non-emergency.

I miss you. It's good though, for me to see how much. To not take you for granted. I hope much fun is had by all at camp. Come home safe.