So, I thought an interesting topic of conversation might be, when did you realize you wanted to become a writer?
I guess it's arguable that I knew all along, since I used to sit down before I could actually write and just scribble gibberish in "cursive" for hours on end. I think my grandfather used to joke that I had some kind of alien intelligence, haha. I think he liked to believe that it meant something, somewhere.
My very first story in a recognizable if primitive form of a real language, which I wrote and illustrated, was, "Little Pink Pig." Boy, was it lame. The pig basically got dirty and was brown at the end from mud. However, I guess for a 5-year-old or however old I was, it was okay.
When I was in the fourth grade, a teacher asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, and when I said a writer, she told me that I had talent but that I'd better be prepared for a tough life. In college, as an English major, I bore more than my fair share of the semi-derisive question, "What are you going to do with that line of study? Be a teacher?" (Man, how the world has changed since 1988 or so!)
I had a few other interesting phases as a grade-school kid, like thinking I wanted to be an archeologist or a parapsychologist (no, not joking on that last one), but finally, I realized that writing was not only something that I loved to do but something I had at least some degree of talent for. I'm not entirely sure I could have done anything other than work with language.
So anyway, I welcome anecdotes, ephiphanies, or recollections.
Thanks for reading,
LLB
Uh oh, there's going to be lots for me to say on this one...in fact, it might end up as a post on my own blog. First let's see if Blogger will accept this comment - there've been problems with Blogger. Probably all the teen angst kids uploading their faux suicide notes?
ReplyDeleteI have two. I'll try to keep them short.
ReplyDeleteIn the 4th grade my teacher went up to the black board and wrote the sentence "I woke up in a cold sweat, realizing it had all been a bad dream." We had to write a story that closed with that sentence. Mine was about a little boy named Joey running from werewolves. Lame, I know. But it was the first time I really had fun writing. My dad, for some reason, still has it tucked away in his desk and would always bring it out when I brought girlfriends around.
In the ninth grade I was real quiet. Frighteningly quiet. I sat in class, took my notes and tried to stay invisible. In my world history class in particular. One day towards the end of the term a couple of the kids were mocking me for not talking all term. My teacher, who walked around class with an axe handle as a pointer, stood up for me and said to leave me alone. Although I was quiet he dubbed me the best writer he'd seen in a few years. That was the first time I really considered writing as a focus for my life.
Maktaaq, I look forward to your stories! I'll definitely come visit your blog and see if you've shared yours! I like your funny comment though -- Blogger as a bastion of angst-ridden teens, ha. I hate it when Blogger gets all wonky -- it does it a lot and I think you're right, it's them with their faux suicide notes!
ReplyDeleteHebdomeros, those are great stories. I don't know, I think that the werewolf story is quite impressive for 4th grade. I don't think I was producing anything that fun and exciting back then! As for your teacher with the ax handle pointer -- yeah, when you think back, it's really the teachers who are the mentors for those formative years. If I hadn't gotten encouragement from some teachers, I might never have quite realized it was something I should be doing, come to think of it.
It's done and I am an hour late for bedtime. :)
ReplyDeleteOh, I hate that. I always seem to be an hour late for bedtime!
ReplyDeleteCan't wait to read it!
Once again I am an hour late for bed. :)
ReplyDeleteHmm, I can't remember when I knew I wanted to be a writer. Ever since I learned to write I've written little stories. I always wondered whether writing was the product of a creative imagination or dissatisfaction with one's life. When I am more satisified with life I tend to write less; conversely, when I am dissatisfied with my life I take refuge in my fictional worlds. So maybe it's a form of control, too. All I know is that I cannot stop it, and in the periods that it wanes I am terribly frustrated, as if something amorphous, ugly, is building in me, ready to to explode into something beautiful if I can only find a way to free it.
ReplyDeleteDoes anyone think they could be a hack writer, or does it compromise the beauty of the words in you? I've always wondered whether I could shoot out a couple of silhouettes or something for money or whether the muse would recoil and punish at the mere thought of abusing her gift.
Jen,
ReplyDeleteI definitely hear you. I have the same thing -- sometimes when I'm content I generally don't have as much to say, writing-wise. It's weird how that works... writing can help dispel some of the demons within.
As for hack writing, I don't know. On the one hand, I think it should be easy to do. But on the other hand, I've always had a hard time trying to write according to formula. I think it might be harder than it seems. Like for those cheesy romances... to write with really no regard to insight or artistry. I don't know if I could do it. Though I do know that traditionally, writing that stuff pays cold hard cash.