Writing

So, you say you want to be a writer?

For years I played the game strictly according to the rules. I studied the marketplace; the annual Writer’s Digest was my Bible. I subscribed to and read magazines that published fiction. I took several courses, both by mail and as extra curricular night classes in a local college. I bought books on writing and read everything I could get my hands on that had anything whatsoever to do with the writing life. I hunted down and devoured Writers On Writing books, reading over and over the ones that spoke of the wolf growling at the door, the car about to be repossessed and then gloriously, in the eleventh hour, the saving acceptance and check in the mail. I loved those.

I edited, pruned and polished everything before I dropped it into the mailbox, all punctuation, grammar, page numbers in the right places, number of lines per page, number of lines from the top to the title, being absolutely sure I had meticulously followed all instructions for submitting a manuscript. I jumped through all the hoops and then some. I even sympathized with editors who are overworked and under appreciated because I know several personally. I kept a log of submissions and rejections, framing the rejections that had nice handwritten comments on them, however brief.

I tried everything I knew to do to break through the barriers. And then one day, walking back from the mailbox, rejection slip in hand from something I had submitted four months prior, I experienced an epiphany. I did a little math in my head and concluded I wasn’t getting any younger. I needed to admit, once again, and finally, that I have never been in tune, in step or in time. Never. Serious self-evaluation followed. What I had to face, square on, was that I had become a puppet of the system instead of a budding writer. Not that I don’t agree that there has to be rules, but what had happened to me was more about losing whatever genuine creativity I began with in the struggle to be what it appeared everyone wanted from me. Summed up I had completely compromised my true voice, trying to force it to fit and I was not very good at it. One sale in three years was more than likely a fluke rather than an indication I was on my way to becoming a recognized name in print.

Furthermore, and worst of all, I found that I could no longer read for pleasure. Every word and phrase I read, I measured and evaluated, desperately searching for “THE FORMULA”. There had to be one, I thought. All these published pieces surely had a commonality that I could ferret out and use to advantage. I had already figured out that editors are humans with their own issues and likes and dislikes and guidelines and these also had to be factored in. So many things to consider. Toss in the enormous task of monitoring everything in print to see if a particular publication had already used a similar theme in the past twelve months, one has to become a bit desperate if not hysterical. Unfortunately, desperation and hysteria rarely get you anywhere. Instead of developing ways to eloquently express what was waiting to come out of me, I was filling up my precious time trying to mimic something proven, hoping it would be more marketable than what I really was and certainly instead of risking forcing open new doors.

Standing just in the shadows watching this process was a sinister reality. Though I fully knew it was there, it took me years to muster the courage to call it into the light. Simply put, I didn’t have what anyone wanted and there was no way I would be able to fake it even if I did happen upon the illusive formula. And though formulas work, of course, they never refill the deep well from where refreshing creativity springs, anyway. When I began the quest to become a published writer what I had wanted most, even more than fame and fortune, was to find out if, indeed, I had something worthwhile to contribute. In spite of the lack of acceptance, I held tight to the belief that I did and one day I would find a way to get it out.

When I came to this fork in the road I didn’t stop writing, I just stopped submitting. It took awhile but eventually, I was able to read again for the shear joy of it. And with perseverance, I found satisfying places to use my writing and peculiar voice. The feedback from the readers of my column, who take the time to email me from all over the world and tell me they enjoy and relate to my writing, is enough to keep me writing it. My puppet stories give me an outlet for my fiction. And though I couldn’t possibly have predicted what my life altering decision to change direction would do for my writing, I knew that I couldn’t continue on the path I was stumbling down and grow as a writer.

The unexpected result was that, over time, my writing improved dramatically. Staying true to the discipline of writing every day, striving to continue to mature and develop coupled with the freedom to write without formulaic constrictions slowly strengthened my skills and ultimately my confidence. What I have evolved into is a writer who is confident that I can and will continue to develop and grow. I believe in my voice and style now, fragmented sentences and all, and I’m not ashamed to admit it feels quite good. Several years ago, I even felt so secure I took a chance and submitted short stories to an anthology for Georgia writers and had three out of four accepted in two volumes. And the competition was serious, I’m proud to say.

You know, it’s easy to conclude, “ah, classic story, she wasn’t tough enough for the business”, but I think I’m plenty tough because it takes a certain courage and strength of conviction to acknowledge that you do not fit into the mainstream and move on resolutely to find another venue for your skills. Frankly, it’s the theme song of my life.

And the best part? No more hoops to jump through for this happy writer.