On Writing, Sort Of

I cannot remember when I decided I wanted to "be a writer" as my life's work.

Maybe when I started reading and discovered the joy of story. Or perhaps it was because my teachers always told me I could write and that it was what I should pursue.

It seems to me like I have always wanted to write.

It has not been easy. My parents were sure that writing was not a real career and encouraged me to look elsewhere.

I remember when I was about 11 I told my mother I would grow up to write for the weekly paper. Only I would do it better, I said. I don't know about the "better" part but that is indeed what I have grown up to do.

I never wanted to write for the daily and aside from a several articles about graduations in the last 1980s and features in the now-defunct Neighbors section, that did not happen.

These days I write the equivalent of at least a book a year, only it's in articles that cover local government.

I wanted to write poetry for a while, and so I did. I published a few pieces but nothing substantial.

I wanted to write fiction and I have published a very few short stories.

Several unfinished novels lie on my shelves or buried in drawers. I have never been able to settle on a genre. I like to read mysteries, sort of, mainstream fiction, and fantasy.

Growing up I thought I would write a children's mystery series a la Nancy Drew. Then I wanted to write Gothic novels like Phyllis Whitney or Victoria Holt.

It would be nice to come up with a savvy character like Stephanie Plum but I don't seem to have that ability.

Surely I could come up with a story about a small town, with a small town hero in a small town world. That is what I know.

I learned in school and by studying other writing all about plot and pacing, characterization, denouement, delighting and destroying. I learned to write about what I know and I had it drilled into my head to SHOW DON'T TELL.

I can do all of that if I can find the time. Or I used to be able to.

Sometimes I think that maybe I have a way with words but no ability to tell a story. This is something I've wondered about for a while now.

Or maybe I simply don't have the time to spend on a long piece, since I am so busy writing short articles in order to pay the bills.

I have read Dorthea Brande's Becoming a Writer, John Gardner's On Becoming a Novelist, Brenda Ueland's If You Want to Write and Zinser's On Writing Well, along with many other books about writing, both as a way of life and as craft.

These books all fired me up and I generally sat down and pounded out ... something... after reading them. Who knows what the something was.

There are many days when I feel like my creativity has taken a back seat to the work of writing. Can one find art in a government meeting, after all? Where is the joy and delight in a turn of phrase when one is writing about supervisors and town council meetings or upcoming elections?

I think so, actually. Sometimes the magic of living, of watching the public's work being performed before my eyes, makes my heart dance with wonder. I don't know that this is conveyed to the reader, but I try sometimes, if I have the time.

I often don't have the time for flourishes of phrase, however. Deadlines loom. Laundry must be folded. Work work work work.

I wonder will I ever write that piece of fiction? Will I ever finish my fantasy book, my story of magic? Will my mystery ever move beyond Chapter 2?