I think, therefore I write.Have to. Or I'd implode.
Sometimes my head is so full, I'm afraid it's going to overflow, leaving a telltale trickle in my wake or a puddle at my feet. Ideas, memories, jokes and jingles, worries, shopping and to-do lists, lyrics to songs, dreams, voices and visions. They're in there and they want to be out here.
I'm not insane. I'm a writer. It's only taken me 27 jobs to figure that out.
The first book I wrote was called The Water Gate Elves. I was about six years old when I first started hearing about Watergate from the grownups. I'm sure I heard about it a lot, so it filtered into my reality. I didn't know how to process all that I heard. So I wrote about it.
In my version of the events, an amazing underground world below the United States was populated by elves. And all that protected the elves from the oceans at each end of the country were two gates: the Water Gates.
I can't remember what the underground world was called, but it was surely a name befitting such a wonderful place. In my oh-so-vivid imagination, it was like Wonderland and Oz and Narnia - where just about anything might happen. And like the real world (and Wonderland, Oz and Narnia), forces of good and evil were at work. So my story had good, kind, trusting elves whose lives were threatened by a very bad man who plotted and schemed to raise the gates and flood the land of the elves.
"Ah," said certain grownups sagely. "This young girl really understands."
There's more, I'm sure. Great drama and probably a brilliant, brave, beautiful girl in a red polka-dot minidress (who could fly) saved the day. There may have been a handsome prince - who just slightly resembled my sister's fiancé. In my world, girls could dream of being superheroes ... plus architects or super spies or pilots. I only knew happy endings. I wrote the story I knew.
As I got older, my public writing grew a bit more guarded - less revealing of myself. But I would still write privately as a form of therapy. If I was angry or sad, I could pour all the poisonous, bitter feelings out of me and onto a nice, neutral piece of pink stationery. Or let my fingers fly over the keyboard, feeling just a little bit lighter as my mind and soul emptied of whatever was weighing them down.
Unlike my siblings, I've never been one for bottling up my emotions or my thoughts, letting them brew and stew inside. Whatever I'm thinking or feeling has to bubble up and out ... somewhere. If not out of my mouth, then out of my fingers. It's not that I need others to know. Not always. I just have to get whatever mess I'm cooking up in my head to a place where I can look at it from all the angles. And often, once I've circled around and poked and prodded and beat the issue to death, I'm ready to kick it into the corner, crumple it up or tear it to bits or burn it. Unless it's Really Important Information That Must Be Shared. In that case, writing allows a lot more control of the message. Still, more times than I can count, something not ready for publication spills out of the big opening in my head.
There are times, when what I write has nothing to do with what I'm thinking. Or at least not what I think I'm thinking. And then I'm surprised to see what came out of me. "Hey, lookey! I didn't know that was in there ... and now it's out here!"
Is that so hard to believe?
I'm not insane. I'm a writer. It's only taken me 27 jobs to figure that out.
The first book I wrote was called The Water Gate Elves. I was about six years old when I first started hearing about Watergate from the grownups. I'm sure I heard about it a lot, so it filtered into my reality. I didn't know how to process all that I heard. So I wrote about it.
In my version of the events, an amazing underground world below the United States was populated by elves. And all that protected the elves from the oceans at each end of the country were two gates: the Water Gates.
I can't remember what the underground world was called, but it was surely a name befitting such a wonderful place. In my oh-so-vivid imagination, it was like Wonderland and Oz and Narnia - where just about anything might happen. And like the real world (and Wonderland, Oz and Narnia), forces of good and evil were at work. So my story had good, kind, trusting elves whose lives were threatened by a very bad man who plotted and schemed to raise the gates and flood the land of the elves.
"Ah," said certain grownups sagely. "This young girl really understands."
There's more, I'm sure. Great drama and probably a brilliant, brave, beautiful girl in a red polka-dot minidress (who could fly) saved the day. There may have been a handsome prince - who just slightly resembled my sister's fiancé. In my world, girls could dream of being superheroes ... plus architects or super spies or pilots. I only knew happy endings. I wrote the story I knew.
As I got older, my public writing grew a bit more guarded - less revealing of myself. But I would still write privately as a form of therapy. If I was angry or sad, I could pour all the poisonous, bitter feelings out of me and onto a nice, neutral piece of pink stationery. Or let my fingers fly over the keyboard, feeling just a little bit lighter as my mind and soul emptied of whatever was weighing them down.
Unlike my siblings, I've never been one for bottling up my emotions or my thoughts, letting them brew and stew inside. Whatever I'm thinking or feeling has to bubble up and out ... somewhere. If not out of my mouth, then out of my fingers. It's not that I need others to know. Not always. I just have to get whatever mess I'm cooking up in my head to a place where I can look at it from all the angles. And often, once I've circled around and poked and prodded and beat the issue to death, I'm ready to kick it into the corner, crumple it up or tear it to bits or burn it. Unless it's Really Important Information That Must Be Shared. In that case, writing allows a lot more control of the message. Still, more times than I can count, something not ready for publication spills out of the big opening in my head.
There are times, when what I write has nothing to do with what I'm thinking. Or at least not what I think I'm thinking. And then I'm surprised to see what came out of me. "Hey, lookey! I didn't know that was in there ... and now it's out here!"
Is that so hard to believe?
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