On Writing

I went to college for creative writing. Believe it or not, I wanted a degree in film, but my parents probably wouldn't have paid for that, so I decided to major in something that would be really easy for me; English. I have called myself a creative writer ever since I was twelve, and I knew that I was good at it. People told me I was good at it, and there were times reading my own writing that I would get goosebumps. I figured I could probably skate by to get my bachelor's degree (which is something I didn't particularly want to do but I didn't want my family hounding me about the opportunities that I'd miss out on if I didn't get a BA), and then the world would be my oyster.

Well this oyster is almost impossible to shuck with a feather quill. Big sigh. But I got to thinking about it, and I don't think I would have done anything differently. I fell in love with poetry because of my English classes. I realized just how much I like puns (I am irrevocably my father in that regard) and wordplay because of poetry classes.

Even reading the same stupid story three times with three different professors who analyzed it in the same way (Bartleby the Scrivener) made me realize how much better of a reader I was becoming. And because of reading, I was becoming a better writer. Although I can no longer enjoy writers like P.C. Cast and Laurell K. Hamilton, I find myself drawn to incredibly complex and visual language, used by Jacqueline Carey, Brandon Sanderson, Juliet Marillier (seriously some of the best fantasy writers). I have garnered a deeper appreciation for the genius of Shakespeare. I found new poets that I am in love with (Clare Bateman, John Keats, and Denise Duhamel). I read things that I probably never would have picked up on my own ("The Faerie Queene").

So what can I do with this? Well, the first step is obviously to start a blog. Check! Second step: make sure you actually write in that blog. Check! Third step: wait for the cash to flow in.

Wait, that's now how internet blogging works? Damn. I need to rethink this get rich quick scheme.

The problem with being a writer (at least my problem) is that there is so much more to compete with. I used to write for escapism, for entertainment, because I hated watching commercials on the Disney Channel. I wrote because I hated my life as a teenager and wanted a way out, and using imagination was the best way to get that. I wrote because I read a book every week. My mind swirled with exciting plots, places, wars and characters.

Slowly, I have fallen away from writing. It used to be easy to sit down in front of a blank Word document and fill it up. It used to take everything I had to keep my thoughts in check while hand-writing scenes and character cards. I still love the thrill of new ideas and great plot devices and building the world that my characters live in, but it takes a lot of gumption to actually harness those characters and get them to tell me their story. I content myself with building the history of the world rather than taking an active role in shaping it because sometimes, writing the scenes gets boring. I just recently had a zombie novel come to a screeching halt because they went from shooting zombies in the head to talking and explaining the plot. Instead of breaking out the whip and urging myself through, I simply gave in and closed the computer and didn't look at the document again.


I used to think that writing was about a story eating away at you until you couldn't stand it anymore, you had to write it down, and once that feeling went away, you didn't have to look at the paper anymore. Thanks to college, (and the wonderful 20/20 of hindsight) now I know differently.

It's about writing those boringly awful scenes, even if it means getting the tequila out, and every time you pause longer than 10 minutes you take another shot. It's about powering through the technical things like where to place descriptions and what the hell is the difference between affect and effect again? It's about no matter what, sitting down in that chair and thinking about these characters, even for just fifteen minutes a day. That's why they had us write all those boring papers. That's why they made us read some really awful pieces of literature.

Writing comes along as this beautiful hippie muse, and you follow her down into the enchanted forest because she ensorcells you with her smell and her hair, but then she floats away on the breeze and leaves you with naught other than a peanut butter sandwich and (if you're lucky) a strong cup of coffee. It's up to you what happens next. You can either 1) turn around and leave (but let's face it, if you leave you might never see the muse again), 2) stay where you are and cry because you're scared and it's getting dark until the muse returns to lead you deeper into the forest, only to leave you once again, or 3) make your own way through the forest and if you ever see that muse again you tie her ass up and haul her through with you.

Creative writing degrees aren't about learning how to have the talent to write; they're about learning to sit the hell down at the desk and, even though you might feel like giving up on that story, keep going anyway. Through boring scenes and awful plot holes, keep plugging away until your story is born.

Now I understand why so many writers drink; it's not to fill the aching deep void in their souls. It's because without the lubrication of alcohol, one cannot stand one's own first drafts.