There comes a time in everyone’s life when you have to embrace who you are, faults and flaws included, although we may try to avoid being that truthful with ourselves. We love to tell ourselves lies—calories don’t count on Sunday, I’ll make up for it tomorrow. In the end, though, we are ourselves whether we own up to it or not. These lies hamper us and our writing.
It’s been a long while since I posted anything. All I will offer in way of excuse is that life caught me by the pen and I got lost in the creative vortex. It happens. Time slips away when words fill the page. I won’t say I am sorry. It has been a wildly creative time for me and one I needed.
I run a small book club that actually reads the selected books. We are a tight group that loves books and sharing them, beyond our group reads. We have a page set up on Goodreads and talk about our lives, books and all things story in whatever form they exist. They are my tribe. The people who understand me. We may not always read the same books or genres, but we share a love of story and the feel of books in our hands. We are true readers.
Every head in the coffee house followed intently two firefighters who ran off before placing their order. A call had come through and they booked, taking with them the focus of every set of eyes in the place.
As a group, we watched while they pulled on their turnout gear, climbed in the rig and took off down the street. Minutes later we all looked up as a companion truck roared down the street.
Fifteen of us were riveted to the spectacle.
It made me wonder how to write characters that draw that much attention.
This past weekend I went to a bookstore with my family and browsed for longer than they wanted and not as much as I did. As we were leaving, my son asked whether I had enjoyed my playdate. It made me pause for a moment, but I could not refute the basic sentiment. My friends are found within the pages of the books I love and, frankly, the ones I am still flirting with on the not-read-yet shelf. This is not to say I don’t have real, flesh-and-blood friends, but the ones who live on the page are among my favorite. I cannot lie.
I am a somewhat typical writer/reader, I think. Somewhat a recluse, though not completely. The condition is not even self-diagnosed. I have proof. On the Myers-Briggs test, which I have taken three times in my life, I have consistently scored 49 out of 50 as an introvert.
I am not a social creature. At least not with the living. But in the world of fiction, I am gregarious, open and a traveler of worlds. I am bold and engaged.
My fictional friends are constant and true. They have seen me through childhood, tumultuous teen years, young adulthood and whatever you want to call where I am now. I am certain they will be there through my golden years too. It is the gift all readers receive. Friends for life. No matter what.
It is also a gift given by writers.
It’s a new year and a new opportunity to write and read.
I have been adding to my to-read pile throughout the holidays and it is now so large I don’t know where to begin. There are more than 600 books on the so-called “short” list of what I want to read this year and that doesn’t account for new releases that will appeal to me. It is insane. There is no way I can hope to read a quarter of that, much less all of it.
Every new year I set writing goals. They aren’t lofty, but I take a moment to recommit to writing. Making an official resolution makes me feel more dedicated.
This year, I have set a goal of writing daily.
Now when I say daily, I mean every business day. I’ve always wondered when other authors say they write daily, if they mean 365 days a year. This seems a bit ambitious and overeager to me. I know I would burn out if I tried to maintain that schedule. I need those down days to let ideas percolate and feed my imagination.
It has been a busy season around here and I have been struggling to finish projects and get into the holiday spirit. Instead of baking gingerbread houses, I have been crunching deadlines and running errands like a crazy woman.
We finally got our tree up and decided that we needed to do something to find the spark that was eluding us. Hanging the stockings just wasn’t getting us there. So we did something that never fails: we turned to a book. Well, books. But not just any books–picture books.
My thanks are overflowing this year, as it is most years. I am thankful for my family, my friends and words. Yes, words. I love how they come packaged in stories and books. I love how they change and combine. I love that they have nuance and texture.
This Thanksgiving I am committing a few words of thanks for the things I love the most and sharing some of my favorites:
“Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining.”
― Anne Lamott
I had a conversation with a writer friend the other day that saddened me. He has just started his journey. While we talked about writing, he kept justifying his right to write and apologizing for how badly he did it. Now, I have never read any of his work, but I balked at his attitude, mostly his justification for pursuing this craft.
Why is it that we question our desire to write? Does the gardener question her right to plant flowers? Does the golfer justify his right to play the game (not counting to his wife, which is another matter altogether)? No. They just do it. Yet I find this apologetic manner in many people who pursue writing. They act as if they are doing something illicit.
I think it’s a curse of the creative to question our choices. I know as a twenty-something I wondered whether writing was too frivolous a pursuit. Should I do something more? I questioned the value of writing compared to saving lives or fighting injustice until I realized that stories can do that too. They tell human stories that touch people and change lives. They matter.
Today is one of those wonderful days when I face one of my favorite reader moments—that brief interlude between books that is filled with anticipation. What book comes next? Which will I pull from the shelves?
I finished my book last night and chose to wait until tonight to pick a new one so I could live in anticipation. All day I have mentally listed the books on my bedside table and crammed onto my bedroom shelves. I thought about the books in my office library, which total nearly 7,000. I considered going new school and reading one of the several hundred on my Nook, which is not my favorite way to read. Heck, I even considered buying a new book to add to the masses. So many choices.
It is the choice of what comes next that makes me happy. It’s that potential of unraveling a new story and falling into a new world that keeps me moving from one book to the next.
