5 reasons not to write (especially about myself)
There are SO MANY great reasons not to write, so why am I compelled to do it all the time? Am I crazy? I thought maybe if I put the reasons themselves into writing, then I would recognize how lame they were and get over it. So, here goes:
My Top 5 Reasons Not To Write (Especially About Myself)
5. Maybe I’m not that interesting. I mean seriously, self-indulgent much? What could be new or exciting or told in some other way about my life that hasn’t been written about by a better, more interesting writer before me?
4. Who has the time? Every one of these blog posts has been written while sitting at my desk at my job that does not pay me to write a personal blog. Every. Single. One. I’m not the kind of person who gets up early in the morning and writes before showering. I work hard during the day and like to rest my brain at night by the soothing glow of reality TV. When could I possibly find the time to write!?
3. Once it’s written, what would I do with it? I’m a nonprofit communications director in New Hampshire, my network isn’t exactly one that a manuscript could ride through into the hands of a publisher. As for pounding the pavement for publishing? See Reason #4.
2. It’s embarrassing. Let’s face it. I haven’t exactly been the picture of smooth during some of the tougher times in my life. And I’ve done some things that, to think back on now, make me blush. I can only imagine what my friends, family and fiance would think if I made my business public.
1. I’m not sure I have enough faith. Being a writer, in my mind, is like being a devout follower of a faith or philosophy. Zen in the Art of Writing and all of that, right? I’m not sure I believe enough yet. I’m a dabbler, an experimenter, a doubter, and a questioner. My own faith is a totally made up set of rituals and convenient beliefs, while writing falls under the category of “ancient art”. Maybe it’s just not in my constitution to believe in something that much.
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Okay, so after having read The Reasons over and over again, I can admit it. They are a little lame. And to know me is to know that I’m not exactly a person who tries to skirt my way around things. Some might dare to describe me as “very direct”. So the very existence of The Reasons is a little out of character.
The other helpful thing here is that I think if I can overcome Reason #1, the rest will just go away. So, from now on, consider me a suplicant to the alter of the page. A devotee of the written word. An apprentice of the ancient art of writing.
So it is written…
Voices
I have a million voices in my head. They have to be there – it’s my job. Some writers have the luxury of representing themselves in their writing, or a character of their choice, but as a communications director in charge of public and media relations, my voice is never my own.
I am my boss’s voice, I am the Senator’s voice, I am the voice of the volunteer, the CEO, the agency head. In press releases, I never give the people I quote the option to come up with what they will say. I write the quotes for them, and let them “approve”. But it’s amazing how often I hear back, “That’s exactly how I would have said that!”
See? Even there the voice wasn’t my own.
When I realized several years ago that I had accomplished the goal of being a professional writer I was so pleased with myself. When people asked me what I did for a living I happily declared, “I am a Writer.” Dream come true.
And as a professional writer, I am totally confident in how I write, what I say, how I can compel people to make a phone call or donate money or support a candidate or program or idea. As long as the voice I’m writing in is not my own. And neither is the story.
I will write your speeches and your letters and your websites and your call scripts. I even love writing other people’s cover letters for job applications, I really do. I know what words you would and wouldn’t use, what words your specific audience wants to hear, specifically from you.
With all of these voices inside my head, spilling out onto the page, how could I not be uncertain about the way my own voice will emerge? What words would I never use? What’s my tone? What would people want to hear from me?
The advice I most often give to people struggling to find their own words is “Just tell the truth.” So, I’m starting there.
Inspiration
I never wondered what it was like to be the child of someone famous. The idea just never crossed my mind. Then, on Friday night when Jack and I went to the Press Room to hear Eric Mingus, son of famed jazz musician Charles Mingus, perform jazz and poetry, we learned more about him than we’d planned to, including bits about growing up in his father’s shadow.
Not shy on the microphone about his autobiography when he performs, whether between pieces or within his poetry, Mingus though rambling in style, gets right to the point about himself, his life, his beliefs. He howls in agony, yelps in glee, and mumbles through descriptions of growing up the son of a white woman and a black man.
Another musician, there only to listen, but who has played with Mingus in the past, talked to us about the stories he told after their show together years ago. Stories about how lost he was, trying to find a way to break past the fame of his father. How hard it was to create an identity of his own when destiny gave him the talent to be what his father was, just in another time.
It had been my idea to go to the show, to bump up my street cred on the writer’s block. I’d remembered Mingus from a performance at Jazz Mouth in Portsmouth from a year or so back when Andrei Codrescu was the featured poet. I remembered that night feeling like the two men had peeled off their skin to show us what lay hidden beneath the surface. It was amazing.
That’s why I went back to see Eric Mingus now – now that I’ve started up writing again. I needed to be reminded not to be shy about revealing what is under the surface. I needed to get past the fear and figure out how to howl.
After we heard about the stories of a youth troubled by his father’s fame, I joked that our future children wouldn’t have to worry about that. “Not yet,” Jack replied. “Not yet,” I agreed.
The Assignment
The writing group is officially assembled, our first meeting scheduled and our first assignment decided on. Before we meet, a month from now, we’ll each write a short story, 8-12 pages, to be read aloud to the group at our monthly meeting. The group will react, without the story in hand, to what they’ve heard, and then be allowed the opportunity to comment on the story in print before the next meeting, where we’ll share a new story based on a new topic.
Pretty straightforward. We’re a small group, only three of us – two of us professional writers in some way, the other an incredibly smart, funny woman looking to find a way to express the story she’s felt brewing in her.
Our first assignment: write a story based on a favorite song lyric. When I first started thinking about it, I thought I’d be writing a creative story, fiction. But as my brain churned around the task of identifying a favorite song, I realized that the assignment seemed to necessitate an autobiographical story. Loving a song lyric usually means a connection somehow. That I’ve got in spades, so now it’s time to narrow down.
Every little thing she does is magic.
When will we get the time to be just friends?
Winter just wasn’t my season.
You could’ve done better but I don’t mind. Don’t think twice. It’s alright.
I did my best, it wasn’t much/I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch/I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you.
And there are so many, many more. But the story, for most of these lyrics, comes from the same place. From the same time. From the time when music was all I did and all I knew, when I sang in a band and spent all my time with musicians and at music shows and with music lovers and friends. I wrapped myself in the music I sang and wrote and listened to.
I don’t sing anymore, or play in a band. In fact, I rarely listen to music in a meaningful way. So, I’m a little nervous about where the assignment might take me, but I’m ready to ride the nerves and jump in.
Distraction
What do you do when you’re so distracted you can’t focus on any of the one hundred tasks at hand? When you find yourself keeping busy doing nothing too important because the important things are too hard just then?
At this moment, I have only one unsolved issue on my mind, and the solution is out of my hands, so I’ve been waiting by the phone for the answer and distracting myself with useless things. And then suddenly (if the hours of idleness preceding the moment don’t count), suddenly I come back to this writing project begun months ago and left to languish. Suddenly, distraction, idleness, not doing anything has brought me here to something that I actually want to do.
It makes me think of the writers and artists who lock themselves away, relieving themselves of those long, everyday to-do lists until there is nothing left to do but create. Every “so you want to be a writer” book and blog and article seems to come back to practice as the key to getting the writing done, but where does doing nothing else fit in?
When I was younger, I always wanted to live and then to write about it, live and write about it, without any down time – only having experiences and recording them. But then other things seemed to get in the way of my ability to have noteworthy experiences. I can be more specific than “other things”, what gets in the way of noteworthy experience seems to be insurance - life insurance, car insurance, health insurance. Finding ways to afford all of that insurance against problems that haven’t yet occurred seems to be the ultimate distraction.
And it was more than likely my noteworthy experiences that shed light on the necessity of insurance in the first place. Oh the irony. Like distraction from what I perceive as meaningful leading to the most meaningful thing I’ve done in a long time.
I suppose I’ve discovered one of the things that happens between words.
