Greetings all! I’m not a prolific blogger, as you’ve realized by now. A couple of years ago, I thought I’d take a stab at it and started a blog on another site, long since abandoned. I just found it today (February 22, 2019) and thought, since I have a website now, maybe this is where it should be. Here goes:
Sunday, February 12, 2017
Where To Begin?
I have always been a writer, and now that I’m retired and living the dream on a horse farm near Nanaimo, British Columbia, I have more time to devote to it than ever. But this is my first attempt at writing a blog, so please bear with me.
Many years ago, practically before the invention of the wheel, I took a creative writing course. The first assignment was a five hundred word essay to be titled Why I Want To Write. I’ve hauled it out of an old file box and offer it now as a logical starting point for my blog.
Why I Want To Write
The instructor leaned back against the blackboard at the front of the classroom, fluorescent lights gleaming on her snowy crown. She smiled. “Your assignment for this week will be: Why I Want to Write. Five hundred words, please.” She went on to say it would help her to help us, give her some insight as to what each of us was all about. Before she finished explaining, my mind was racing.
Why do I want to write? My instantaneous reaction to that question was, want to? Want to doesn’t come into it, not really. It’s just something that’s there, like a wart; growing beneath the surface until it bursts forth. I always assumed it happened to everyone.
I remember being at my grandparents’ house. Purely out of boredom, I decided to write a story to amuse myself. I wrote it in crayon on paper towels. The story was about two girls visiting a ranch; there was a headstrong pony named Brandy and plenty of crayon renderings of ranch life. After I returned home, I never saw it again. It may have been used to lighting the cook stove some chilly Saskatchewan morning.
As I grew older, I became aware it was not commonplace or even desirable to spend one’s time lost in fantasy. Increased demands on my time by job, family, and home meant less time available for writing. Postponing household chores in favour of writing was frowned on by husband and bemoaned by kids. Is this deviant behaviour is worth cultivating, even at the expense of an empty cookie jar and dusty end tables? If not, maybe back to the recipe book; the Margaret Atwoods, Pauline Gedges and Stephen Kings need not feel threatened, and I’ll content myself with stolen moments at the typewriter when the housework is done.
At times I envy those who are not at the mercy of creative urges; those who plug away at life, wartless and duty bound, doing what is expected of them, spending the hours in the here and now instead of with their minds wandering around the pages of a manuscript nobody else will ever read. They are never at a loss as to where the entire day could have gone. Never have to race to the bakery and spend $2.00 for a dozen hermit cookies, squirreling away a pitifully sparse showing of typewritten ideas and hiding reams of wasted sheets, greeting a returning husband red-faced and empty cookie-jarred.
They don’t have pictures playing in their heads. They might never experience the fantasy childhood trip to a ranch where crusty old cowboys in broken-down boots spit their chaw on the verandah floor and a tempermental Brandy refuses to budge no matter how vigorously flailed by small heels. Never, that is, unless someone like me fantasizes it and has the skill with words and phrases to bring it alive on paper. I must admit these other people don’t seem any the worse for lack of it. But they also will never know the wonderful fulfillment that comes when you stand back, draw a deep breath, and say, “It’s finished!”
Why do I want to write?
Because I wouldn’t trade that moment for all the gleaming end tables in the world.
***
Did I really compare myself to Atwood, Gedge and King? Well, put it down to the optimism of youth.
Looking at it now, I’d certainly do some editing. And yes, back then you could buy a dozen very good cookies for two bucks. Probably even less. Ahh, the good ol’ days.
The writers among you understand.