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Yesterday I wondered why the whole "writing" dream kept niggling at me when I barely write anymore and I have a decent life and nobody needs stories from somebody bland like me anymore anyway. Kim Aippersbach had some good answers to that question-- the "why bother?" question-- in the comments, such as "You know you're a writer when the Lone Power's specific message to you is 'you shouldn't be a writer'," and that there's a "little blip" in your brain that "isn't ever going to be happy until you're writing, even though when you do finally try to write the rest of your brain (and/or the Lone Power) will spend all its considerable energies trying to convince you that you suck and this is stupid and pointless and no one will ever want to read it...And the only reason you keep trying to write is that stupid blip in your brain itches and squirms uncomfortably when you don't." Those are all true answers. But it was while I was driving between outreach preschools this morning that I realized another answer-- I don't know if it's an answer to "why bother?" as much as an explanation for WHY the question hurts so much.
It's because of this kid:
Would I tell that dorky little girl that nobody needed to hear her stories? That lonely little kid who spent her recesses scribbling stories in folded booklets of notebook paper, or at the very least telling herself the stories in her head? Would I go up to her and say "Why are you DOING that? You've obviously already seen yourself in other people's books, that's why you're so ADDICTED to books, so why the heck would the world need more stories from people like YOU, pray tell?" I mean, can you SEE that? What kind of cruel person would ever say something like that to a kid, a kid whose ONLY outlet is those stories she writes? She had no like-minded friends to share her imaginings with-- most of her friendships at that age were, frankly, unhealthy-- no Internet to post her thoughts and stumble upon kindred spirits.
She wrote stories about unexpected things happening that would upset the current social order and force kids to work together, hence forming friendships that otherwise would never have started. She wrote jokes and drama and strange observations and magical creatures unlike any you'd find in other books. She wrote because ALL THIS was going on inside this frankly more-awkward-than-average-kid who couldn't get words out when she was feeling any type of emotion because all she could manage was crying instead, who kids just laughed at if she said any of the long words she knew aloud, whose so-called best friends told her she could only play with them at HOME, not when anybody at school could see. Would you dare say to that kid, "Oh, by the way, you can't have your stories, either"?
I have other outlets now. I have real friends, and this blog, and social media, and (for a slightly narrower focus, but still an outlet) a library full of displays and booklists and programs and Readers Advisory. But not writing my STORIES, no longer feeling able to weave them into anything worthwhile... I just feel like I'm letting Dorky Little Amy down.
It's because of this kid:
Would I tell that dorky little girl that nobody needed to hear her stories? That lonely little kid who spent her recesses scribbling stories in folded booklets of notebook paper, or at the very least telling herself the stories in her head? Would I go up to her and say "Why are you DOING that? You've obviously already seen yourself in other people's books, that's why you're so ADDICTED to books, so why the heck would the world need more stories from people like YOU, pray tell?" I mean, can you SEE that? What kind of cruel person would ever say something like that to a kid, a kid whose ONLY outlet is those stories she writes? She had no like-minded friends to share her imaginings with-- most of her friendships at that age were, frankly, unhealthy-- no Internet to post her thoughts and stumble upon kindred spirits.
She wrote stories about unexpected things happening that would upset the current social order and force kids to work together, hence forming friendships that otherwise would never have started. She wrote jokes and drama and strange observations and magical creatures unlike any you'd find in other books. She wrote because ALL THIS was going on inside this frankly more-awkward-than-average-kid who couldn't get words out when she was feeling any type of emotion because all she could manage was crying instead, who kids just laughed at if she said any of the long words she knew aloud, whose so-called best friends told her she could only play with them at HOME, not when anybody at school could see. Would you dare say to that kid, "Oh, by the way, you can't have your stories, either"?
I have other outlets now. I have real friends, and this blog, and social media, and (for a slightly narrower focus, but still an outlet) a library full of displays and booklists and programs and Readers Advisory. But not writing my STORIES, no longer feeling able to weave them into anything worthwhile... I just feel like I'm letting Dorky Little Amy down.
