Reading betty's journal

I’ve always wanted to be a great writer. I wanted and still do want to write a book that will be remembered for ages. A story that people will look to for years to come for wisdom and insight. I want to write the modern girl’s version of Siddartha, The Prophet with a twist. The Celestine Prophecy for the next generation. A story that is great for ages 8 to 80. But then I did the worst thing I could possibly do; I got a job in a bookstore.

At first, I thought it was a great idea. I’d be surrounded by the things that I love the most; good books, mediocre books, and books that probably should never have made it to print. I thought I would find inspiration being surrounded by books. I would find my drive and my motivation in the works of others, but actually what I found were my limitations.

While studying business in college, the instructor of my Business Management class told us the key to being a good manager, and this lesson has carried over into other aspects of my life like the overflow of a pot of chicken soup that has been left on the stove with the fire set too high. He said that a good manager doesn’t go to school to learn how to be a good manager. He said that as soon as you set boundaries to how a manager should be, you cut yourself off from what a manager can be. I think that is what I have done to myself by working in a bookstore.

I used to write all the time, I always had a notebook and a favorite pen with me. I would write anytime words started to stir in my brain. Whenever the darkness behind my eyes began to spark with thought, whenever questions wanted to burst from my mouth, whenever I wanted to vomit screamed syllables toward the sky, I would write. I would pencil in whispers in the margins. Though I have always professed a dislike for poetry, I would write confused rhymes on a single sheet, and never throw it away. But now that I have bought and read so many books on how to write, I have lost the ability to write randomly. I am afraid of the content and structure in my writing. I worry over punctuation and grammar. Thanks to Lynn Truss, commas are no longer my friends.

After buying a book called “No Plot, No Problem”, I thought my issues were solved. “No Plot, No Problem” introduced me to National Novel Writing Month. The book told me it was okay to write crap. It was fine to force words onto paper and into situations that you would never have put them before. The concept of writing without conscience was ingenious. I started to have doubts after re-reading some of the things I had started typing at hyper-speed on my not-so-trusty Brother typewriter. Though the book told me not to judge my own writing, I couldn’t help but hate everything that was making it onto the page. There was no continuity, redundant paragraphs, no emotion or purpose to my writing beyond the actual act of writing. Though I didn’t actually finish the first week of NaNoWriMo without giving up doesn’t make me feel any sense of failure. I still feel quite accomplished for having pushed ever so slightly at the invisible wall that has been holding me back. I have poked the wall with my finger and found that it is flexible. But I am not cured.

I am filled with self-doubt. I am confused about what is the right way to go about writing a good story. Should I write fiction? How do I tell the story, with a skewed Palanhiuk-ey tang relating everything to bodily functions (or malfunctions)? With the straight-forward moral-filled Sue Monk Kidd style? Do I write nonfiction? I could write a sobering report like “Fast Food Nation”, causing the reader to rethink the ease in which we shove crap down our gullets, or I could get so stoned before I started writing that Hunter Thompson would look like Sunday paper journalist in comparison. Of course, I could always try the Betty No-Name approach, but since everything has already been done would my original thought actually be original? If it has all been said, what is the point of saying it again?

The point, of course, would be to get the words out of my head. Just like it feels so much better to dance when the music is just right than to stand by the wall holding your cape cod and keeping your foot from tapping, the release of putting words down as you think of them just feels … right. I have a similar view on dancing, except I am more free to express myself without fear of judgment when I dance . The music has to be the right type of techno, rhythmic, thumping jungle beats without lyrics. Music that is made for you to feel, not listen to. Music that becomes your motions, music that focuses on you as you focus on it. Music that thump thump thumps its way into your head until you are alone on a crowded dance floor, losing track of time and friends. If only I could write the way I dance. I don’t care what people think of my dancing. It’s just about releasing the rhythm inside of me to match the rhythm of the music that surrounds me. The difference between dancing and writing is that as you are dancing, you are achieving instant results. The release is not something that can be looked back on , pored over for years to come by anyone with a library card. The satisfaction of dancing is felt as it is being done, the dance is not something that is judged by the end product.

Writing can start out fine, then it can lose direction, your thoughts leading from one disjointed idea to another. The question I need to ask myself is , am I writing for my release, or for the approval of the reader? Does it matter who I am writing for? I have heard that when you are writing, you need to think of your audience. What if I don’t care about my audience? Rather, what if I don’t want to care about my audience?

I think many of my problems stem from worrying about what other people are going to think about my writing. I am audience-obsessed. I am so concerned with impressing other people with my thought provoking words, that I throw away everything that I produce. Even now, I am simultaneously telling myself that I am writing for myself just to release my thoughts while in the back of my head I’m thinking, “I wonder if they will like this?”.

I am just me, searching for simplicity.........and a good hair stylist

This post was edited by betty on Jan 16, 2006.

I cannot tell you how glad I am to have stumbled upon your post. I almost did not read it, but something compelled me to, and I'm thankful that I did. I, too, am in a similar position with my writing. I completely understand everything you are feeling. I wish that I could give you some sort of advice, but I have yet to find a solution either. I just wanted you to know that your post has helped me greatly.

Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live.

Well, after reading, it sounds like you've gotten yourself a magnifying glass and are looking so close that you've forgotten why you love to write in the first place.

The best advise I've found about writing is that first a writer writes for themselves.
And this bit, take what you know and write about that.

Every writer, artist and musician I have ever met have all at some point wanted to create something so profound that a thousand years from now it would still be a common house hold word.

But the truth seems to go this way, profound works often happen when your not paying attention to anything but doing the thing you love.
All the expectations are gone, and there you are, and you relax and just enjoy the act of creating, and wham! It comes from somewhere, like an unlikely hero to help you find your way.

You may never write the "great american novel", in truth does it really matter to the act of loving to write?

Looking at your work and holding it up for comparison to others is not so good.
You arn't them. You are you. And your the best you that you can be.
And part of that is your love of writing.

Somewhere in the mix it seems that you have forgotten the joy and left behind the freedom that writing brings you.
Maybe it's time to set the questions aside and give yourself permission to be the writer that you are.

It only looks that way because your standing on your head.