The skipping stone leaves ripples, but ripples fade. The stone sinks, but it continues to shift and sink into the earth.
Well, it's time to write.
I am conspicuously armed with my essentials: My favorite mug full of some cheap berry tea and my writing hoodie (acquired at an Army-Navy store in Tennessee) engulfing my mussed form. My favorite playlist is playing on Spotify, and Pinterest is up in another tab just in case I need some quick inspiration. I'm ready for this.
The problem is, I have no idea what I'm doing.
I've been writing for five or six years. In that time I have produced the beginnings of four novels, one completed short story and fourteen unfinished ones, twenty-odd poems that I would shudder to show anyone, and a lot of bad fanfiction. Like an artist trying to paint a masterpiece, I've been trying to write my epics and pretty much failing.
So I took a break for a while.
I didn't write for five months, except for blogging. I focused more on things like school and free reading and wandering around outside. I actually didn't miss it as much as I thought I would.
The truth is, I love writing. I'm working on a book that, with the grace of God, might actually work out. I love the romance of words and the ache my heart feels when I read a fairytale. But I'm not meant for an epic. I'm not meant to be a classic author, a second Tolkien or Chesterton or Kafka.
I used to think that meant I wouldn't make it as a writer at all. I mean, what was the point if I didn't touch someone's life or failed to create a character someone could relate with?
But the real point is this: The masters weren't the only ones who found joy in putting pen to paper. Writing is not about the people reading. It effects them, but it is a secondhand effect. The person who is different because of writing is the writer.
So this is my odd resolution for now: To no longer want to be a master, a writer of epics. I want to be a simple teller of fairy-stories. I want to paint watercolors on notebook paper, and leave the ceiling frescoes to some modern Michelangelo.
Well, it's time to write.
I am conspicuously armed with my essentials: My favorite mug full of some cheap berry tea and my writing hoodie (acquired at an Army-Navy store in Tennessee) engulfing my mussed form. My favorite playlist is playing on Spotify, and Pinterest is up in another tab just in case I need some quick inspiration. I'm ready for this.
The problem is, I have no idea what I'm doing.
I've been writing for five or six years. In that time I have produced the beginnings of four novels, one completed short story and fourteen unfinished ones, twenty-odd poems that I would shudder to show anyone, and a lot of bad fanfiction. Like an artist trying to paint a masterpiece, I've been trying to write my epics and pretty much failing.
So I took a break for a while.
I didn't write for five months, except for blogging. I focused more on things like school and free reading and wandering around outside. I actually didn't miss it as much as I thought I would.
The truth is, I love writing. I'm working on a book that, with the grace of God, might actually work out. I love the romance of words and the ache my heart feels when I read a fairytale. But I'm not meant for an epic. I'm not meant to be a classic author, a second Tolkien or Chesterton or Kafka.
I used to think that meant I wouldn't make it as a writer at all. I mean, what was the point if I didn't touch someone's life or failed to create a character someone could relate with?
But the real point is this: The masters weren't the only ones who found joy in putting pen to paper. Writing is not about the people reading. It effects them, but it is a secondhand effect. The person who is different because of writing is the writer.
So this is my odd resolution for now: To no longer want to be a master, a writer of epics. I want to be a simple teller of fairy-stories. I want to paint watercolors on notebook paper, and leave the ceiling frescoes to some modern Michelangelo.
No comments:
Post a Comment