tl;dr on writing
May. 14th, 2010 01:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flyboy_foxRe: last entry: Heh, I'm always bowled over by how many people reply when I ask for advice on LJ or SSMB XD;; ♥ Thank you. I now have a bedside lamp, and I'm definitely gonna try the music and reading ideas to see how that helps. I feel less lonely knowing that I have lots of friends here, even if I'm a little isolated 'IRL'. My own fault, really... always moving around the country and never really attempting to socialise. I'm not shy... I'm just pretty crap with people, really XD;
I was thinking back on the stuff I used to do as a kid, because I was reminded of a couple of poems that I wrote when I was a young teenager. One was called 'The Lake', and the other I can't remember the name of but was about the end of the world. I loved writing as a child, it was my joy, my lifeblood and my catharsis. One of my favourite games I used to have my mum play with me on rainy days or in doctors' waiting rooms or long queues at the bank was to have her give me a random word (or phrase) that I would have to write a quick poem about. One time, on a train, she gave me "a blank sheet of paper" as a prompt to try to stump me or test my creativity. I wrote a poem about all the things that I could make or do with that paper, and it made my mum smile. She was always my biggest fan, of course. One time at school as part of my project about endangered species when I was 7 or 8 I wrote a poem about the peregrine falcon. The first verse was "The peregrine swoops with grace and skill / But many a day are being killed". I remember it because my teacher, Mrs Compton-Howlitt - who I will always remember fondly - turned it into a song and taught it to the entire lower school. The refrain was simply "Peregrine... Peregrine...". I was so proud.
What changed? What happened? I used to write all the damn time. I'm not talking about blogging. Sure, I do a lot of that. But not disciplined writing. I wrote short stories too. When I was 11 I wrote a novela called "Iesa, Warrior of Thanya". Clichéd, maybe, but it was a full novela of about 50 pages. I finished things. I wrote my first Classic Star Trek fanfictions at the age of 9 before I even had the Internet and knew that other people out there wrote stories about their favourite TV shows and games. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Paper surrounded me the way pizza boxes and soda cans surround college kids (I can attest!). Everything was a trigger, a prompt, an idea. I considered myself a writer by profession even before I was old enough to get a job. I was going to write books. Novels. Non-fiction. Poetry.
Then the real world hit me in the face with a cup of very cold acidic coffee. My first rejection was from a charity, known then as The Spastics Society - now renamed to Mencap. I must have been 12 or 13 when I wrote a book of poetry for them to raise money. I sent it to them with my childlike wish that they might use my poems for something. I waited and waited and heard nothing from them. Not even a 'thank you for your letter' note. I was too young to understand why they wouldn't want my work, or that they might be too busy or simply uninterested in a child's silly poetic scribblings. I was heartbroken.
Still, I continued to write. My writing became less childish and silly, and began to edge on depressive. "The Lake" and the Armageddon poem were filled with images of doubt, worry, anxiety, self-reckoning. The last line of the Armageddon poem was "The veil slips, a tear falls, and then nothing moves again". Nothing did move again. I never wrote any more poetry, except occasionally for Jei's birthday or if she was sad. I don't even do that any more.
Someone who found my Lake poem some 7 or 8 years ago battered the final nail into the coffin of my desire to write. He (or she) told me quite plainly that my writing was nothing special. Mediocre. Not that good. Up until that point, I had still held on stubbornly to the belief that I was a writer the way that Jei is an artist. That our talents complimented each other because she could draw well and I could write well. But I wasn't a little kid any more. People weren't going to hold my hand and tell me how wonderful my stories and poems were. And that was a cold harsh wake up call. I depended on being a good writer because my talents in any other area were negligible. I am not artistic, not a musician, not beautiful or graceful or popular. I'm not a social person, nor am I an inventor of great things or purveyor of great ideas. For the majority of my young life I believed that my only real talent was as a wordsmith. When that ship was sunk, I kind of gave up. If even my writing was mediocre, then I was doomed for a life of mere mediocrity. My one honest pride was foolishly placed and nothing more than self-delusion.
I miss my writing, and I wonder on how I gave up on it so easily. In the beginning I wrote for myself, for the pleasure and joy that it gave me. What changed? Why did I start to care what other people thought of my 'work'? Why am I a slave to the judgements of others?
I feel like I should open a notebook and turn to a crisp brand new page and start again. Maybe I'll find something that's missing. Maybe I'll find a missing part of me.
I'm going to start writing again. Even if it's just scrappy lines of badly rhyming verse on the side of a Tesco shopping receipt, so help me I'll write again. And it will feel good.
I was thinking back on the stuff I used to do as a kid, because I was reminded of a couple of poems that I wrote when I was a young teenager. One was called 'The Lake', and the other I can't remember the name of but was about the end of the world. I loved writing as a child, it was my joy, my lifeblood and my catharsis. One of my favourite games I used to have my mum play with me on rainy days or in doctors' waiting rooms or long queues at the bank was to have her give me a random word (or phrase) that I would have to write a quick poem about. One time, on a train, she gave me "a blank sheet of paper" as a prompt to try to stump me or test my creativity. I wrote a poem about all the things that I could make or do with that paper, and it made my mum smile. She was always my biggest fan, of course. One time at school as part of my project about endangered species when I was 7 or 8 I wrote a poem about the peregrine falcon. The first verse was "The peregrine swoops with grace and skill / But many a day are being killed". I remember it because my teacher, Mrs Compton-Howlitt - who I will always remember fondly - turned it into a song and taught it to the entire lower school. The refrain was simply "Peregrine... Peregrine...". I was so proud.
What changed? What happened? I used to write all the damn time. I'm not talking about blogging. Sure, I do a lot of that. But not disciplined writing. I wrote short stories too. When I was 11 I wrote a novela called "Iesa, Warrior of Thanya". Clichéd, maybe, but it was a full novela of about 50 pages. I finished things. I wrote my first Classic Star Trek fanfictions at the age of 9 before I even had the Internet and knew that other people out there wrote stories about their favourite TV shows and games. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Paper surrounded me the way pizza boxes and soda cans surround college kids (I can attest!). Everything was a trigger, a prompt, an idea. I considered myself a writer by profession even before I was old enough to get a job. I was going to write books. Novels. Non-fiction. Poetry.
Then the real world hit me in the face with a cup of very cold acidic coffee. My first rejection was from a charity, known then as The Spastics Society - now renamed to Mencap. I must have been 12 or 13 when I wrote a book of poetry for them to raise money. I sent it to them with my childlike wish that they might use my poems for something. I waited and waited and heard nothing from them. Not even a 'thank you for your letter' note. I was too young to understand why they wouldn't want my work, or that they might be too busy or simply uninterested in a child's silly poetic scribblings. I was heartbroken.
Still, I continued to write. My writing became less childish and silly, and began to edge on depressive. "The Lake" and the Armageddon poem were filled with images of doubt, worry, anxiety, self-reckoning. The last line of the Armageddon poem was "The veil slips, a tear falls, and then nothing moves again". Nothing did move again. I never wrote any more poetry, except occasionally for Jei's birthday or if she was sad. I don't even do that any more.
Someone who found my Lake poem some 7 or 8 years ago battered the final nail into the coffin of my desire to write. He (or she) told me quite plainly that my writing was nothing special. Mediocre. Not that good. Up until that point, I had still held on stubbornly to the belief that I was a writer the way that Jei is an artist. That our talents complimented each other because she could draw well and I could write well. But I wasn't a little kid any more. People weren't going to hold my hand and tell me how wonderful my stories and poems were. And that was a cold harsh wake up call. I depended on being a good writer because my talents in any other area were negligible. I am not artistic, not a musician, not beautiful or graceful or popular. I'm not a social person, nor am I an inventor of great things or purveyor of great ideas. For the majority of my young life I believed that my only real talent was as a wordsmith. When that ship was sunk, I kind of gave up. If even my writing was mediocre, then I was doomed for a life of mere mediocrity. My one honest pride was foolishly placed and nothing more than self-delusion.
I miss my writing, and I wonder on how I gave up on it so easily. In the beginning I wrote for myself, for the pleasure and joy that it gave me. What changed? Why did I start to care what other people thought of my 'work'? Why am I a slave to the judgements of others?
I feel like I should open a notebook and turn to a crisp brand new page and start again. Maybe I'll find something that's missing. Maybe I'll find a missing part of me.
I'm going to start writing again. Even if it's just scrappy lines of badly rhyming verse on the side of a Tesco shopping receipt, so help me I'll write again. And it will feel good.
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no subject
Date: 2010-05-14 12:52 pm (UTC)And I think you should get back into it. Even if it's been told it's "mediocre" by others, if you enjoy it, you should really start it back up. The heavens only know how many poems and stories I have lying around on the laptop that I've never given sight to anyone else. I don't think much of my writing style, but I keep at it because I enjoy it and it gives me a chance to explore the people, animals and objects that I make up in my head.
And I think that, in itself, is a really enjoyable thing to do. I like creating characters, even if I don't always go into the small detail with them, because they're there in my head and go onto my laptop, but nowhere else. It's an interesting experience. I don't share usually because I know I take criticism a lot more harshly than I should, and I like to believe I've got some talent. My sister's so artsy and talented at drawing, I'm really envious of her.
TL;DR: Do what you enjoy, and if you enjoy writing for the sake of writing for yourself, then go for it. Don't let others put a damp on your day as your style is special to you, even if not anyone else.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-14 01:39 pm (UTC)I wish you the best of luck in your return to writing. :)
no subject
Date: 2010-05-14 03:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-14 05:23 pm (UTC)If it's means anything, I read your posts in the RP on SSMB, and you do it very well. I know RPing is not writing per se, but that has to count for something.
Whatever people have said of you, you will have people that can stand up for you, and not merely in a sugercoating way either.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-14 08:21 pm (UTC)When it isn't.
It happens to almost all of us, though. I'm still struggling with it, myself. It's a daily battle, really. I used to spend hours and hours of my time doing nothing but drawing. I went through packs of printer paper like they were candy and wore entire sets of pencil crayons out in a month. I don't even remember the last time I picked up my Prismacolours anymore. I sketch things once in a blue moon, now. And that's sad.
My husband is much like you are now, too, I'm afraid. He's a brilliant writer with an incredible imagination but after we got married... he stopped writing. I wish I knew why and I wish I could get him to do it again. It breaks my heart that he doesn't write anymore at all. I'm trying to encourage him to it again but all it ever seems to do is make him upset. If you have any suggestions of things that helped you get back into it, I'd love to have a few.
Don't give up on it, though. It's a struggle, I will tell you that, but every time you actually do grab pencil and put it to paper it feels amazing when you're finished. Even if what you have -is- mediocre by someone else's standards, who cares? You created it, you enjoyed creating it, that's what matters. It's what I tell myself all the time when I find myself hesitating picking up my sketchbook. So long as you had fun doing it, nothing else matters. It usually helps me stop hesitating. ♥
no subject
Date: 2010-05-15 11:02 am (UTC)<3 It takes a while to get used to, but you should delve into why people didn't like your things. Maybe it was just their personality, maybe it was something to do with a word that wasn't properly placed - I don't know.
Oooor~~ You can just write because you love it, and because you love expressing yourself and your views, and your creativity. You're bound to get criticised anyway, though... if you do show your things to everyone else.
: D;;; t-this was a long comment...
no subject
Date: 2010-05-18 03:48 pm (UTC)Children write for sheer pleasure and not some grandiose goals of monetary gain or social acceptance. The world loves to beat us down, but as long as you love what you're doing, you will shine. Social indoctrination blinds us and leads us to believe we have to fit a certain mold to be successful. Even the term "success" is subjective and misleading. I stopped doing music in high school for the same reason. I've returned to it full force in recent years and couldn't be happier.
I'm not sure if this will be of any help, regardless I figure I'll share.Two years ago, my band regularly received criticism that we didn't quite fit into the local scene. People would tell us certain aspects were too weird and not what's categorized as "brutal" in the normal sense. We were tempted to change things to appease the masses, however we tried and just weren't as happy. A year later, we're preparing for a magazine feature in the live music capitol of the country and playing festivals. I can't imagine what would have happened if we weren't true to ourselves.
In summation, just remember that your writing is first and foremost the sole expression of yourself. If appealing to others was the main priority of writing, then the author is no longer an individual self striving to reveal their own thoughts on paper.
Good luck and persevere!