I was on the internet today doing a random search of something I'd read about on a random page. Most of my internet time is spent that way; following the wayward paths that connect people to others with less than six degrees of separation.
The problem with this analogy is that I often end up in similar places. As much as I would love to love reading about fashion or style, I don't. I find it boring, almost pedestrian in an age when everyone has "style". Most certainly, it's snobbish. Like the mommy-contest I see now with my nephew and his mom. Another mom speaks to her and it's condescending; the discussion is barely veiled competition. Alas, I find this interesting. I read about this a lot. And, no, I am not thinking about having children.
I like opinions. Specifically, I like opinions that cause fervor or reactions. Ideas that may be the norm or not, but are anything but politically correct. Anything described as political cannot also be correct; it's a basic understanding and yet it's fobbed off as "the thing".
In the Age of Blogs, every newly pregnant lady can consider writing a blog to celebrate this wonderful time in her life. It comes fraught with the usual problems. How do you raise your child? Why is everyone giving me advice? They say it's well-meant; is it? Is it really?
On a bit of a tangent, I left Facebook for exactly this reason. It became the Envy Machine. People only posted photoshopped photos; model photos or "nice", "fun" posts so they looked popular and cool. Where was that 90's angst? I am not the only one that missed it. And, then it showed its face. But this, my dears, was the new angst; all "PC" and anti-flashy in an effort to be more "awesome" than ever. "I'm misrepresenting myself" now accompanied the same, photoshopped pictures. I loathe fake. So, I left. (And secretly rejoined; hypocritical, I know.)
Surprisingly, or perhaps not if you surf the proverbial net like I do, mommy-blogs lead to ... writing/author/book blogs. This is how I ended up at
Book Pregnant. A place that might have rekindled my not-so-real flame for writing.
Writing is very different than reading. It's sits outside, rather than inside. I like being inside a good story. I like getting lost in someone else's imagination. It's a bit like
Inception; I enter someone else's dream and make it my own. Writing isn't like that; it's creation. Yet, it's not creating a whole, or rather it's creating a whole with blurred edges. Most novels don't have nice endings with all the loose ends tied up nicely. They trail off and lead to other novels.
I like writing, but I'd be lying if I said I was one of those people that dreamed of becoming a writer. Similarly, I never dreamed of working on commission. Yet, I do love to write. I like telling stories; engaging with people. I love hearing their stories. Stories are my life blood. Perhaps that is why I was drawn to writing.
In the interest of full disclosure, I have not written a book; I have not sold a book and this is not a pre-cursor to a publication announcement. I've never even written a query letter. What I have done is
read about it immensely. I've talked about it; attended workshops.
I love books. Writers like to say they just love to write; I see this so often it makes me doubt whether I really like it. Then, I read some more. There is something truly magical about feeling connected to a person you've never met, likely will never meet and who has no idea you exist. And, yet, I do. You do too, or you wouldn't be on a blog. That's kind of the point. I see myself in writers; in the introspection and introverted qualities that most share.
And, I do write. Here and elsewhere. By hand or by typing. I prefer by hand, but my handwriting is crappy after awhile and that irritates me. It should be beautiful, always. Isn't that how the authors of old did it? It's slow too; much slower than my typing.
I'm fearful of writing too. I worry about my ability to finish what I started. There's anxiety over whether I will remember the words, the story or the plot. There's nail-biting terror over whether the plot actually exists or whether I just feel like writing a pretty description.
So, what is the point? It's not just that "I love writing". I want to say something; communicate something to strangers. I like strangers; I always have to the everlasting terror of my mother. They are new, and interesting in their new-ness. Perhaps, I just want to see my words printed in the bookstore. I love a good bookstore. My admiration of a good bookstore is worthy of a single, long-winded post in and of itself. I don't think it's money, because that really would be a pipe dream. Yet, I can't nail it down.
I don't feel driven to write; hence my not-quite-real categorization. If I did ignore it, on the occasions my muse graces me with her presence, it would feel wrong. So,
Book Pregnant really isn't for me. I'm no more interested in a book baby than a real baby at the moment. The tips are good and the process interesting, but I will move on, as I always do. The urge to pen the next masterpiece will move on too; it's not really mine, but a product of the collective internet voices all screaming, "Notice me!" I'll find my way to another page, another story and another stranger. I will feel the urge to write again and find I don't have the time, or won't make the time, which amounts to much the same thing. When that time comes, I'll end up here as I always do, writing long-winded posts about nothing, and everything.
