I remember not being a fan of books as a kid. Besides Little Women and The Witch of Blackbird Pond, you couldn’t force me to read a book unless there was a prize involved. English class and I were mortal enemies until one morning when I was fourteen, when one assignment changed everything for me.
Every class was spent reading, filling out worksheets, writing reports, or watching a film based on whatever book we had just finished. There wasn’t much creativity involved and the books we had read weren’t exactly the most exciting things I had ever read. A good portion of them were only excerpts from books and didn’t whet my appetite enough to track the full novels down and read them.
It was on that one particular morning that I remember the looks on my classmates faces. The look of bewilderment as our teacher gave us our new assignment. She read a a small paragraph that told of a person and a place, and the general mood of the scene. The character was in their house and sitting in a chair. Nothing particularly exciting was taking place. It was was up to us, our duty to make it exciting. I groaned a little, thinking this was going to be a terrible assignment. It had been at least three years since I wrote anything and lets face it, fifth grade writing assignments aren’t Shakespearean work. But I did as she asked.
I sat at my word processor for hours, thinking and typing. Erasing everything and typing again until I was pleased with what I had written. One story had consumed my entire night and by the time it was finished I was the happiest girl in the world. Not because the dreaded assignment was done, but because I had written something I was proud of.
The next day we were to read our work aloud to the class, which I wasn’t thrilled about. All through middle and high school I was the quiet kid, I didn’t talk in front of people that much. What if I were to pronounce something wrong in front of everyone? I was laughed at enough already, no need to add more to things to the pile. One of my classmates had offered to read it for me, but by the time my turn came class was over and all I could do was hand it in. Even though it was never read in front of everyone, I was still proud of that story. Getting an A was the icing on the cake.
Over the next year I started writing fanfiction, terrible fanfiction, but that didn’t hamper my love of writing the fiction I wished were true. I had no idea it was called fanfiction at the time, all I knew was that I wanted to write my own episodes and sequels to movies because I was unsatisfied with how many of them had ended. That one little story was like a small rain cloud that had morphed into a harrowing hurricane. It wasn’t long until I was writing every day and beginning to write my own fictional stories. Mostly fantasy of course.
I’m sure by now you can tell my grasp of grammar is mediocre at best (at least I type full words online and not talk like a computer sputtering out broken code. . .I cringe when I see people use L33t speak instead of taking the time to type out full words. Come on guys, you probably spend more time looking to see which key you’re going to hit when you speak L33t. Train yourself enough and you can type out full words without blinding your fellow internet lurkers and type at lightning speed!) and what I know of writing books is knowledge I’ve gathered from years of reading other’s talented works. Someday, when my family life has calmed down and I have the money/time to dedicate to it, I hope to take a writing class. I’ve improved since my days of sitting behind a desk and listening to the teacher prattle on about how the book we were to read was a work of literary genius. There’s still much room for improvement. MUCH room. . .a football stadium seems like room enough .
I have a terrible habit that has plagued me for years and I wish I could rid of. Ever began writing and feel so satisfied with the words on the page, but read over it and start making edits until you’re frustrated? The story is suddenly a muddled mess and you start finding your own plot holes. Before you know it, you have paragraphs gone, pages missing, and you start to wonder if you should scrap your current work and start over. If you knew how many times I’ve done this with one particular story, you would have me admitted to a psych ward. Yeah, I need serious help.
One of my biggest problems is expectations. Not just of myself, but the expectations of my some-day potential readers. I’ve read the words of authors such as George R.R. Martin, Terry Goodkind, Patrick Rothfuss, Dan Brown, J.K. Rowling, Charlaine Harris, and so many others that it would take me hours to list. Many of them have followings that are massive and fans that have extremely high expectations. I will never reach those heights, but I still worry how my work will be perceived. What if people enjoyed something I write? What if people hate it?
The authors I’ve mentioned have legions of fans, but also as many haters. That’s how fandoms work. Not everyone will love what you love. Everyone enjoys different things and to expect everyone to love the same things as you is unreasonable. Hear that K-pop netizens? Ok randomness aside, it worries me how people will perceive my work. Will they read my book and think that I’m some uneducated dyslexic wanna-be writer? Or someone that had a story to tell and did it to the best of her ability? I hope the latter of course. I’m kind of both in a way. Not the uneducated part of course. Dyslexia gallops rather than runs rampant through my family.
So I want to ask, do you ever feel your writing isn’t good enough? Fear that people will pick at it until it’s left as nothing but a poor carcass that you feel you wasted your time, blood, sweat, tears, and sanity to create? How do you combat the feeling that your writing ability and story aren’t good enough?