The beautiful thing about writing is it has no real respect for credentialism. You can get various degrees in writing. (Indeed my initial plan was to get an MFA.) But a degree can’t make you a writer in the way that JD can make you a lawyer.
Great writing comes from all classes people and all kinds of experience. Edith Wharton was raised rich. E.L. Doctorow was not.
When I visit schools around the country I consistently repeat this—not because I think school is worthless, but because, very often, there are kids in the audience who are lost, just as I once was. I don’t come there to contravene their education. I don’t come there to tell them to drop out.
On the contrary, I try to reinforce the ethic of hard work. But they need to know that a grade in a class, is not who they are—and I would say that whether the grade is an A or an F. I failed English in high school. And then failed British Literature in college. For whatever reason, it simply wasn’t my time. But had I taken those grades as an eternal mark, I doubt I would be talking to you now.
I tell them, “I write this shit for you!” But a lot of writers won’t admit to that, a lot of artists won’t admit to that. They’ll get artistic, or pretentious, or, you know, talk about some “higher calling.” The fact is, I want to move rooms full of people. I want to move someone sitting alone under a reading lamp. I want to move someone sitting on a beach. I want to make them laugh and cry. I want them to see me and come running up to me and tell me how the books made them feel. I love that!
And don’t worry about losing. If it is right, it happens—The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.
…you better do it now because you know how to write, and you have fingers, and you have this one life, and during this one life, you should put your words down, and make your voice heard, and then let others hear your voice. And the only way any of that’s going to happen is if you actually do it. People can’t read the thoughts in your head. They can only read the thoughts you put down, carefully and with great love, on the page. So you have to do it, goddamnit. You have to do it, and you can step back and be happy. You can step back and relax. You can step back and feel something like pride.
Then of course you’ll have to revise it ten or twenty times, but let’s not talk about that yet.
Write your goddamned book now. The world awaits.
The last straw
Peter put leftovers in the fridge without a date. Eleanor got sick. Peter felt bad and her mother came over to nurse her back to health. Peter and Eleanor broke up.
Failing at flash fiction ftw.
30 days, 30 stories: Going Places
I wasn’t sure what to tell them. I thought they already knew about me.
My name was Robin Roberts. Named after my father who himself was named by his father after the great baseball pitcher of the same name. I grew up wanting to be a firefighter, but I was a late bloomer and was encouraged by my…
With about 17 minutes to spare, day three is complete.
30 days, 30 stories
I’ve created a tumblr where I intend to write 30 stories, one each day for 30 days. I have no idea where it’ll go, but something most of you don’t know is I wasn’t really sold on tumblr at first and spent most of last year blogging stories here on a different blog before starting this one late last year using an otherwise abandoned domain of mine.
Anyway, my writing is fueled by voice. I feel I have a difficult time connecting to a lot of stories because of how I think and I’ve always felt characters lurking in the recesses of my brain. I’ve had bouts of story timing before, but never into a coherent finished project of this magnitude and so, it’s just impulsive and timely enough for me to get into.
As usual, I’m posting here to keep myself honest and in the hopes that you’ll read the shlock as it’s composed. This isn’t connected to nanowrimo or anything, it’s rather timely that’ll take place around it though for nothing more than some modest direction.
The blog will be here at http://30days30stories.tumblr.com/
