In the beginning, I wrote simply to record the experiences of my life in some meaningful way. Memories faded, or changed, or were lost and I wanted to record the observations, thoughts, and emotions which a photograph could not catch. I began to write vignettes, maybe sitting in a bar watching the world go by, maybe some wonderful, inspiring or thought-provoking experience, maybe memories stirred and sought. These were useful fodder for my penfriend, hungry for details of a life different to his own. In turn, he encouraged my writing, telling me how it caught the essence of the situations well. He became my writing champion, sometimes muse, and occasionally sponsor.
Writing, I began to see, was a process which served to distance emotion, enabling a viewpoint otherwise masked by that emotion. Writing enabled a deeper truth to be seen. This began to explain something which had been puzzling me. I cannot make small talk to save my life, but I love to have deep, deep conversations. Small talk is fast and light, skimming over the surface of the verbal seascape. Deep talk has a slower pace with words and phrasing carefully chosen, and carefully listened to. Writing is slower still, with even more care in word craft and phrasing. It is a medium which suits me well, although I do miss the return dialogue.
I ventured to use writing to explore my soul and being rather than merely to describe and record my experiences. With an abusive childhood and some unusual and colourful life experiences, because of or despite of that abuse, there is plenty to explore. Painful at times, illuminating, the exploration drove me to begin sharing childhood experiences with my siblings, something we had perhaps avoided. Some of my impressions were distorted, and some relevant facts came to light which I had not known. A lot of happier memories came forward once the pain and anguish could be pushed aside.
Over the pandemic period, I decided to try writing a book. It began as an autobiographical work, stitching together the life vignettes already gathered. Realisation soon dawned that firstly, no-one would be interested in reading it, and secondly, digging up old stuff in bulk was doing me no good at all. At that point, the prospect of fiction first entered my mind.
I fictionalised the autobiography, using the vignettes and vague scenes in my mind but wrapping them around a story which wasn’t (entirely) mine. It was a crude attempt at story-telling, but enough for me to see the need to understand the process better. The craft of story-telling, the plot, beats, acts, pacing, showing, etcetera. With this knowledge behind me, I felt empowered: I could create stories, write them, and publish them for others to enjoy as I enjoyed books written by others. I’d burnt out providing specialised health care services and had a challenging time later life-coaching some clients with terrible problems but here was a different way of spreading some happiness and inspiration, while sat cosily in my forest home in the glorious Pyrenean mountains. It felt like a huge gift.
Given this blank sheet of wonderful possibility, what kind of stories I should write became the obvious question. I thought of the enjoyment I took from reading, and wondered what, exactly, made up that enjoyment. Some of my favourite books are escapist, a distraction, a simple pleasure to lose myself in. Often, I suspect, the writing in these books is somewhat lightweight, with obvious plots and cut-out characters, but that is all part of what makes them so easy and pleasurable to read.
Other books make me stop and think. The meaning of life, the universe, and everything. They can be as absorbing, but don’t create the simple pleasure of escapism. Instead, they provide a quieter foil to the stresses of everyday life. They are the most likely to inspire, although the lighter books can do that, too, if they happen to chance upon the right issues at the right time.
I wanted to straddle both escapism and stop-to-think. A layer of cosy with an underlying layer of something a bit more challenging. An underbelly which can be quietly ignored, dipped into, or tasted fully, depending on the reader’s mood. Making this happen has been my last four years’ work, and there’s a way to go yet with one book for publication written, two more to make a trilogy and the whole business side of publishing ahead of me. I’m far from sure it is possible and I’m having to dig deep at the moment to continue, but I’m on a mission. But even now, I’m not sure that my chosen genre is the best way for me to go, and I’m having my own stop-to-think before beginning the daunting process of querying.
This, then, is not a prompt to you to write a thousand words on a certain subject, but a call to have a long, deep look at why you write and what your aims and objectives truly are. What does writing bring to you, and, for those who don’t write simply for their own pleasure, what does your writing offer to others?
What angel sits over your shoulder, directing your words and thoughts?
Image attributions:
Artist unknown, Metropolitan Museum of Art, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons (Dutch interior).
Rembrandt, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons (title image)
Wise words, Rachel. You’ve given me plenty of food for thought. Thanks!
Thank you, Rachel, for your thoughtful post. As Gail wrote above, you offer much food for thought.
I self-published a novel (The Peace Bridge) into which I poured my whole soul. It didn’t really succeed financially, but I am glad I wrote it, mainly because of some of the feedback I got from readers. One woman told me that she felt I had told her story. And when she finished reading it, she felt bereaved that it had come to an end. That made it worthwhile.