I Am a Writer

I have not infrequently asked myself why I write. I have not ever made a penny off it, yet have spent hours writing, thinking about writing, agonizing over writing. I have a shelf groaning under the weight of binders full of manuscripts, and file drawers full of writing - from a single paragraph jotted on a scrap of paper to multiple revised copies of novels. I have stories that I keep only to show myself, to remind myself of how far I have come; these papers, I hope, are never seen by anyone else. Not that I have written anything grotesque - it's just bad writing.

None of this answers my question - why do I write? To be honest, I do not know. I just know that I have to write, because that's what I do. I am a writer.

What do I write? Fiction - novels. My muse feeds me stories that take hundreds of pages to tell; no short stories for me. I am within an inch of finishing a novel which at its simplest level is a mere ghost story, but which a friend of mine has called a "bildungsroman". I didn't set out to write literature, but it seems that I have.

There are two intertwined novels that deal with the supernatural and the eternal nature of love. I have written 3 low-tech fantasies (and have embryonic ideas for 2 more), devoid of dragons, orcs, mages, elves, dwarves and other stock fantasy characters. This series has people, some of whom are gifted with a talent of sorcery; the magic is understated but essential. These stories deal more with human nature than super-nature.

There is one story I am having trouble writing, because it is so grim and dark. It is a ghost story, but two of the main characters are two very evil and disturbed little girls. I will write the story, but find that I can never work on it for long because it is so dark.

I also write non-fiction essays about life in Vermont - the change of seasons, food, gardening, family - the day-to-day things, special occasions, silent icy winter nights, spring evenings chiming with peepers, muggy summer days, sharp autumn winds. These observations of the world around me work their way into everything I write.

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I think I'm a pretty good writer. I do. I'm not tooting my own horn. Anyone with a basic education and halfway-decent grasp of fundamental writing mechanics can put words on paper, but not everyone is critical of their own writing, and I am very critical. I believe that a love of language is essential to making a good writer - a curiosity and appreciation of the subtleties and vagaries of the language they use. As I am a monolingual American, then I must make do with English.

It's not a bad language with which to make do. I love this language. I love its history and evolution, and the way it adapts, and absorbs words. I also respect the language; I don't use vulgarity, but do not object to witty earthiness. I'm not a hidebound language purist, but you will never find me using "parent" as a verb, "impact" as a verb except in reference to wisdom teeth, or "normalcy" in any sense. These usages are ugly to my ear. God help me, I read a corporate memo the other day that used "vehicle" as a verb. I stopped reading when I got there, and didn't finish the memo.

Why do I write? I used to say I write because I am too shy to act. I have stories in me that want to be told. I write because I have to. I don't know if I have anything of any importance to say. I don't know if anyone will ever see what I write, if it will inspire anyone, if I will be remembered for the words I string together. I am sure there are writers with this in mind, but I know there are many like me for whom the impulse to write is undeniable, like an involuntary reflex. Writers are born, not made.