Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Already confused?
One of you will noticed the change of title. Yep, just another of life's many ongoing revisions.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Reluctantly embracing self-revelation
So, if anyone had told me, even a few months ago, that I'd be writing a blog --- let's just say the peal of laughter would have deafened any bystanders within a quarter mile radius. Write about my life? My observations? My experiences? My writing, for cryin' out loud? Really?
Yeah. Really. Hopefully, what winds up on this page will amuse or enlighten or stimulate (both you AND me). And be infinitely more engaging than the dreck we all feel compelled to post on Facebook.
Let me start by saying that, on any given day, I define myself variously as a writer, a video editor, a wife, a rabbit rescuer, a friend, or an equestrienne (okay, I never actually use that term but it's too long to explain now). But, at the heart of me, I'm a writer.
I started writing late in grade school -- mostly derivative stuff based on my favorite television characters. Television was my friend, you see, a constant in a life full of unexpected -- and usually unwelcome -- changes. Those people in my favorite shows formed my surrogate family, infinitely more reliable and predictable than my real relatives. Much less judgmental and demanding. Apparently, the tube exercised such a profound influence on me that, when I entered first grade, I lacked the requisite Texas accent, provoking the white-haired teacher to ask my mother if we were (lower-than-low) Yankees. I didn't develop the ubiquitous regional drawl until I got to college and actually spent time with my peer group.
Time cut to marriage. We (and the bank) owned a cute little three bedroom house with a postage stamp-sized living room that made a perfect office for me. I plugged away on my 1930's Royal typewriter whenever I could cadge a little time for myself and my obsession. I could occasionally even write for almost an entire hour before the husband (the first one) would come and ask, in a faintly put-upon tone, if I was about done. When my answer was no, his inquiries were repeated at ten minute intervals until he go the desired effect. Eventually, I learned to only write when he was at work.
Time cut to divorce. And selling the cute little house. And moving (yet again), this time to my personal Mecca -- Los Angeles -- where I was SURE my native talent and intimate knowledge of all things episodic would land me my dream job as a series writer. Okay, you can stop laughing now.
Oh, I wrote some. And I made a couple of connections. Nothing panned out. But, from the effort came a remarkable revelation: I really didn't LIKE script writing. In the same way that I don't like texting, I found script format to be (for me, so don't get your back hair up) incredibly limiting. A sort of insider's shorthand that often does not honor words. And I DO love words.
Ten years ago, well ahead of the current rage, I began a vampire novel. It's a work of love, a voice for a cast of characters who sought me out to give them form and substance. Some days, they are more real to me than my daily life; that's probably an artifact of my upbringing. For now, they speak to me and a choice group of fellow writers who offer me guidance with their insightful critiques.
I thank God every day that publication does not define me as a writer. Perhaps some day it will. In the meantime, I'm a writer because I write.
Yeah. Really. Hopefully, what winds up on this page will amuse or enlighten or stimulate (both you AND me). And be infinitely more engaging than the dreck we all feel compelled to post on Facebook.
Let me start by saying that, on any given day, I define myself variously as a writer, a video editor, a wife, a rabbit rescuer, a friend, or an equestrienne (okay, I never actually use that term but it's too long to explain now). But, at the heart of me, I'm a writer.
I started writing late in grade school -- mostly derivative stuff based on my favorite television characters. Television was my friend, you see, a constant in a life full of unexpected -- and usually unwelcome -- changes. Those people in my favorite shows formed my surrogate family, infinitely more reliable and predictable than my real relatives. Much less judgmental and demanding. Apparently, the tube exercised such a profound influence on me that, when I entered first grade, I lacked the requisite Texas accent, provoking the white-haired teacher to ask my mother if we were (lower-than-low) Yankees. I didn't develop the ubiquitous regional drawl until I got to college and actually spent time with my peer group.
Time cut to marriage. We (and the bank) owned a cute little three bedroom house with a postage stamp-sized living room that made a perfect office for me. I plugged away on my 1930's Royal typewriter whenever I could cadge a little time for myself and my obsession. I could occasionally even write for almost an entire hour before the husband (the first one) would come and ask, in a faintly put-upon tone, if I was about done. When my answer was no, his inquiries were repeated at ten minute intervals until he go the desired effect. Eventually, I learned to only write when he was at work.
Time cut to divorce. And selling the cute little house. And moving (yet again), this time to my personal Mecca -- Los Angeles -- where I was SURE my native talent and intimate knowledge of all things episodic would land me my dream job as a series writer. Okay, you can stop laughing now.
Oh, I wrote some. And I made a couple of connections. Nothing panned out. But, from the effort came a remarkable revelation: I really didn't LIKE script writing. In the same way that I don't like texting, I found script format to be (for me, so don't get your back hair up) incredibly limiting. A sort of insider's shorthand that often does not honor words. And I DO love words.
Ten years ago, well ahead of the current rage, I began a vampire novel. It's a work of love, a voice for a cast of characters who sought me out to give them form and substance. Some days, they are more real to me than my daily life; that's probably an artifact of my upbringing. For now, they speak to me and a choice group of fellow writers who offer me guidance with their insightful critiques.
I thank God every day that publication does not define me as a writer. Perhaps some day it will. In the meantime, I'm a writer because I write.
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