My Love Affair
I have a love affair with writing. It’s the last thing I think about before I fall asleep and it’s the first thing I think about when I wake up. Every morning, I sit at my computer, put my fingers on the keyboard and let them fly across the letters. It reminds me of a Ouija board when my hands take off as if I have nothing to do with it. I love the
clicking sound of my mouse and I get a lot of the same benefits from it that meditators get from meditating. I lose time. The tension in my body releases. I breathe and when my thoughts wander, I keep bringing my mind back to what I’m doing. When I’m through, while I go about my day and into the night, I get ideas and I jot them down. I’m a morning writer and an evening thinker.
I wanted to write before I knew how to read. I was five years old, sitting cross legged on the beige and green carpeting in my living room, scribbling in my Cinderella coloring book. My parents were in matching upholstered chairs, reading the newspaper, hypnotically handing sections to each other and dropping them into a pile on
the floor. My older sister was doing a book report on “Treasure Island.” I vowed that as soon as I learned to read, I’d write stories about the things I dreamed up in my imagination.
I kept my promise to myself. After I finished reading “Dick and Jane and their dog, Spot,” I started choosing words and finding other words that rhymed. This expanded into poems and by the time I
was ten years old, I had a collection of very bad poetry. I didn’t care if it was good or bad. I didn’t consider it. I just kept on going and while no one encouraged me, no one discouraged me either. That was lucky. It was simply something I did for myself, it was my private world, and I didn’t let anyone else in.
As I got older, I started submitting stories and books to publishers and I got a lot of rejections. They really hurt but that’s the life I chose. In Stephen King’s book, “On Writing,” he talks about banging a nail into the wall and sticking all his rejection on the nail. When it was filled to capacity, he banged another one into the wall
Along with my rejections, however, I also got publishing deals. My career has been very good to me. I’ve traveled the globe, met extraordinary people and I’ve had a myriad of books make their
way up the bestseller lists.
When I was in my prime, getting a book deal was exciting. Marketers from major publishing houses flew from New York to Los Angeles, took me to lunch at expensive restaurants, convened with me as we set up a plan, and booked radio interviews and TV appearances. This was before social media. Before things changed. Nowadays, instead of getting the royal treatment, a marketer texts you to ask you how you plan to market your book. It’s far less attractive and much more labor intensive.
I was spending time with a couple of my friends who are very active in their promoting and speaking careers. They work hard at it and they have loads of social media followers. They market their books, they do podcasts, they do online interviews, they post regularly on Instagram and they do Facebook Live. It’s a full time job. When I heard them discussing their work and how to attract more followers, I thought I should be doing that, too . . . until I realized that I don’t want to. And I don’t need to. I did a great deal of that in the past but now, all I wanted to do was just write. I remembered my childhood when I wrote for the pure joy of it. Not to please anyone else. Not to be judged, to get book deals or to make myself feel productive. I did it because that’s what I do. Meditators meditate. Painters paint. Dancers dance. And writers write.
When I was a child, my aunt used to take me to the movies to see musicals and when a song started, I’d dance up and down the aisles in the dark. I didn’t do it for anyone else. I didn’t think about people watching me. I wasn’t even aware of them. I just did it. In the same spirit, everything I put on the page helps me heal and survive. I vwrite for myself, I’ve written my way through loneliness. Through relationships. Through falling love and breaking up. I’ve written my way through fear, anxiety and doubt. It’s my constant companion, it’s a friend and it’s always there when I need it.
Today, I encourage my students to stop judging themselves and start writing. It isn’t something to fear. It’s not the bogey man who’s going to prove that you’re no good. When you welcome it as a friend, it’ll take you places you never knew existed. You don’t have to be
great at it. You don’t even have to be good at it. You don’t have to begin at the beginning. You can start in the middle.. You don’t have to finish what you start. If you feel the urge, pick something meaningful in your life and write about it. When you put your feelings on the page, things that triggered you in the past become dimmer. Emotions take on a new clarity. Thoughts dissolve and your heart opens. It’s a way to process your life.
For me, writing for no one and no particular reason is as legitimate as selling a book to a publisher and doing a book tour. I get to pick and choose which of my friends I want to read to and that is enough for now. The rewards I get are beautiful and I don’t run out of
energy. I have no deadlines so I can stop and start whenever I want. I don’t know about the future but since I’ve been doing this in one form or another since I learned to read, I expect I’ll just keep on doing it.
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