Me and writing
I was seven when I wrote a series of illustrated children’s books. I published them under my own (pretend) publishing company, Big Box Books. Among the titles: The Hunter and The Bear, The Bear and The Bees, and The Adventures of Mr. Peabody.
In fifth grade I wrote an epic love story based on real life events around the classroom. It was fifty hand written pages long and included a hand drawn centerfold of a limousine.
My fifth grade teacher was awesome. She taught me the mechanics of writing, and, perhaps more importantly, the process. I had writer’s block so badly one time that I broke down in tears and couldn’t finish the assignment. She was a very compassionate person and always did her best to meet me halfway. I wish more teachers understood the value of support and encouragement. It’s not always about the finished product or the grades.
By eighth grade I was passionate about writing. I liked to read, but I loved to write. Of the many short stories I wrote in eighth grade, two still stand out in my mind. The first, Too Many Deer in the Mall Bathroom, was a story about a boy who slips and falls in a mall bathroom, which causes the bathroom to morph into a forest. More and more deer pile into the bathroom, and after a short adventure or two, one of the deer instructs him to wake up. He awakens in a doctor’s office, recovering from a mild concussion, and despite the fact he had not been outside that day, his pants are grass stained. The second story, The Dangers of Being a Frog, was about a teenage frog who becomes lost in the big city, where he experiences a series of misadventures. He is captured and kept as a pet for a short time, but escapes, and, with a much greater appreciation for his parents and the comforts of home, he makes it home in time for dinner.
Formal writing took a backseat during my high school years, although I did write over 300 pages of notes to a girl- a girl I eventually won over and married. My love for creative writing would have died completely if it hadn’t been for one of my English teachers. While my other high school English teachers lectured on how I would always work for someone else and never become anyone important, this teacher took the extra time to try to understand me as an individual.
I grew to hate high school. It was corrupt, superficial, and pointless. The last formal assignment I completed in high school was to read The Catcher in the Rye. I identified with the main character, Holden Caulfield, and found the story eerily familiar, with many lines I had said, would say, or had thought:
"I'm six foot two and a half and I have gray hair."
"I passed English all right."
"He started handling my exam paper like it was a turd or something."
“You don’t have to think too hard when you talk to a teacher.”
“I’m the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It’s awful.”
“He was pretty handsome, too- I’ll admit it. But he was mostly the kind of a handsome guy that if your parents saw his picture in your Year Book, they’d right away say, ‘Who’s this boy?’”
“I told him I wasn’t going to chuck it at anybody, but he wouldn’t believe me. People never believe you.”
I have read the story many times since then and I am still struck by the similarities between myself and J.D. Salinger’s creation. If you want to know about me, read about Holden.
I dropped out of high school during my senior year and got my GED a year later. I didn’t write much of anything until 2002, when I started school at the University of Maine, at age 23. I was incredibly nervous about returning to school. It had been a long five years. English 101 was my first class. The professor was exceptional. The class met twice a week for six weeks. I was required to write an essay for each class and memorize a list of vocabulary words. Class time was spent learning all of the things I had missed in high school. I learned more during that six weeks than I thought possible. By the end of the six weeks, I was tutoring other students and was often called upon for advice. There I was: a 23-year-old high school dropout, who hadn’t passed an English class since the tenth grade, giving advice to people twice my age, some of whom already had degrees and careers. I was shocked when I realized how difficult writing was for most people. I had always taken my abilities for granted; I figured everyone could write well.
I aced English class and most classes thereafter, earning my Associate degree in mental health in just over a year. I had always told myself my failure in high school was voluntary, but it was nice to finally have proof. I loved college almost as much as I had hated high school.
Writing papers for school reignited my love for writing. I retrieved my old journals from storage and started writing stories based on the entries. Over the course of a year or so, I posted several short stories online in my blog at myspace.com. At the time, I had many “friends” on myspace, because I was also making short funny movies with my friends. My written blogs received a lot of positive feedback, while my movie-making days came to an end. I removed the blog entries, deleted my fake friends, and began to write a book about my teenage years. I finished the rough draft of Mr. Anjela about two years later. I am currently in the process of editing the 320 page 100,000 word document.
Why Writing?
It may seem cliché, but I think of writing as painting with words. The canvas is the reader’s mind, and the paint is the words, or more specifically, the meaning behind the words. One of the many things I find fascinating about writing are the possibilities. There are infinite options to describe the same thing. Good writers merely find new ways to say the same old things. Whatever a writer is conveying may be new to you, but the actual building blocks are the same as the ones that make up this crappy sentence.
I like writing because it is the ultimate form of communication. It has been said that I picture is worth 1,000 words. It is not worth 1,000 thoughts, or even 1,000 more pictures: it’s worth 1,000 words. When two people make an agreement, they put it in writing. They don’t paint a picture or sing a song. And, even if they did sing a song, what would they need? Lyrics. Which is? Poetry. Which is? An artistic form of writing. Everything comes back to writing.
Writing is superior to the spoken word. Verbal communication is convoluted by nonverbal communication and other external factors. You can never say the same thing twice. Writing is deliberate and calculated. The writer has unlimited time to think about what to say and how to say it; that’s why people write love letters instead of performing impromptu love confessions. When you put something in writing, it is undisputable (if written well enough). People tend to remember the gist of what was communicating verbally and forget the actual words, which leads to miscommunication and false memories. There is no possible way to prove what was said once the sounds evaporate. A written document can be retrieved countless times and it will always say the same thing. One must use caution when putting thoughts into writing. One-hundred years from now, no one will remember anything you said, but they’ll know what you wrote, word for word.
Writing demands attention and has power. Reading a book is like no other experience. You cannot multitask while reading. You can multitask while on the phone, while driving, while watching TV, but while you’re reading, you can only read. You might read a line, stir a pot, and read a line, but stirring the pot while reading a line is unwise. Audio books are a crime against writing and should be abolished. An audio book is like getting a hand job from a robot instead of having sex with your wife.
As an author, I am able to get inside your mind. Not even the television has figured out how to get where I am at this moment. I am in your head right now, and we are sharing a unique bond. I have the power to make you think whatever I want. Think about a dog. Think about a shoe. Not everyone will see the same dog or shoe. But wait, I also have the power to control what you think about what you think about. Think about the dog again. If I wait too long before explaining further, your dog will change or fade without my approval, so let’s continue. The dog is a German Shepard, black and tan, sturdy and brave. He’s wearing a red and white striped hat, like the one The Cat in the Hat wears. Odd, don’t you think? Why would you think of such a thing? Usually people don’t stop and think. It is a fluid process.
A writer changes the angle of things you already know or understand. You will never read anything new. Much like how there are only so many notes a piano can play. You will never hear any new notes, but you will hear them arranged in new ways. Also like good music, good writing is timeless.
If I write, “The man was angry because his wife left him,” I am simply telling you something, but if I write: “Robert stood at the window in the darkened room, clutching the divorce papers in his fist. The storm outside slatted leaves against the rattling panes, only to rip them away to places unknown. He took a swig of whisky from a nearly empty bottle, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and pitched the bottle at the bed they had once shared. The bottle skimmed the mattress and exploded against the wall. Shards of glass littered the neat folds of the comforter. It would never be the same again. “Sleep well you fucking bitch.”
Did I say he was angry? No. Do you know he is? Hopefully; the author never knows for sure. Why do you know he’s angry? Because I showed you. I left some things up to you, like, which fist the papers where in, what kind of leaves hit the window, the brand of whiskey, and the general size and layout of the room. Most people will put the papers in the man’s right hand and the bottle in the left. The leaves that hit the window are maple leaves in my mind, and the brand of whiskey is Jack Daniels, or at least an amber colored liquid. The more abstract the situation or idea, the more details are needed. You have probably never seen a Beckerlabazzer and have know idea what it is (neither do I, because I just typed that at random). I would have to describe it in much more detail than a bottle of whiskey, which most people in my target writing population have a general idea about. In the end, it is always the reader who decides the meaning. The best stories are the ones where the writer and the reader are on the same page (Ba-dum-dum-ching!).
Another thing I like about writing is almost anyone can do it. Not everyone’s great at it, but at least they can do it. I would love to write music, play an instrument, or paint a masterpiece, but I can’t; some people can, because they have been trained or are gifted. Nearly everyone is taught basic writing, and if the emotion and the story are powerful enough, basic writing skills are all you need. The meaning is vastly more important than the parts used to convey it. Take Mark Twain’s poem, Warm Summer Sun, for example, which he wrote for the funeral of his daughter.
Warm summer sun, shine kindly here;
Warm southern wind, blow softly here;
Green sod above, lie light, lie light;
Good night, dear heart, good night, good night.
The actual words are very simple, but the emotion is deep.
When couples fight, a common phrase is, “It’s not what you said that upset me, it’s how you said it.” Writing is the same way. How an author writes is much more important than the topic. One of the best essays I wrote in college was about my bathroom. Writing is like photography in this way. Some of the most beautiful photographs are of mundane things you see all the time. But when you see it the way the photographer sees it, it becomes interesting, because it is given new meaning.
