Writing Seems Easy
I say I want to be a writer, and I think that in know what that means. Do I? Sometimes I think not. Sometimes, I think I just want to do what is easy and for me- writing seems easy. I sit. I have thoughts. I write them down. That is not so hard.
I think about writing and read about writing and read what others think about writing. I act like a sponge. Then I write and think I am doing something good, something that others will think is worth reading. I think, as I write sometimes, that this is clever. In truth, I don’t know what clever is. At least, I don’t think I do. Then again somebody’s clever is another person’s stupid, so I can be stupid and clever all at once. My knowledge of such is therefore a moot point.
There are those moments when I wonder to myself, What the heck am I doing. There are times when I don’t even know where I am going in a story, and then it just ends up being an unfinished story. I have written down about 20 different stories that I would like to write. One day, they will all line up my bookshelf. Or better yet, I will go into a major bookstore and see all of my 20 or so stories lined up with my name on the spines. Oh, what a dream that is.
But back to reality, I have often heard of people, other writers and teachers and people accomplished in the writing world, talk about having a writing voice. What? I don’t have a spoken voice, let alone a writing voice. What is that? Having a voice? Is that some type of identity or some type of style? Damn, I don’t have a voice. I need to find one or borrow one or something. Then again, when I do get my hands on a voice, what exactly am I supposed to do with it? Somehow, I guess, I am supposed to infuse this voice with my writing and, presto- my writing voice. As of now, I don’t have a voice.
I do have these experiences and these thoughts though. I have these people running around in my head that talk to me as if they want to get out. I have this desire to sit down and type out what I think and share it with people, as if they care. But I want them to care. More than that, I want them to like what I write because … well, dammit, I am a writer without a voice and I just want someone to read my stuff and like it.
Writing seems easy. Well, for me anyway.
I say I want to be a writer, and I think that in know what that means. Do I? Sometimes I think not. Sometimes, I think I just want to do what is easy and for me- writing seems easy. I sit. I have thoughts. I write them down. That is not so hard.
I think about writing and read about writing and read what others think about writing. I act like a sponge. Then I write and think I am doing something good, something that others will think is worth reading. I think, as I write sometimes, that this is clever. In truth, I don’t know what clever is. At least, I don’t think I do. Then again somebody’s clever is another person’s stupid, so I can be stupid and clever all at once. My knowledge of such is therefore a moot point.
There are those moments when I wonder to myself, What the heck am I doing. There are times when I don’t even know where I am going in a story, and then it just ends up being an unfinished story. I have written down about 20 different stories that I would like to write. One day, they will all line up my bookshelf. Or better yet, I will go into a major bookstore and see all of my 20 or so stories lined up with my name on the spines. Oh, what a dream that is.
But back to reality, I have often heard of people, other writers and teachers and people accomplished in the writing world, talk about having a writing voice. What? I don’t have a spoken voice, let alone a writing voice. What is that? Having a voice? Is that some type of identity or some type of style? Damn, I don’t have a voice. I need to find one or borrow one or something. Then again, when I do get my hands on a voice, what exactly am I supposed to do with it? Somehow, I guess, I am supposed to infuse this voice with my writing and, presto- my writing voice. As of now, I don’t have a voice.
I do have these experiences and these thoughts though. I have these people running around in my head that talk to me as if they want to get out. I have this desire to sit down and type out what I think and share it with people, as if they care. But I want them to care. More than that, I want them to like what I write because … well, dammit, I am a writer without a voice and I just want someone to read my stuff and like it.
Writing seems easy. Well, for me anyway.
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