Writing

I believe we write because words are eternal. Our written thoughts offer a type of validation of a life.

Remember when you were a kid and you saw “old folks” who looked at everyone and everything in a suspicious and angry way that made you wonder what awful thing had happened to them? Maybe they felt as if the world had passed them by and nothing could possibly go right anymore.

Every week a question is posted to get our writerly brains to think and respond, which usually brings something to mind that causes me to ponder further. This week it was why do you write? The answers are across the board, but I have yet to see one that states: I want to write a Pulitzer Prize winning book, become filthy rich and super famous so I can live the rest of my life wallowing in success.

Do you know why?

I admire those that self-publish. We have all heard about success stories. I’m happy for them and duly impressed. But it’s not me, at this time. I was delighted to take that route with my children’s books. I wanted total control over my books, including the illustrations. My goal was to benefit dogs and help instill the love of reading in children.

Memoir: In my words: a true slice of someone’s private life that carried profound meaning, created a change in perspective, and carries a universal meaning for others. Memoir is the author’s journey of a time or situation that is resolved in some fashion, at least by the end of the book.

As the narrator, I have a roll to fill. The late (and great) Ursula K. Le Guin offers a story in her book on writing, Steering the Craft, that uses the analogy of a boat. Here’s my take on it: our readers climb into a boat with us to journey to the opposite shore.

My husband and I are packing to go back up to our cabin in the NC mountains for a few weeks. I’m hoping the leaves are red, yellow, and orange by now, my favorite color palette. I plan to sit in the dining room with its 360 degree view of the surrounding Tusquittee mountain range and add the finishing touches to my book. Yes!

The magic of a book that talks directly to us is a feeling like no other. We are validated, soothed, yet excited to feel a part of something bigger than ourselves. Rebecca Solnit once said The object we call a book is not the real book, but its potential, like a musical score or seed. It exists fully only in the act of being read; and its real home is inside the head of the reader, where the symphony resounds, the seed germinates.

I’ve been re-reading The Faraway Nearby by the remarkable Rebecca Solnit. The first time I read my now dog-eared copy was four years ago when I became fascinated with the idea of writing personal nonfiction, especially memoir. I picked it up and put it down several times before I was able to settle in and focus.