Why I Write

NOTE: After finishing this post, I realized was writing for Wednesday. But, as this post fits neither Tuesday or Wednesday's topic that's okay, isn't it?

NOTE2: Just realized I forgot to put a title on this post.

There are lots of stories in my head. They began arriving as early as when I was five years old. Some time in first or second grade I began to write some of them. Most, like now, remain in my head, swimming about like primordal elements awaiting the spark of life.

In the beginning I wrote for me. What I wrote made me feel happy - or sad - because that was how I wanted to feel, and the words at the time achieve the purpose. There was no editing at the beginning. I wrote stories, but after the fiasco of that read to my mother and sisters (see posting on Dec 17), I ceased to share them. They were mine, for me to enjoy.

As I progressed through school I would be given various writing assignments. Continue the stories were a big thing in grade school. I had mixed feelings about those. Writing what I thought should happen was cool, but I wanted to know what the original Author had intended. It annoyed me that the original endings were never revealed. I suppose they never existed.

I recall writing a Ghost Mystery when I was in fourth grade. It may have been a Halloween writing assignment. My classmates all wrote one to three pages. My story had ten chapters, each about a page or two long. Mrs. St. John gave me an "A". Possibly because of the effort and possibly because she had come to like me. Anyway, when she handed back the assignments she had me read mine before the entire class. She must have talked it up in the teachers' lounge for the next thing I knew I was on a school tour, reading my story to other classes. Most of the students were into my reading (you can tell by looking at the eyes), but some were bored. This was especially so with older students in fifth and sixth grade. I think they resented the attention I was getting.

In Junior High my writing took a bit of a twisted turn. I began making my classmates characters in my stories - using their real names. What is more, everybody was an idiot! Including me.

Some did not like this at all - and they suffered for it in my writing. I, in turn, suffered through the loss of their friendship. Others thought it was hysterical, and I developed new friendships. My female friendships suffered more than my male friendships. Debbie, Patricia, Bonnie and Sherri liked their starring roles. But Violet, Susan and the others did not. Melvin, Donald and Jeff encouraged me to write more and more and more. Tim did, too. Dan and Tom didn't dislike it. They just found it dull.

I began writing in play format. Nearly everything was dialoge, with a few stage directions to keep things on pace. Mystery and crime were still the order of the day. (All fantasy writing was hidden.) What I recall is Myra's reaction when I let her read what I had written about her. Myra was a sweet, sweet girl and I expect she grew up to become quite a lady. She was a pretty girl, too, adored by the boys, and for that reason I made her role a bit risque. She was the hero's sidekick, and they had been captured. The duo were to be put to slow death by the villain. His means? They would have to watch a film on the science of how plants grow until dead. (Funny stuff when you're a kid.) They were tied up in a compromising position. I gave it to Myra with trepidation. I didn't want to lose her friendship.

Myra returned it to me at lunch. She was laughing. What she particularly liked was the scene which I just described. When the hero began crying out in horror, I had Myra saying, "Oh, stop it! These are just the cartoons before the feature." Myra was prim, but she had a sense of humor.

So what has all of this got to do with my writing Swords of Fire? To be honest, I'm not sure I know. It's just something I was thinking about. Back then, writing for an audience was easy. The work didn't have to be particularly good, and it seldom was. But we enjoyed it. At least some of my classmates and friends enjoyed being part of someone else's creative process. I think it was kind of like starring in a movie for them. They felt famous - within our small community. For me, it was a release. I was writing. I was telling stories. And people were happy because of it!

Maybe that's why I've been thinking so much about my youth of late. There was a time, albeit long ago, when, for a short while, I actually did achieve my purpose in life. I made people happy. Would that I could touch that moment again.