What is All This Writing Teaching Me

That writing is hard.

I've always known that. Writing became part of my life very early. My older sisters taught me to read before I was five, and I was entralled by the magical world of stories. Aunt Cile (Lucille) would read to me whenever she visited, or we both were at Grandma's house at the same time. It didn't take long before I wanted to add my stories to the magnificent works of Mother Goose and Grimm.

My grandmother had boxes of books in her attic, and every so often we (my sisters and I) would be allowed to go up and see all the amazing things that grownups keep in attics. Gayanne and I liked the books. All of them were from the early 1900s. Eventually, Gayanne would inherit a lot of them. They would later be lost when the house burned.

For some reason, I can still remember reading a book titled, Just Patty. I did an internet search just now and find it was written by Jean Webster back in 1911. I don't remember much about it anymore, and I am even more amazed that I read it. It wasn't the kind of story I wold normally read. If I recall correctly, it was about a girl going to a boarding school, or college. I think they put the entire book on a website (http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/webster/patty/patty.html) if you're interested.

I wanted to write something like that, and so I gave it a go. Needless to say, I wasn't able to pull it off, and my mother and siblings laughed and made fun of me for trying. Cile like it. (But then I could have drawn a big "X" on a piece of paper and Cile would have told me I was brilliant. I was Cile's favorite. big smile) I could tell Grandmother didn't think it was good, even if she didn't say so, but Grandmother told me to keep writing. Grandmother loved to write. Some of her things got published, too - in local newspapers and magazines.

Over the years I have written dozens upon dozens of things. Several million words - at least. Sometimes I read what I have written and cry, "That's crap!" Other times I let others tell me.

But I have written things that are good. I know I have.

After my father went to heaven I wrote a poem expressing how I felt. I showed it to my German teacher (she wasn't German, she taught German). She said it was nice. I went home and read it over and over again. I didn't want it to be "nice". So I altered it. I brought it back to Mrs. Elizilar. She cried (I assume because it was moving and not because it was that bad). She asked if she could keep it. I gave it to her without thinking. Now I don't have it, and right now I think I would very much like to read it again. Whatever.

Around the same time my Geography teacher gave what I considered to be a stupid writing assignment. To show my disdain I write a very satiracle account of an expedition up the Congo River in Africa. It was in diary form. Everybody died. Mr. Clargen, knowing my motive, read it to the entire class, finishing with, "I honestly don't know what grade to give this." The class voted for an "A", which surprised me as they had figured out it was me to had written it. Mr. Clargen refused to return my assignment, so I don't know what grade he did eventually give. But that he kept it told me I had been successful in my intent. And that's what writing is about.

As a writer I have an intent when I write. I am attempting to generate some kind of feeling or response through the written word, as opposed to the five senses. Yes, the eyes or ears are used to read/hear what I have written, but it is what happens in thought which is important.

Regarding Swords of Fire, and what I have written, does the reader care about Khirsha? What about Kelso? There was a time nobody liked him, and it was important he be likeable. And what of Tavaar? Spouse doesn't like her. I don't think my sister, Judayl, does either. But they haven't read the backstory (about 500,000 words). Tavaar is one of my most favorite characters in Swords of Fire. She is brilliant. She is beautiful. She is strong. She is a warrior. She cares about people and things. And life keeps kicking her in the face - because she refuses to give up.

As a writer, it is not enough for me to know my story. I have to communicate it to others, and that is not easy. But I have a burning desire to succeed in the effort. I guess that's why I accept criticism. It hurts, and I will cry sometimes. But I don't cry because I think I'm being 'picked on', although that used to happen on occassion. I cry because I have failed to communicate what is important to me, and now I have to try again. Sometimes it is hard to know what to try. But I remember my Grandmother telling me to write. And the last time I saw Stephen he gave me an admonission: Don't quit writing, Bevie. Don't ever quit writing. And remember your friends.

I remember, Stephen. I remember.