Wordsmithery

I was reading the “Dear Literary Ladies” blog and one of the responses said to write everyday.  Even if all you can get out is, “I can’t write.  I have absolutely nothing to say.”  You go from there.

I find myself realizing what it means to work to be a writer.  Obviously there is a vastly romantic side to it.  It’s my life’s purpose to write, I truly believe that.  Why else would my heart lift every time I put pen to paper?  When I’m writing, whether it be a story, a letter, a reflection, or what-not, I can truly breathe.  The tight knot in my chest – the one I never realize is there – loosens and I feel strangely free.  It’s as if I spend my days in one suite of a house – one large, beautiful suite – but then suddenly a door opens and I realize I have full run of not only the house but of all the grounds as well.  I’m truly happy, and free to be happy, when I am writing.

I like to think I am good at it.  Oh, I know I bend the rules a bit; I begin sentences with conjunctions and I hate indenting with each new paragraph.  But I really do feel like I have a talent here…I flatter myself and call myself a wordsmith.  There’s a certain magic in that word, don’t you think?  Wordsmith.  I work with words.  I build with words.  I manipulate words to take the form I want them to.

There’s a dark side to being a wordsmith, though.  At times I feel like a slave who has ignored the master.  The knot in my chest makes itself known if I stay away from the notepad for too long.  I try to distract myself from it: who has time to write anyway?  I’m busy.  I have a job, things I’m involved in.  I have a life (or so I like to imagine).  At the end of the day I am far too tired to sit down and wrestle with words.  Because that’s what it is sometimes.  Some words just won’t be manipulated.  Some storylines take on a life of their own, and they rush along, leaving me chasing behind.  Characters won’t say or do what I ask them to, and when I try to force them to do so the scene ends up being stilted.  So I cross it out and try again – maybe.  Sometimes I simply cross it out and walk away.

I say “cross it out” because I do most of my initial drafts with a pen and paper.  The words flow more easily then when I am sitting in front of a computer.  It feels more organic to let the ideas flow straight from my soul through the pen.  The rational side of me recognizes the immaturity of this statement.  A true writer would, should, be able to just type.  It cuts down on time.  It’s more practical.  Unfortunately I’m not there yet.  Cold typing will be a goal of mine.

Ultimately I would like to be a published author.  This is where the “work” comes in.  It takes discipline and a huge time committment to spina story from beginning to end.  Writing it down is the hardest part for me.  I have plenty of stories in my head.  I run through them constantly.  Characters make themselves known to me, they at times beg to have their stories told (some of them are very pushy!).  Settings pop up in my mind and distract me from the “real world” around me.  Scenes and conflicts play behind my eyelids, keeping me from sleep.  Someday (hopefully soon) I will write a story – from beginning to end – and I know it will be the opening of the floodgates.

Now here’s the kicker I don’t want to write things that will bring people down.  I want to write positive stories, things that will ultimately uplift me, and whoever else happens to read them.  That doesn’t mean my stories don’t ever have sadness in them – they very often do.  I hope, though, that by the time the story ends I have found peace with it, and therefore the reader does, too.

Because, let’s be honest here, I do hope many people read what I write.  The thought at once thrills and terrifies me.

I would hate to bring anyone down.  It’s like L.M. Montgomery said, “I would not wish to darken any other life – I want instead to be a messenger of optimism and sunshine.”  I want to be a messenger of optimism and sunshine in all I do.

Ultimately, though, I write for myself.  I write because I am beginning to suspect it is my life’s blood.  I need to write to survive, just as I need to breathe or eat or sleep.

For now it’s enough to simply write a little bit every day.  It’s enough to try to mend my Giving Cup.  And do you know what?  I think it might be working.

1 Corinthians 12:4-11