my writing journey

my writing journey

The Power of Words: My Writing Journey

1. Discovering the Writer Within

I had an early belief in the efficacy of the printed word. I was raised in the pre-television era, and my only exposure to radio was classical music. Instead of daily doses of modern culture, my sister and I were given a phonograph and a large collection of classic children’s records. We listened idly to these records until the day when I had the bright idea of following along in the corresponding book while the record played. Eureka! I realized I could read my favorite stories whenever I wished, even if no one was around to read to me. This caused me to drag out every book I had and try to read it to myself, with varying degrees of success. When I was older, I used stapled leaflets to publish babysitting and puppet shows, an illustrated family magazine, and hand-printed and bound copies of books whose pages were constructed from colored notepaper. All these writing endeavors formed a creative outlet that was enjoyable in itself, regardless of any material profits.

I began to think of myself as a writer when I was a child. I remember gravely announcing to my father that I had read somewhere that young writers should write about what they knew best. Since at the time I knew best about my pet rabbit, I had written a thoroughly researched and well-documented report about the habits and diseases of rabbits. I asked him if he would type copies of this report and take them to his office, where he would ask his co-workers if they would like to buy my report for ten cents. He agreed, and I distinctly recall the thrill of seeing a blank ream of yellow paper transformed into ten crisp, stapled copies. When he returned home that evening with an empty satchel, I knew in that moment that I was a professional writer.

2. Nurturing the Craft: Developing Writing Skills

Simple curiosity first led to the creation of notes, followed by the letter that seemed to echo the notes more often than not. Soon the fragments began to tell a small story or to describe a place, and I let them because I was hindered and needed a pleasant escape. This escape, rare and short but very satisfying, has induced me to write a ‘complete’ story, using the term in the loosest possible sense. A complete story is one that the writer keeps to himself, not so much for its subject as for the pleasure of turning it into words, convinced that it will turn out the way he wants and that he can then look at it with an eye less troubled and more appraising than the reader’s. Thus a new sort of pleasure writing recommended itself to me, and it was with a real regret that I turned from it to the stern work of proving myself and learning things for the sake of public composition. In this daydreaming function, much more than in what a psychologist would call the life of thought, are rooted the efforts whose results appear between these covers. The essays were written in the leisure of these past years—often with a tantalizing consciousness of other occupations and duties, but always in the expectation or the recollection of hours when I could say to myself, “Con to sham but a while and take it in thy thought.” And the ensuing brief stories represent the attempt to salvage something of waste faculties during a nervous illness that for a long time reduced me to a level far below the one that I have had the fortune to know. Now and then during this rather dolorous period a verse has haunted me, and in compliance with a prejudice no wiser than the rhymes I have essayed to give it its mating. So much for a brief history which, had it been more prolonged, might have ventured to appear in the guise of those literary confessions that are so often less frank than they seem, yet do not really tell us much. The rest, information about the writer’s personal habits and affairs, his religion, philosophies, politics, and the like, will comfortably lie in that undiscovered country which is the future of every man whose book appears acceptable and survives what an invidious essayist has called the five years of commentary and conjectural obituary. And even for these matters the inquisitive will be considerably better satisfied through hints in the text than from any direct response between question and queried.

3. Overcoming Challenges: Perseverance in the Face of Rejection

I’ve looked back at the rejections I have received over the years, and the journey has been an enlightening one. Rejections are an inevitable part of the writing experience, and each one I received ended up being valuable in its own right. I often received standard slips which offered no feedback, but I have had some very helpful advice from publishers too. I had to take a long hard look at my writing after some of those rejections, and think about where I was going wrong. This was tough, but the resulting changes in my style were a direct consequence of those rejections. For example, following the rejection of Shadow of the Seer, one publisher kindly took the time to explain that the beginning of the book was too slow, and that my writing was stronger when I was describing action, rather than setting the scene. I took this advice on board when I was writing future books. At the time, Seraph had just been completed, and I decided to write short stories set in the same world and featuring the same character, but with much more happening and with a heavy emphasis on action. I would use these short stories to gauge the reaction to my writing, and whether my new style was more favourable. I still have great affection for these stories, and some of them are available to read under the title Dark Visions. They did help to restore my confidence, but it was a futile exercise. I never managed to find a publisher for these short stories and the other completed works set in the world of my dystopian fantasy epic; an illustrated story entitled The Thrall, and a dark fantasy novella called The Mists of the Rose. I no longer write with publication in mind, and since those rejections my writing has been a means of private entertainment as I work on a new career.

4. Finding Your Voice: Crafting Authentic Stories

Kelly Lefebvre took a similar self-reflective journey to find the core of her story. “I went back,” she says, “to my childhood and thought about what was hardest for me to understand. I hit upon a memory story in which I finally came to grips with an answer to a question I had as a child. This was important for me to write because it was a beautiful moment of clarity for me and it changed the way I was going to continue living my life. I believe the story holds significance for anyone who reads it.” This story is ripe with personal significance and is very close to an aspect of Kelly that she is still discovering. It is the kind of story that only she can write and the experience of making meaning by writing is certain to bring Kelly to new levels of understanding of herself.

In Finding Your Own Voice, Ric Masten suggests finding an idea for a story that is so compelling to you that you keep coming back to it over and over, mulling it in your mind, “you find yourself turning it into countless different stories, all of which somehow seem to ring false.” This is an opportunity to ask yourself why this story is so important to you. What does it say about your perspective on the world? What do you really want to say?

Amy is in the “should” phase. People keep telling her she should do this, she should do that but nothing feels quite right. It is a familiar place for those who have not yet found their authentic voice. Without a clear sense of self, at the core of the creative process, it is difficult to even know what you want to say. Amy recommends a meditative process of self-discovery to find the internal core of your story.

5. Sharing the Journey: Inspiring Others through Writing

At some point in my writing journey, I became more interested in supporting and inspiring others than writing for my own satisfaction. So I tentatively left my solitary habits behind in an attempt to communicate with the world. What I’ve found is a community of readers and writers who seek to understand and be understood. They are thoughtful and sensitive. They care about their fellow human beings. They truly believe that the pen is mightier than the sword. When I first began writing, I was often told that there’s no money in it and there’s no hope in changing the world for the better. I sincerely doubt the truth of this and whether I doubt or believe it, I find the idea irrelevant. The point is not to be the grand sweeping hand that changes the world, but to do something to steer it in the right direction. In my lifetime, perhaps we can leave a wake of positive change and influence. I do believe that to share our voice and lend an ear to others is an integral step. Writing helps to preserve this intention and is the first reason that I shared my work publicly. During past centuries, the writer has been the agent of intelligent social progress. Although this role has become adulterated, I believe the potential is still there.