I love to write. I’ve thought of myself as a writer for some time now, ever since my first teaching article was published back in 2001. For some reason it took that acceptance for me to say out loud that I’m a writer. I’d kept journals forever, but that was just my journal. Just my journal. Now I have published a few other things, and it’s definitely an “open a vein and write” kind of thing to get an article ready for submission. I eliminate every unnecessary word, crafting them to as much precision I can achieve.
That kind of writing is great for professional articles or a Master’s Degree thesis, but not for writing fiction, or anything creative. As I slog along through my current NaNoWriMo novel, I am realizing that I’m not a good fiction writer. I am so accustomed to being spare with my words for professional articles that my recreational writing is boring. Maybe that’s just an excuse for not being the kind of writer I want to be. This month I am so denigrating of what I am writing that I don’t even want to do it. I am a wannabe, and it’s making me feel low.
Maybe this slogging has a purpose other than to make me feel dumb! Maybe I’ll come out on the other side with some new understanding about myself as a writer. Maybe I should take a creative writing class somewhere. I want to be good at writing for pleasure and change, but may need some help to get there. Funny it took this long to really realize (like grok it) this about writing for different purposes.
Just my journal, indeed. That is some of my best writing.