“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout with some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing, if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.” – George Orwell
The latest issue of Working Writer dropped recently, with a very interesting front-page editorial asking ‘Why Do Writers Write?’, accompanied by a gloomy but pertinent quote from George Orwell.
When I was studying O-level English Language in school back in the UK, we’d receive regular creative-writing assignments which I’d go home and start working on right away. A4 sheets of lined paper and a biro were the only tools. The possibilities of the blank page were thrilling, and I liked making things up and playing with words. My parents had bought me a pocket dictionary, and my mum gave me the thesaurus she’d used at college years earlier. I’d hand the homework in the following week. Sometimes the teacher would read one of my stories aloud to the rest of the class. I think I quite enjoyed being in the spotlight. I don’t remember anyone else in my class being that into writing, or not that type of writing anyway. It felt a bit nerdy, and certainly wasn’t cool or trendy. I’ve since learned from an ex-classmate that they used to enjoy hearing my stories, and they’re glad I’m still doing it. Thinking about it now, I had it all: a platform, an audience, and the patronage of a wonderful educator. Thank you, Mrs Markey. All I had to do was produce stories, and that was the only measure of success. I wasn’t writing a book in those days – not consciously, anyway – but by the time I left school I probably had enough material for a collection. I wish I still had those stories, but they were ‘lost’ in a burst of over-enthusiastic reinvention in my early twenties. Anyway, the writing back then didn’t feel like a horrible struggle, or a bout of illness. It was a thing of joy. At least that’s how I remember it. But maybe memories are skewed. If they are, I wonder if they skew towards truth or distortion. I look forward, in twenty or thirty years, if I’m still around, to reflecting on what writing means to me right now.
It’s free to subscribe to Working Writer, and well worth it. Request a subscription by dropping a line to workingwriters@aol.com – the US-based journal comes out every two months, straight to your email inbox. No paper, so the planet will be happy.
In the current issue, I was thrilled to see feedback on my piece about writing retreats from the July/August issue of Working Writer. Thanks to Margaret McCaffrey for reading the article and taking the time to comment.
That’s all for now. Happy writing, if that’s not a contradiction.
BLT
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