Last week I wrote about how great writing is that which takes risks, and I invited people to share their thoughts. Mara Hansen took me up on my offer, and wrote this intriguing post on taking risks. (And, hey, Mara, I want to know what happened when you finally turned that story in when you were in fifth grade!)
Ever since I was a child, I liked to write things down. Anything really -- shopping lists, song
lyrics I liked, fake fortunes for friends, lists of boys I hated, poems, short
stories, random things I overheard, my name, etc. It wasn't until the fifth grade I was asked
to write a short story to submit. It was
a special project where not all of the kids were submitting something written,
but maybe something they had painted or put together. I was the only one to have written a
story. I can still recall the story: a
whodunit involving a clever dry-ice hauler and his hatred for his family. While I cannot remember more details than
that, I do remember the excitement I felt while writing it, being antsy to get
home and write more every day. I also
remember dreading showing it to my teacher and having it submitted to the rest
of the class.
Years passed and I continued writing on my own: keeping a
diary, still making lists, writing clichéd teen-aged poetry, doodling constantly. For the most part, I did not share any of
these with anyone. I always thought that "writing is for writers" and didn’t consider myself one. Yes, I wrote things and I enjoyed them, but I
equated it to, "Well, I can cook, but I'm certainly not going to call myself a 'chef.'" Who would care to dine on my
food for thought when I'm making hot dogs and frozen french fries when there
are authors out there serving up filet mignon with sautéed mushrooms? But I, as an aspiring writer, had one fear in
common with chefs: critics.
Nothing I've created - written, drawn, painted or played - had
risk until I had an audience. Writing is not risky; it's putting whatever I
write out there that has risk. Will I
get rave, scathing or worse: no reviews whatsoever? I’ve seen some reviews that weren't just
scathing, they were cruel. I didn't want
anything to do with that. I've got
enough coldness and cruelty in my life; do I really want to invite more? Even the 10-year-old girl runs no risk of
writing, "Do you like me - check yes or no."
That is, until she passes it to the cute blonde Bobby/Johnny/Ronny
sitting two seats over, waiting to see if he smiles and checks "Yes," or
crumples it up or worse; saves it for his friends to have a good laugh about
later.
The Internet however, put the kibosh on most of my fear of
critics. I've seen more opinion on the
Internet in the last 10+ years than I care to admit. But it certainly gave me some
perspective. Then my sense of humor
really kicked in and that helped immensely.
Seeing someone comment, "You write like my ex-wife screws: Sloppy and
without passion," no longer would make me want to weep and hide under covers,
but laugh out loud. Not everyone is
going to like most of what I write about.
No matter the topic. So, I'll
write whatever I feel like, and I'll hope for the best, I'll hope I've
entertained, encouraged, inspired or infuriated. And if someone instead wishes to say, "I want
the last three minutes of my life back after reading that," or call me a moron
or much, much worse, that's now my cross to bear. And once I realized that
fact, it was no longer a risk. And
because of that, I can write about things that range from stupid and
superficial to deep and meaningful to me with very little regard to the opinion
of others. Because I already know there
will be fans and critics.
Still, I don't like being dismissed. That's still a risk for me, no matter what I
write. If I haven't made someone laugh
or at least pissed them off, I have neglected to move someone one way or
another. But, in the end I just like to
write – about anything. Things that
strike my fancy, make me laugh or cry or think.
I never believe much of it to be good, myself. I still don’t consider myself a "writer," but
I'd like to think I've moved from hot dogs and french fries to a nice
casserole. Maybe one day I'll make a
nice soufflé. I guess the biggest risk
is continuing forward, knowing it's possible I never will.
Mara wanted me to share with you all that she likes mittens and lives in Seattle.
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