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A Chicago area girl born and bred, I've lived in Mississippi, Montana, Michigan, and...ten years in the wilds of northeastern Indiana, where I fought the noble fight as a book editor. Now, I'm back in Illinois once more...for good. (At least I intend to make it that way!)
Showing posts with label the Muse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the Muse. Show all posts

Wednesday, May 05, 2021

Called To Write: What It Is...What It Isn't, Part 1

Okay, this is a post that's been a while in the making.
And some of it is downright serious, even heavy, stuff to consider.
(Don't let that deter you. Keep reading. 😉)

Since I was 10 years old, I've been spinning stories.

Not "lies," as in the tales kids tell to stay out of trouble (or try to get out of same), but actual stories. I clearly remember reading a lot at that age and being fascinated by the idea that you could just "make up stuff" and it'd actually entertain people. So I proceeded to do that with some of the younger kids on the block. Sometimes I'd retell stories I'd read; sometimes I'd make new stuff up. I even tried to write a "book" myself, complete with illustrations. (The less said about that, the better, but hey...I was 10!)

I point out the age at which this happened because I've heard, over and over again, how major "achievers" in the arts, or music, or literature, or anything creative, often have said that they first "caught the bug," as it were, at 10 years of age. The more stories I hear about this, the more convinced I am that that is a crucial watershed in our lives, whether we know it or not, and often, the choices we are intrigued by at that point in our developmental years become the things that "take hold" of us and don't let go. 

Music took hold of me even earlier in life, and it, too, hasn't let go. Just so we're clear on that. But one muse at a time is what we're dealing with here, and so...

...and so, I've been writing. And writing. And writing, since my teenage years.
I was the one the teacher always made read her stuff in front of the class.
I entered a national short story contest at 17.
I was the one my English instructor at Harper tried to persuade to change majors. (!)
I joined RWA, as a matter of fact, not so much because I was a romance writer--but because I read about the Golden Heart contest and decided I was going to win it. You had to be an RWA member to enter. So, I did. (And I did. Win, that is.)
I've come very, very close to selling novels more times than anyone should who hasn't gotten there more than twice (so far), and that with small presses.
I've worked as an editor, a proofreader, a ghostwriter, a writer's mentor, and a ton of other writing industry-related stuff in order to help keep body and soul together.
I love words. Anyone can tell you that.  Heck, I've been known to read dictionaries and say, out loud, to my kids, "Listen to this. This word origin. It is so cool!"

(Yeah. They get that look on their faces, too. LOL)

But it wasn't until I had worked an early version of my romantic suspense book CALLIE'S ANGEL to that magical point known as typing "The End" that I turned to my husband and said, out loud, "This is what I was born to do."

And, yeah, it sounded a tad pretentious at the time.
But it also struck a deep chord that resonated inside me.
And it was scary as heck to declare...even though I felt it, to my bones.

You see, I wasn't raised in the age of snowflakes and "participation medals."
I wasn't raised to consider anything I did particularly special--even when it was.
Which is why when someone gets all excited about a gift of mine, I'm happy--but at the same time, a little confused. And I mean that honestly.
Because part of me, a deep inner critic, is always saying, "So what? Lots of people can do that. And lots of people can do that a lot better than you do."
And trust me, that critic doesn't even take time off to sleep.

This isn't saying that I think what I do isn't worthwhile.
It's saying that, in the overwhelming majority of cases, I tend to think that any particular thing I may have done isn't important or  meaningful or significant enough to designate as "the thing I was born to accomplish."

But in that moment of exhilaration, my heart told the truth...and spoke it out loud.
And I've been coming to terms with that, as part of my sphere, ever since.
It hasn't been easy, or natural, or even believable, at times, to look at my life and consider that a) anything I do is very important in the end and b) the thing that I do that I love to do...may, actually, be "what I was born to do."

In other words, a calling.

But over the past several years, difficult as they've been, I've come to believe.
To acknowledge.
And to accept that, in truth...
...I am called to write stories. 
Sweet fiction in particular. Wholesome. Clean. And, in the end, uplifting.
Not because I set out to "edify" anyone...but because, at my core, this is where I live. I simply bring others into that world, too, when I can. 

This is an honor and a blessing that, now, I embrace...and don't take lightly.

I can accomplish lots of other kinds of writing, of course. And I do.
But these created-from-thin-air stories are what fire my blood.
They're what keep me burning figurative candles at both ends.
And they are--most importantly--a gift God gives me to share.
A gift to both myself and to others.
Engaging "yarns" to spin in my own particular style.
In a way only I can do.
Something pretty miraculous, when you think about it.

And that makes them, and my calling to pursue them, in a very real sense...important.
Not profound.
Not earth-moving.
Not "impactful" or "challenging" or "socially enlightening."

And it's okay that I'm not called to tell that kind of story.

This revelation has turned out to be the most spine-tingling part of this whole journey.
Because a "calling" is as much about what you are not meant to do...as what you are.

How do I discern the difference?
We'll talk about that in Part 2!

Thoughts?
Janny

Thursday, January 21, 2010

In the Throes....

...of finally getting back "in the saddle" of writing again.  Yes, I'm working to polish a submission for an agent, and yes, technically it's old work.

Only not really.

Recently, I read a tale of persistence about a writer who worked on a book for years. Apparently MANY years. She wrote, and submitted, and got rejected, and revised, and sent to contests, and had critques, and submitted, and got more rejections...and so on and so forth. During this time period, many, many people told her to give up the dream entirely. She clearly wasn't making it, so why keep banging her head against the wall? Others told her she didn't have to give up on the dream of writing, just try on a more "realistic" one; she needed to put away the book with so many miles on it, and write something else entirely.

But this advice, she ignored.

She kept working on this book of her heart. The story she needed to tell. The book only she could write.

And eventually, it did sell. I wish I could remember if it sold for some fabulous sum of money, or got her fame and fortune, or put her on Oprah, or any of the rest. But it doesn't matter that I didn't remember that, because the kind, or degree, of success truly wasn't the point of this particular story. This particular story was about whom you listen to in your creative ventures. What advice you take, which you ignore. What you keep on with, despite all the rejections and the "realistic" suggestions that could make you successful...but not bring the fullness of your heart to the printed page. And deep inside, you realize that the fullness of your heart on the printed page is the only thing that makes it worth being a writer at all.

This story is that book for me. Unlike this woman in the account I've read, I've wavered from my story's path. I've taken some of that well-meaning advice. I've tried writing other things. I've written whole books' worth of other things. I've even had some success with those other things...to a point.

But this is the book that's written from my blood on the page.
This is the book that only I can write.
This is the story that only I can tell in this particular way.
This is the story I HAVE to write. And write. And keep writing...until it's out there.
It is the book that has reignited the Muse.
And I'm not letting go of it until it blesses me.

God help me, I can do no other.
And I am having more fun than anyone has a right to. :-)

Thoughts?
Janny