Tuesday Kuykendall

I’ve been reading a lot of books by authors that are so much better than me that I despair of ever writing anything anyone would want to read.  My kids tell me that it doesn’t matter as long as I’m enjoying it.  But am I?

My daughter told me: “We can learn to swim without feeling we have to swim in the Olympics.”

But what if I want to swim in the Olympics?

I read a lot of ‘self-help’ books with titles like: “100 ways to improve your writing” or the classics, EB White’s “The Elements of Style”, William Zinsser’s “On Writing Well” and we can’t forget “The Chicago Style Guide”

Then there’s the slew of less famous tomes– “Welcome to the Writers Life”, “The Practice of Poetry”, “Room to Write” and “300 Prompts” (I recommend them all).

Many of them start with some variation on “So you want to be a writer”.  They all tell me that if I have a compulsion to write, or if I have Something To Say – if I love writing (and guilt-by-association, reading) then I get to call myself a writer.

I’ve been ‘writing’ most of my life. I keep a journal, I have drafts of three short stories (Novelettes? Novellas?), and myriads of two and three pages starts of ideas I might write about someday, both fiction and nonfiction.  (Let’s not talk about “Hannahs Gift” right now, Okay?) 

I also have a long practice of technical writing. I write Standard Operating Procedures, Project Proposals, Analysis Reports, and Informational Presentations.

So, with all this writing practice under my belt, why is it so hard for me to find a better verb than ‘was’?

Technical writing is easy by comparison. Creative writing in the technical sphere is often frowned upon. ‘Was’ is a perfectly fine verb. We don’t want anyone getting too excited about the best method for sample preparation for the SEM. And One isn’t expected to contort oneself too much to get at the active voice.  (I thank the French all the time for giving us “One”)

I sit down and read “Project Hail Mary” cover to cover – twice, or Dirk Gently, or Seveneves or the one I’m reading now – “The Idiot” by Elif Batuman and after, I go to edit one of my own works and the sludge of sounds coming off the page exhausts me.

This happened after I read “Trust” by Hernen Diaz, “Lessons in Chemistry” by Bonnie Garmus and “Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore” By Robin Sloan. I stopped writing for months after ‘Lessons…’

Then there are the lifetime favorites that I read again and again, Issac Asimov, Greg Bear, Gergory Benford, Vernor Vince and more. Not to mention the nonfiction greats, Michael Lewis, Daniel James Brown, David Grann, Bill Bryson, just to name a few.

With all that amazing literature and fun science fiction writing – why do I bother? I can’t stop myself. Especially the past few months – with nothing better to do. Don’t get me wrong – I love this. I don’t want to do anything else. But I’m starting to understand a little better the risk to my sanity.

I will probably start a new job in the coming weeks. I’m looking forward to it because I need to be around people and I need to feel important and competent at least eight hours a day. But the seed is planted, the spark, the germ of the idea of being a writer has infected me. 

I write multiple drafts, I scan it with word editor, I run diagnostics to see if its readable (usually its too readable, like 4^th grade readable).  I set it aside for two weeks and try working on something else. I even tried running it though ChatGPT once to edit for me. All the professional editors out there campaigning against using AI instead of them have a point – ChatGPT doesn’t know how to edit. I suspect that given the way internet feedback works that will get worse with time, not better.

I might try writing but keeping it all to myself. I’m not sure my ego would allow that but I could try. Would that help? Could I keep it too myself? What if I write a clever passage that begs to be shared? What if I read something that inspires a new idea? My poor husband Bill gets put upon almost daily with these clever passages and fresh ideas. He’s a saint. 

I am pretty sure my writing sucks. But I can’t stop trying. Maybe someday I can get it to suck just a little less.