Does every reader, at some point, want to write?

I love to read, but until recently, I only wrote when I had to. And I haven’t "had to" since approximately 1997 when FAT LIP Readers Theatre ceased activity. With rare exceptions, most of FAT LIPS’ pieces were written by company members, so there was a certain expectation to write, to add your voice to the script. While I took some pleasure from having written, the process itself was terrible.

Over the last few years, this has changed. I find myself thinking about writing while I drive or take a shower. I jot down little notes and email them to myself from work. Just ask stonebender how focused I get when writing. I say "focused", he might use the word "obsessed." I’ve sacrificed much needed sleep to write. I’m not sure why this has changed. Does having an LJ as an outlet for anything I write cause this? I read lots of personal blogs; is blogging contagious?

Most of what I write is family connected. My parents and all of their siblings are dead. Am I feeling the pressure as an "elder" in my family to write these stories down before they are lost, and if they are lost, so what? My family, my stories are not unique – strange sometimes, but not unique. Or, as I enter my 5th decade, do I just want to write to tickle my memory, keep it all alive for myself. This might explain the personal essays, but what about the fiction ideas. I’ve not committed any bytes to disk yet, but I want to. Today I surfed for local writing classes and workshops.

And it’s the process I’m enjoying now. I daydream about having more time to write. If dbubley ever wins that Big Lotto Money or if I ever retire, I know what I want to do. When I grow up I want to be a writer. It’s a little scary to put this idea out in the world or at least this little section of LJ World. I’m not a "magical thinking" person and I don’t think this will jinx anything either. Yet still there’s some fear with posting this and I’m not sure why.

Well, the "why" of it will have to wait for a later introspection. It’s after 3 am and I have to get up at 6:30 am. Okay, maybe it is an obsession.

stonebender's Present

Guy's Present
Originally uploaded by Gillygrrrl.

Here is the most excellent scarf serenejournal made stonebender for giftmas this year.

stonebender Looking Cool Sporting His New Scarf

Guy Looking Cool
Originally uploaded by Gillygrrrl.

Doesn't the title say it all. Sorry I don't have time to figure out how to put both photos in one post. I'm already late for work.

Randomness

What motivates a writer? I’m thinking primarily of fiction writers. Does one believe they have something so unique to say, it must be recorded?

Is the motivation different when payment is involved? I’ve heard tales of the pulp writers of the last century, when paid by the word, padding, when possible, with long expository paragraphs. I’m reminded of my school days and the assignments with a required word length. Oh how I loved to put two sentences together with that wonderful little preposition “and” – it was got me one word closer to my goal. And never let the title speak for itself, always repeat it in the first sentence. My other trick when I was a little short, go back over the piece and find places where I could add a question at the beginning of a paragraph. “So exactly how did I end up in the apple tree on that hot summer day, you might ask?” That’s good for 19 MORE words.

This word count thing isn’t where my thoughts started this morning, but there you have it, my brain at work. And since I’m at work, I guess I should be working. Now, there is a unique idea. 8-)

The Memory of Smell

On my drive into work today, CalTrans closed a ramp for repair. Flares were set to alert drivers and several of them rolled out into the driving lane. I drove over one and the smell of cap guns filled my van. I might be a 49 year old woman driving on a California highway, but for a couple of seconds I transformed into a 10 year old kid, playing cops and robbers on a hot summer evening in the Midwest of the 1960’s. The smell of gun powder clung to me as I hunted my enemy.

Heart pounded as I’d round the corner of the garage. I knew he was close; after all it wasn’t that large a backyard. The silver cap gun was stuck in the band of my pants. I needed both hands free to climb up the side of the garage to get to the roof. Could I make it before he saw me? The muggy summer night had sweat pouring off my forehead, burning my eyes. A storm was due in a few hours. My muscles tensed with the exertion of the climb and the anticipation of a certain death if discovered in this vulnerable position. I held my breath. Only a few more seconds and I would have the high ground and he’d be the dead man.

What happened next? The car in front of me braked hard and I had to do the same. Then I was at my exit. The memory, just like the flare/cap gun smell, was gone.

I'm a Posting Fiend

I think this is the most number of posts I ever sent in one day.

Now I'm starving and I need to go hunt for food in the "wilds of downtown Oakland."

EDIT: Mmmmmmmm combo soup with clear noodles from the Saigon Restaurant. And plenty of cilantro, hot sauce and jalapenos. Now I'm ready for the last 2.5 hours of my "no work to do" work day.