What I did this summer

 So where have I been since last May? The story is long, but here are the highlights. This whole experience has been one giant left turn, but I am still upright, although I may have a few dented fenders. Enjoy a recount of my privately painful, but encouraging summer.

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I put my hands on the keyboard and let the words churning in my head become tangible things on a sheet of paper. I had no characters, no plot, no dialogue… just words that rolled onto the page. It was easy, fun. The story began, the characters developed, the plot thickened. And then one day I was done. And my creation was buried for a time. Time for it to collect dust and almost become a faded memory. Then one day, when life had shifted into a different shape, I pulled it out and read it. I remember thinking that this wasn’t half bad.

 But what did I know? Like all things we do, a little guidance is helpful. Sometimes a complete education is needed. I needed an education. And I got one. I took a summer class on how to write a novel and it was akin to be thrown off the high dive into the deep end of the pool. They spoke a

 different language, they didn’t pull any punches when it came to critiquing my work, nor were they

short on suggestions. I felt as though my baby was being slowly beaten to death. Ripped apart. Some of it buried, some of it burned. My lovely, flowery descriptions cast aside, my characters shallow, unlikable. Even my setting lacked authenticity. I spent days in shock, unable to sleep, absolutely convinced they were wrong! They had to be, they must be. I fought every idea tooth and nail. What did they know? Well, come to find out, evidently a whole lot more than I did.

 Absorbing a whole new way to do something is like learning a new computer program and installing it in your mind. Restructuring a scene, creating tension, building a high point, creating emotions, it was like mixing together several foreign languages and expecting it to make sense. What do you mean I can’t “tell” you how I feel? “Showing” you is a monumental task. All new skills to be learned. They felt awkward, uncomfortable and definitely not me! It seemed mechanical, methodized, with no room to be creative, no place for my fingerprint. 

But I plunged on. Week after week, I learned a new skill. Week after week I “tried” to apply it. Sometimes I did, other times not so much. Sometimes I got lucky. I wrote, rewrote, edited, read books that were “good” examples, and struggled. I loved Monday nights. And I hated Monday nights. Another class. Another thing to learn. Another gut wrenching week of seeing my baby dismembered. And yet, over the weeks, I saw my characters become deeper, richer. The plot remained much the same, but there were improvements in other areas. Details, subplots, description, tension all began to improve. Perhaps the baby wasn’t dead, just bruised a little and would eventually heal and grow into something more interesting, enticing. Only time would tell.

Once the class was over, I felt as if I had climbed Mt. Everest and was now on the downhill slide. Coming down isn’t easy, it takes care, sagacity, attentiveness…..but it is easier and faster than going up. I now had a few tricks up my sleeve to make the trail easier to transverse. Of course, there are always crevasses and storms to weather, but I am still upright and putting one foot in front of the other. I suppose there is always the chance of being caught up in an avalanche, but with a little vigilance and a lot of wisdom they can be avoided. 

Writing. Creation. Giving birth. It takes work. But protecting my child from the difficulties of life doesn't help him grow into a strong, self-sufficient adult. Each day, I choose to encourage that child to grow, to change, to try something new. There will be scraped knees and bloody noses along the way, each of those experiences lead to changes and new knowledge. Battered and bruised, I plan to corner the market on bandages and fill my battlefield with success.

So the "wanna-be" author is still just that. But maybe someday, someday you will read a "real" book by someone you know. Maybe.

Just Writin' on the River Road