I am a writer.
In college, I majored in writing. Not in literature, or general English, but writing. I liked writing "creative non-fiction," whatever that means. The fiction I wrote was always based on reality. I tried my hand at poetry, which I wrote with enthusiasm and little skill. What was most important for me was the process, the practice of writing.
Back in those days, I didn't have a computer. I wrote by hand, in notebooks that varied from journals with fancy covers to spirals and 3 rings. The process of editing and revisions was crossing things out, a therapeutic action, and drawing arrows from transition to transition. When I first started "word processing" my writing, I saved it all on floppy disks, printing on these dot matrix things that made such noise and scrolled forward with perforated edges (what Urban Dictionary calls "kadoobies"). I remember writing workshops in college - the good, bad and ugly. Once an instructor accused me of sounding "too much like an Alaska Native" with my narrative voice. I was stunned and shocked and offended... especially when I left her a message on her answering machine that played Clapton's "Tears in Heaven" and ended with a "Qayaannaqpauraq."
I used to make sure I wrote at least 15 minutes a day, every day. Sometimes it was lists, sometimes ponderings or reporting of daily activities. When I finished I felt accomplish, complete. Then, I went several years with no writing, no journaling.... silence.
I started journaling, and then I started this blog. I wanted a sense of accountability, an awareness of audience that my private journals couldn't offer. Even now, the thought that people read this scares me, and the only people who read this are my friends and family - a pretty sympathetic and supportive crowd.
This week I had the privilege of working with a class of writers. I was reminded of the power of writing, of sharing writing, of owning one's thoughts, words and voice. I need to remember those things as I continue my journey.
I am a writer.
Back in those days, I didn't have a computer. I wrote by hand, in notebooks that varied from journals with fancy covers to spirals and 3 rings. The process of editing and revisions was crossing things out, a therapeutic action, and drawing arrows from transition to transition. When I first started "word processing" my writing, I saved it all on floppy disks, printing on these dot matrix things that made such noise and scrolled forward with perforated edges (what Urban Dictionary calls "kadoobies"). I remember writing workshops in college - the good, bad and ugly. Once an instructor accused me of sounding "too much like an Alaska Native" with my narrative voice. I was stunned and shocked and offended... especially when I left her a message on her answering machine that played Clapton's "Tears in Heaven" and ended with a "Qayaannaqpauraq."
I used to make sure I wrote at least 15 minutes a day, every day. Sometimes it was lists, sometimes ponderings or reporting of daily activities. When I finished I felt accomplish, complete. Then, I went several years with no writing, no journaling.... silence.
I started journaling, and then I started this blog. I wanted a sense of accountability, an awareness of audience that my private journals couldn't offer. Even now, the thought that people read this scares me, and the only people who read this are my friends and family - a pretty sympathetic and supportive crowd.
This week I had the privilege of working with a class of writers. I was reminded of the power of writing, of sharing writing, of owning one's thoughts, words and voice. I need to remember those things as I continue my journey.
I am a writer.
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