Musings of a Writer - Introducing my New Motto

Last Summer - Field of Dreams

The other day I was walking with my friend, Jenny. We were hiking my dog around our normal 2-mile loop idealistically called the "Field of Dreams." A group of college girls preparing for a track meet ran by us several times. Jenny had no clue who they were, but whooped and hollered, cheering them on all three times they passed us during our hike. She apologized for her outgoing-ness and said she hoped I wasn't too embarrassed. Fact is, I WISH I felt free enough to whoop and holler. I'm just not like that. I'm cheering them on inside, yet the sound is hesitant to leave my heart and escape from my throat. In my years, though, I've tried forcing myself to get those yells out, for whatever reason, and I've learned that it just isn't me. Just as I know I'll never feel truly comfortable praying aloud in a group, and that's okay.

I feel that way in writing, too. I adore reading poetry, and the words speak to me like intricate quilts that wrap me in art and history. But when I attempt to write it, all it tells me is that I ought to keep my pen to myself. I read "A Ring of Endless Light" by Madeline L'Engle last week, sobbing my way through the last chapters, not just for the sad turn of the story but also for the strength and beauty of the writing. Why can't I write like that? Why can't I weave politics through my stories like Chaim Potok, encouraging readers to reach out and aid a struggling world? Why can't I delight readers with whimsical puzzles and tidbits of fascinating information like Jen Funk Weber? Why do I eat a fabulous meal and say, "Wow, that was great" when writers such as Linda Covella describe each bite in a manner that gets a reader drooling?

It's because I'm me. And that's not a bad thing, either. It's boring, I know, but someone needs to take intricate concepts and put them in layman's terms. I can do that. Someone needs to help filmmakers and actors publicize their art, appreciating their work without being awe and star-struck. I can do that. And it's okay. It takes all sorts of writers to make the world go 'round.

Sooooooooo. I've decided this weekend that from here on out I'm going to continue reading other authors with awe, but I'm going to stop trying to figure out how I can weave their style into my writing. Awe, not envy. It's my new reading/writing motto.

(I'm still going to write my poetry on the side, though, even if I do stink at it - but I promise that I won't make others read it.)