Gay Ingram's Blog - Posts Tagged "read"
ME? A WRITER?
Yes, I dare to call myself a writer. Funk & Wagnall's Standard Dictionary defines the word write: to trace or inscribe words on a surface; communicate in writing. I have always preferred writing over other forms of communication. I am not a telephone chatterer. When I make a call, it's “get-the-business-taken-care-of-and-goodbye”. In conversations, I'm the listener. The fact-gathering functions of my subconscious moves in slow mode. There are gaps and pauses as I grasp for needed names or facts. Sometimes it’s hours or the next day before my brain serves up the perfect response to that clever comment. But give me a piece of paper and a free-flowing pen and watch me fill the page. I have notebooks chock-block full of lengthy monologues. When marriage separated me from family and friends, I kept those long distant contacts alive with letters rather than phone calls. Friends and relatives receive long, chatty missiles. If I'm relaying some news, I'll give you the whole story.
But, when does one-who-writes become 'a writer'? I suspect each person's experience is a unique journey.
Over the years, I've written and/or edited a variety of newsletters for different clubs I’ve belonged to. For years, I kept notes of my gardening efforts. Not detailed enough to be called journals, but sporadic entries - new plants I tried growing, the weather we were experiencing, what plants had died or which had survived that unexpected freeze in April. Eventually these became a self-published book, Pages From An Herb Journal.
In other words, I had been “a writer” for years without considering myself qualified to wear the title. My writing was a means of sharing information, simply a dissemination of knowledge. I considered a writer someone who created stories or strung words together with rhyme and rhythm.
Coming to believe myself a writer didn't happen overnight. First it took the recognition of that reality by others. I remember my embarrassment when someone asked me to autograph a copy of my first self-published booklet Down The Herbal Path. My dismay intensified when she added, "When you get to be a famous writer, this will be a collector's item." That sounded so presumptuous at the time (and still does). But it did plant a seed of confidence.
Believing myself to be a writer took someone saying they liked my style; I didn't even realize I had a style until then.
Then, while participating in a creative writing course, the teacher said, "A writer is someone who writes." Such a simple truth! But, as I read books written by other writers, my self-concept of myself as a writer strengthened. These recognized writers shared their doubts and failures, their hopes and victories; their efforts led the way, spurred me on, broke the ground before me. These writers helped me to see, really see, that a writer is one who writes.
It took a leap of faith to believe anyone would be willing to pay me for use of my words. It took the special encouragement of a local writers group I eventually joined. I served for five years as the editor of The Roughdraft, a monthly newsletter for the membership of East Texas Writers Association, a great learning experience. Encouragement that made me bold enough to mail out a collection of words for someone else's consideration.
The thrill of seeing my words in a national magazine came soon afterward. I was fortunate. This early public recognition helped me live through the following months, and sometimes years, when there was no response, positive or otherwise. Having had the joy of being published, my self-image remains intact even when all I get back are rejection notices.
Over time, I've begun to realize there is more to writing than that mad rush to put your thoughts into words. Now that I consider myself a writer, I take the act of inscribing words on a surface more seriously. I feel the responsibility inherent in having my thoughts and understandings judged by an invisible public. I've become more knowledgeable about the proper form and structure my words should take. Knowing others must comprehend the idea and make sense of what I’m attempting to communicate causes me to be more careful in my choice of words and the order in which they are arranged. I have to admit writing has become harder work since I began calling myself a writer. I will continue to write. I will continue to learn my craft. I am a writer.
But, when does one-who-writes become 'a writer'? I suspect each person's experience is a unique journey.
Over the years, I've written and/or edited a variety of newsletters for different clubs I’ve belonged to. For years, I kept notes of my gardening efforts. Not detailed enough to be called journals, but sporadic entries - new plants I tried growing, the weather we were experiencing, what plants had died or which had survived that unexpected freeze in April. Eventually these became a self-published book, Pages From An Herb Journal.
In other words, I had been “a writer” for years without considering myself qualified to wear the title. My writing was a means of sharing information, simply a dissemination of knowledge. I considered a writer someone who created stories or strung words together with rhyme and rhythm.
Coming to believe myself a writer didn't happen overnight. First it took the recognition of that reality by others. I remember my embarrassment when someone asked me to autograph a copy of my first self-published booklet Down The Herbal Path. My dismay intensified when she added, "When you get to be a famous writer, this will be a collector's item." That sounded so presumptuous at the time (and still does). But it did plant a seed of confidence.
Believing myself to be a writer took someone saying they liked my style; I didn't even realize I had a style until then.
Then, while participating in a creative writing course, the teacher said, "A writer is someone who writes." Such a simple truth! But, as I read books written by other writers, my self-concept of myself as a writer strengthened. These recognized writers shared their doubts and failures, their hopes and victories; their efforts led the way, spurred me on, broke the ground before me. These writers helped me to see, really see, that a writer is one who writes.
It took a leap of faith to believe anyone would be willing to pay me for use of my words. It took the special encouragement of a local writers group I eventually joined. I served for five years as the editor of The Roughdraft, a monthly newsletter for the membership of East Texas Writers Association, a great learning experience. Encouragement that made me bold enough to mail out a collection of words for someone else's consideration.
The thrill of seeing my words in a national magazine came soon afterward. I was fortunate. This early public recognition helped me live through the following months, and sometimes years, when there was no response, positive or otherwise. Having had the joy of being published, my self-image remains intact even when all I get back are rejection notices.
Over time, I've begun to realize there is more to writing than that mad rush to put your thoughts into words. Now that I consider myself a writer, I take the act of inscribing words on a surface more seriously. I feel the responsibility inherent in having my thoughts and understandings judged by an invisible public. I've become more knowledgeable about the proper form and structure my words should take. Knowing others must comprehend the idea and make sense of what I’m attempting to communicate causes me to be more careful in my choice of words and the order in which they are arranged. I have to admit writing has become harder work since I began calling myself a writer. I will continue to write. I will continue to learn my craft. I am a writer.
