Writing means…writing, right?

Obviously, the plan to become an author would mean I would have to figure out this whole ‘writing’ deal.   It sounded easy enough from the other side, after all, how hard was it to read books?  That worked until I faced a clean sheet of white paper and the realization that a book required about three hundred of them covered in typing.  That’s a lot of typing, but I was determined, and I hopped into the idea.  Except it’s really much harder than it seems… I started innumerable stories, and each of them died in birthing.   A great deal of the problem was that I was trying to use a typewriter (Don’t.  I know the great ones were handwritten, or typed.  I know that Stephen King has handwritten a full manuscript.   But honestly, it’s insane.  Really.  Give up and befriend a word processor.)   But a lot of it just was that the stories didn’t want to be.   The usual length was around 10 pages before I gave up.  The more stubborn approached 20, but at that point, I was not going to finish anything even closely resembling a novel.   I filled a box with the beginning ideas, but none stuck, and I gave up… there were no complaints when my mother tossed the box in a move and those stories vanished.  (No, really.  They were bad.  Really, really bad.)

I got married.  I had kids, and as a stay at home mom, I suddenly had a lot of time on my hands.  And I picked up the habit again, this time pushed towards a computer and a word processor by my spouse.   His puzzled “You use a typewriter to do this?”  is still a joke brought up in the house, all these years later.   I started another, it made it to about 40 pages before it died, but that was easily twice as long as any I’d managed before.   But I was still struggling with the nuts and bolts of telling a full story, one with breadth and width, one that breathed and lived…


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