So, You Want to be a
Writer?
By Babs Halton
It was a winter's evening. I lay sprawled on the sheepskin rug in front of a log
fire.
"I want to be a writer," I said.
My husband sat in his leather armchair, pen poised over a crossword. "Do you
know another word for ‘spiny anteater’?”
Our youngest piped up. “I know, Daddy. It’s Echinacea," she replied, her eyes
never leaving the television. Her sister looked up from the book she was reading
and laughed.
"That’s an herb--
it’s not an anteater."
"Well, I know it's
something like that and I know it's not enchilada 'cos that’s a real hot food,"
she said smugly.
"It’s an echidna,"
I replied. "Native to Oz; belongs to the porcupine family."
"Wow! How did you
know that?" Eyes still glued to the television.
"Because I did last
week’s crossword and I looked it up."
My voice raised an
octave. "Anyway, to get back to what I was saying, I want to be a writer."
“Oh! That’s
interesting,” he said.
"Don’t humor me," I
snapped. "You don’t think I’m serious, do you?"
Now I had his
attention. "Why, of course, I know you’re serious, but..."
"But what?"
"Well, it’s not
like writing a letter, you know. It takes determination, stamina, and a thick
skin because you’ll have enough rejections to paper a very large room."
"So you’re saying
my work will be rejected.” My voice sounded like cracked ice.
"Of course, bound
to be-- it happens to all writers." He warmed to the subject. "Do you know how
many books Louis L’Amour had rejected before he had an acceptance?"
"I don’t want to
write cowboy stories," I said miserably.
"Okay! So, you
don’t want to write Westerns. I was just making a point."
I never realized
how much wanting to be a writer was about to change my life.
I threw myself into learning like a dervish. I devoured books-- classics and
trash at an alarming rate-- hoping the more books I read the more words would
emerge. I’m sure I became the fastest reader in the South Pacific but
unfortunately when I began writing, both my stories and style left a lot to be
desired (oops-- cliché). I also used too many exclamation marks to emphasize a
point (sometimes up to three-- I was so carried away). I read that one famous
author mentioned that if he felt like putting an exclamation mark after a word
he would lay down until it passed.
And so, days, weeks, and months passed and I diligently attended workshops,
courses, seminars, and lectures by professional writers, teachers, and rip-off
merchants. I used masses of exercise books to report what each one suggested.
Something I did learn was that with all the time (valuable) and money spent
(ouch!), every one of the “experts” seemed to be at loggerheads.
"Forget the
adjectives," said one, a teacher of English literature at a university.
"In my opinion,"
said another (this time an author with 100 short stories and seven novels
published), "it’s foolish to forget adjectives-- if you pare it down too much
you’ll have nothing left."
And yet another:
"You can only break the rules of writing when you know them well enough to know
which rules can be broken successfully." (Huh?)
"Write only what
you know-- write from experience," said a very successful fantasy and science
fiction writer. (Alrighty!)
Confused, weary, and a teeny weeny bit irritated, I pondered. Did Agatha
Christie really commit all those murders? Did H.G. Wells really step into a time
machine? Was Ian Fleming really James Bond and did he really make love to all
those women? Wow! Is there something here that I am missing?
I heard, "I like
your story very much, dear. Your style is emerging beautifully." Beautifully? I
blinked and smiled agreeably (no one can say I lack a sense of humor). "But, do
take out the fat man. I don’t like him, no, not at all. Ruined it, darling. He
spoils the entire story." The fat man was a “walk on” and uttered two sentences.
A budding Hemmingway loved my fat man and if I threw him in the wastepaper
basket, one of my most colorful characters would be lost to the world forever.
Tottering to bed at night my ears rang with "flesh out the characters, use body
language, create tension, show-don’t tell, talking heads are a no-no" and my
very favorite: "Don’t dangle those participles."
I showed my teeth--
but I wasn’t smiling.
Researching is supposed to be very interesting and the sense of achievement that
one
gets from it can be almost therapeutic (they say). So, away I went to research.
You name it, I researched it. I became bogged down in history, religion, murder,
love, and comedy. Thousands of pieces of paper surrounded me and to relieve
tension I sometimes laughed out loud which sounded oddly like a demented parrot.
My eyes crossed and swiveled alarmingly (Oops, sorry. It’s not politically
correct to make fun of eyes-- even if they are your own). My back ached from
hours slouched in front of my computer. My neck stiffened and I needed my neck
in good working order because it supported my head that housed masterpieces
(which still hadn’t emerged).
And while all this was going on my husband was commissioned to write a manual on
airport security and sailed through it as if he was out yachting on the Hauraki
Gulf. My smile felt glued to my face (no one can say I lack a sense of humor).
If this is what happened when you wanted to write… Stuff it, I thought. I’ve had
enough. I’m not playing anymore!
I stayed away from writing for about a month, seeking new interests. I tried to
bring out hidden talents (there had to be some). I would be a great artist--
have an exhibition of my paintings. Unfortunately my painting of a thrush looked
like a cross between an eagle and Quasimodo. Eventually, I surrendered to the
truth. I could only draw stick-men. My flower arrangements looked as if they had
been tossed into a vase. Plants withered the minute I touched them. The last
straw was my attempt to create tiny rosebuds for an iced cake. I really think my
husband went too far suggesting I used concrete mix. Enthusiasm died. So,
sulking or glancing longingly at the hideous metal monster which stared back at
me (you’ve guessed it), I crept back.
This time I did things at a more leisurely pace. I wrote, enjoying it more and
more. Everything became easier and I realized that I must have absorbed a lot of
the teaching, retaining what was useful and discarding the useless. I relaxed,
became less tense about my writing. Sensitivity was a thing of the past. I had
acquired skin like a rhinoceros.
I enjoy the camaraderie that writers give to each other. Why, only the other day
I listened attentively while another writer went on about how her characters had
a life of their own and did what they wanted to do
"I can’t do anything with them, my deah," she gushed. “They refuse to listen to
me. Do you get the same problem with yours?"
I thought about the
years of learning, of trying to understand everything that had been thrown at
me. The struggle, trying to remember everything. Writer's block. Tears.
Critiques that
stung like a sharp slap. Critiques that winded me.
And then I thought
about the help, kindness, support, and best of all-- praise.
"No-- I get very
little trouble with my characters. They do exactly what I want them to do."
I smiled. (No one
can say I lack a sense of humor.)
Babs Halton is the author of two children's books and has published a book of
poetry. One of her stories has appeared the New Zealand Woman's Weekly and she
has won awards for local competition entries. Now writing a novel (thriller),
she hopes to have it completed by early 2006.
