Why I Am Not a Writer

I am a mediocre cook, not very athletic (certainly not now), pretty hopeless in the tech arena, no decorating sense, and consistently failed Spatial Relations on my achievement tests throughout childhood. I am not whining…just stating facts. I have a few gifts or skills or whatever descriptive term applies. I love people. I love listening to their stories, their struggles, their joys, and being a friend to them. I have always loved words and language. My aunts and uncles tell me that I talked early and a lot. If there were no one beside me to talk, I would pick up the old black rotary telephone at my grandmother’s house and have extended conversations with imaginary people at the other end. I fell in love with books before I could read them. I have always considered it a sort of miracle that a blank page could become “alive” with the stroke of a pen or the click of typewriter (dating myself with that) keys. The words can be uplifting, mean, descriptive, accusing, mysterious, false, useless, important, poetic, delightful….whatever the writer intends or at times does not intend. I was proficient at grammar but also understood that it depended on what was being written as to the importance of being grammatically perfect.

Although I dearly love reading fiction of all kinds, it was not the genre at which I was best. As a child, the comics or “funny papers” were a daily delight. On Sundays, they were in color. My favorite for years was “Brenda Starr, Girl Reporter.” Brenda was gorgeous, with flowing auburn hair akin to that of Maureen O’Hara. She had a mysterious boyfriend named Basil St John. They would meet in exotic locations around the world while she covered important world events or did investigative reporting. I can’t remember what Basil did. He also had a black eye patch, which added to his mystique and makes me think, musing on the past, that perhaps he was a mercenary (for good causes, of course) or a solider of fortune. Now that was for me. I waited eagerly each week for the next little five or six block strip and determined that I would be a real Brenda Starr, probably for the New York Times. Yes, back then, it was a real newspaper and highly respected. I am an unabashed news hound and always will be, so don’t waste your time telling me not to read or watch coverage. It won’t happen. I also possess pretty good discernment as to what is factually based or just agenda-pushing.

Fast forward some years. Life happened. Some of it was completely beyond my control, some was my letting life push me around and either by default or deliberation, abandon certain hopes and ambitions. Again, no whining here. This is just the story. I regret not a moment of the life I had raising my children with Jim here in our little town. During all of those years, I could have done things to “keep up with ” or hone my writing skills. I just honestly did not have the physical energy. That has always been a problem for me. Now, at 71, however, I cannot call myself a writer. I do occasionally do this little blog, but here is why I am not a writer: a writer writes…..compulsively, regularly, whether the dishes or piled dirty in the sink or the dust sits heavily on the furniture, or gee, I guess I need to think about dinner.

A writer writes bluntly and honestly, without regard as to any toes that might be stepped on. I do not mean a writer has to be deliberately cruel or insulting. But whether one is reporting on news events or writing biographically or writing fiction based on real people, it is an inferior effort if truth or reality is glossed over or revised. I always tell young people to read a lot and include books and articles which contain worldviews and opinions contrary to their own or what they have been taught. Don’t be afraid. Develop critical thinking. I am a Christian, so of course, I believe that if you are grounded in the Judeo-Christian view, you have a solid foundation from which to analyze writing from any source and to just enjoy wonderful literature.

A writer knows that he or she will be on the receiving end of both compliments and insults; that is inevitable. That I can handle; I always have been able to not take personal offense and often even see the reason the other person is of his or her opinion. I suppose it is good that I am not attempting to be a real writer now, at this age and in this present world climate. I am not sure I have the physical or emotional energy to resurrect Brenda Starr. But it’s okay. I am content to observe, to run it all around in my mind, to watch it play out in what is likely at least the beginning of events that God has said will happen on this earth.

I don’t know what happened to Brenda and the handsome Basil. They would be very old or now or dead! But that is another wonderful thing about writing, even if it is a comic strip in the Sunday paper (I don’t think they exist anymore): in my imagination, she still seeks out history being made and communicates it to the world and then sits down for a cocktail with her guy somewhere out there. I am not qualified to tell anyone how to become a “successful writer.” But if someone were to ask me, likely a young person who likes to string words together in a coherent/meaningful and/or pleasing way, I would say, “Just write….every day or almost that…..read other people’s writing., too…but just write.” As for me, I will keep on reading everything , occasionally penning a blog, and loving words.