I’m a writer who doesn’t know how to write.
I still can’t fully explain the difference between Constructivism, Structuralism, and Post-modernism, and now – God, help me – there’s the New Sincerity to worry about.
I know how a story is supposed to go, and sometimes follow the “supposed to” too slavishly.
I have a better-than-average vocabulary, but often fall back on breezier words like “like”, “nuh-uh”, and “srsly”.
I can spot a theme in someone else’s work at 50 paces, but get lost exploring mine.
I think about my own writing a lot and how to improve, write more, write wider, but I don’t do much about it because I’m the only voice in my head and it’s hard to grow in an echo chamber.
I’ve been a lucky amateur so far, but if I ever want to be a better-than-Twilight writer (“better” in the literary sense, not in the financial success sense, however nice that would be), something had to happen.
And it did: I’m part of a writers’ group now, which may be the most difficult thing I’ve done in quite some time. My assignment from my peers, based on a writing sample is to “[w]rite about the things that you fear most. Be intimidated by the subject that you are writing about. Go outside of your comfort zone and explore the emotions/feelings/memories that you’ve maybe ignored or hidden.”
Right. That is so easy for me to do. Writers are all about putting themselves out there to be better writers. Nothing is hidden. Nothing is out-of-bounds. That’s me.
Ha. No, it’s not.
Let me tell you a story.
When I was a junior at IUP, I decided to spend the summer working at school rather than come home because I would be closer to my boyfriend at the time and we could spend the summer being in love and sickening our friends. The place I had been living was not available for the summer, and truth be told, I was going to leave anyway and find my first on-my-own apartment. Like any college town, Indiana had dozens of postings for summer sublets with the possibility of longer leases in the Fall. I pulled I don’t know how many tabs and left messages for all of them to have no one call me back. here’s what I said, “Hi! My name is Sean McGath and I’m calling about the room for rent. I can provide references if you need them, and I am going to tell you up front that I’m gay and have a boyfriend. I just want to be up front about that before we get too far into this process. I also want to tell you that we’re not screamers, so you’ll never know when we fuck. My number is XXX-XXXX. Thanks!”
Yes, I was that gay guy.
I am no longer that gay guy. I’m not even that guy anymore. By design. Yes, I was being honest and out there and truthful. But can you see where I went a step too far? I did, too. Not immediately, but eventually, the forthrightness and bluntness and words that would gush out of me like water from a firehose were crimped to a trickle. Now, I am demonstrative, not verbal. Putting actual feelings down on paper or across electrons is unseemly because it assumes that they are fit for the public to see or hear about and discuss. Or that anyone would even care to. I have probably lost a lot of dates because of this. Not for lack of trying. If you look at the post I made about a guy I have a crush on, it’s obvious I’m floundering to say something important and to say it right; the cracks in the crust that the words fall into to be dissolved in the lava below are huge and embarrassing.
Now I am compelled to write about me, which is something I have not wanted to do for a long time. And it’s going to suck. And my entries on this site are going to be wretched (maybe someone will even have the nerve to post and tell me so), but I’m going to do this for me. And my future millions. Which I’ll use to buy my family something pretty. But I’m not telling you what.
Discuss...
