Friday, October 28, 2011
The only way of finding the limits of the possible is by going beyond them into the impossible……Arthur C. Clarke
I like to make a reader cry. I also like to make her laugh until she spits beverages through her teeth. I enjoy eliciting all manner of emotion in an effort to move one to action, to move one to help, to encourage, to enlighten, to think and respond. I like to surprise the reader, to be all nicey-nice and then to just toss out a flippant f-word or two when she isn’t even looking. What?! Did she just say that??? And I can do that here. I can do whatever I want here.
The thing I like about this blog is that it’s mine, that there are no rules, that I can say what I want and do what I want and write whenever I want. I can move, motivate, encourage, inspire. I can say what’s in my head right out in front of everybody. I can not write at all for weeks at a time if I choose to do so. Blogs are great like that. But you know that I want to be an author, right? Ever since I was a little girl having my name on a book has been at the top of my Santa list. Unfortunately, sitting around in this cozy little blog won’t get that done.
I’ve had lots of great starts. I’ve written books, completed books, queried those books, even told others of my intent to publish those books. The problem is that, in the end, I trashed those very same books. Let’s just say I’m great with an idea, but often lack the necessary follow-through and hard-heartedness necessary to survive in the publishing world. I also tend to doubt myself into a corner until I am left there sniveling about what a wretched writer I am and that no one could ever possibly want to read what I’ve put to paper. I have goals and grand desires, yes, but I tend to sit around on my big fat aspirations waiting for that dream publisher to magically show up and tell me how wonderful my words are and that television appearance dates have been set and that a nice fat advance is just waiting in my name.
Well. No more. In just a couple short days, NaNoWriMo begins. National Novel Writing Month is intended to get the likes of me focused and driven and churning out one creative word after another. It’s an effort to force writers everywhere to sit that butt in the chair and get the fingers flying--fifty thousand words in thirty days. Insane. But doable.
So, I apologize in advance. My posts will be few and far between for the next few weeks and will mostly be centered on the writing process. I may include more swear words, fewer drops of sunshine. I may curse my talent, pull at my hair, speak in all manner of self-deprecating talk. I may worry the very letters right off this page. I may appear at times to dread the fact that you stand waiting for what I have to say. But know that you are my reason for writing. You are my cheer section minus the cute little skirts and pom poms. You are my encouragement, my motivation, my self-confidence shot in the writer’s rump.
And I'll be needing that shot in the bee-hind as fiction is really just not my thing. At heart I am a nonfiction kind of gal. Nonfiction, to me, is nothing more than talking. I can talk all day. I can express my opinions, reflect, regurgitate until the proverbial cows come home, but to try to tell a story? Well. Not so much. To pull together characters and plot and dialog and such requires possibly a skill set that I somehow lack, a talent I have yet to find. We shall see, sooner probably than I care to imagine. I have been itching, however, to test my limits, and what better way to do that than with the words I so love to use.
So practice those back handsprings and get that pyramid ready. I am lacing up my cleats and heading out to do the job I came here to do. I am not quite certain of the outcome, but in true Tammie fashion am nonetheless practicing my touchdown dance.