When I was in college I took a class called Advanced Composition. My first assignment was to read Annie Dillard’s “The Writing Life” and write a paper in response to it. My paper started out with the basics: I wrote my first short story at age 7; went to my first writing workshop at 12 (a summer-long playwriting workshop at the Cleveland Playhouse); participated in the Power of the Pen essay competition at 13 (and didn’t win squat); blah blah blah… The gist of it is, writing for me is like breathing. It’s just something I do.
Since I have minimal drawing skills and a very weird imagination, if I weren’t a writer, I probably would’ve turned to crime or something. 🙂
Seriously though, it makes my day when I get a bit of recognition. Like when this happens: Original Steaks and Hoagies (the restaurant I reveiwed last month for the Examiner) put a link to my review on the home page of their website. Check it out here. It’s the little things and small accomplishments that make my day.
I figured out long ago that writing fiction isn’t for me. I’ve tried to write short stories (actually, I’m not fond of reading them, let alone writing them) and it’s just something I can’t do. My attempts at fiction stand out like personalised number plates in a parking lot. Not particularly good, not horribly bad – just different!
I’m more of a non-fiction/memoir/news story/article/blog person. I’ve been writing for over 20 years (that sounds scary, until I realize that I’m only 31 and am some sort of weirdo “prodigy” or something), and I’ve only recently been able to admit that to myself. Imagine what I’ll be writing 20 years from now!
(We’ll probably all be “wrtng n txt spk” by then.)