Currently my neck is cricked, and I’ve been attempting to do a bit of my own writing today to no avail. I sit and find a million other things to do, one of them reading a newfound favorite author’s—Maggie Stiefvater, I mean, really, how had I not heard of her before?—blog. I stumbled upon a post that struck a very deep and very right chord in my chest. I paused when I skimmed across a title, “Writing the Book I always Meant To.” I heard the same phrase from a professor last semester. The professor was tired of reading stale, flat, informational, academic papers. She told us to write the papers we were meant to write—I believe the subject was Goethe’s Faust, my least favorite literary worked that we had studied. I find it terribly difficult to immerse myself in a play. Needless to say I did not write whatever paper I was destined to by the fate about this Faust character.
I had a project last semester, a 15 page creative non-fiction piece about something that interested us. My immediate plan was to write something about tattoos. It began as a research paper but after undertaken a large tattoo project myself I found it difficult to remain objective while writing on the origins of tattoos. Not that these origins were controversial, but they were so, well, old. These accounts were stale and musty very unlike the wide range of vibrant tattoos out there. I feel that the writing style should in some way enhance the subject. It should be a reflection of the context. I wanted something informational, educated, something to rid myself of stereotypes so rashly applied to “us” tattooed people. I’ve been searching for the discipline to write more than short stories and poetry. I can’t quite believe in the fiction I write but I cannot conform myself to academic writing. I wish that I could write something more extensive than poetry. While I love it, I feel that it doesn’t tell a cohesive whole, and my definition of poetry has changed since entering college. So with that relationship I’m not certain where we stand. But the point, the point of this rambling is that I think I’ve discovered what I was meant to write. I’ve been attempting to write it properly for a year, and compared to this particular author, I may still have quite a ways to travel before I arrive at that perfect piece of prose.
 |
| My Three Year Work-In-Progrss |
 |
| Woodstock |
The story isn’t finished, not by a long shot. There will be more experiences and tattoos to be had. Plans are in the making, but not until the major project is finished. My artist says four more hours and then I’m free to go. Free to get Woodstock on my butt, or start my Halloween themed piece. Free to find the excuse to research Haida tattoos in depth, as they should properly be. Despite the long road ahead and all the mishaps and obstacles that will surely be along the way it’s pleasantly reassuring that I’m not the only one sitting here, tearing my hair out, and wondering if I’ll ever arrive at that earth shattering quiet moment of knowing that you wrote something, just right. Knowing this fact ahead of time, or knowing this goal in advance makes for shaky beginnings.
 |
| Haida |
Stiefvater wrote, “Because if it was about these things that were eating at me, it would have emotional truth, and no matter how great your plot or your hook or your legend is, if you don't have the emotional hook, it's just not going to mean anything to anybody else. It might be fun. But it will also be forgettable” (http://m-stiefvater.livejournal.com/217723.html). And I do not want to be forgotten. I know it’s in there, this emotional truth. I can feel it rummaging around in my gut, waiting for the precisely correct moment to leap out of the dark and scare the bejesus out of me and anyone else who might be around. After reading her blogs I’ve come to the conclusion that to be a writer, you’ve got to be a little odd. I find that I share some of these symptoms myself. The staring off into space bit I’ve got nailed. I hadn’t realized that characteristic was a career requirement. Most of the talking to myself instances occur when I’m reading a riveting novel and loverboy will look at me like I’ve started speaking in tongues—even though he’s the one who screams at imaginary opponents on a TV screen…
I’ll keep trying, sneaking secret moments, writing by flashlight in the dark—because it’s much more fun—or in a café somewhere in Ohio, in hopes that I’ll figure it out eventually. Meanwhile, I’m keeping my 2012 resolution of two blog entries a month—an attempt to write frequently for my sanity and well-being. I’m relieved to have stumbled upon Maggie Stiefvater’s post. I’m not so alone, and when I get to that pulling-out-my-hair stage and staring zombie-like into my monitor she’s only a click away. When some much needed humor and practical advice need to sidestep into my life for a few brief moments of much needed sanity I’ll know where to go.
p.s. The Scorpio Races is currently sitting on my to-read shelf. I’m quite excited to crack it open, now knowing the story behind it. I’m hoping it will cure my Stiefvater itch since finishing Forever last night.
