Musings On Writing One's Truth

What do you do when you love to write, but you really stink when it comes to writing "about" something? How do you stay "true to your word" when that word doesn't involve anything "useful" like auto repair, recipes, child rearing, politics and travel tips? Does writing your truth then automatically relegate you to the ranks of hobbyist or perpetual blogger, unless you happen to be Dave Barry?

I learned to write when I was five, maybe six. Whereas I wasn't exactly home schooled, my parents believed that school was "inadequate" in terms of providing me with sufficient learning. In some odd way, you could say that I was exposed to a "normal" curriculum at school, and then would come home to study some more in a personalized "gifted" program, administered by my mother. The methodology doesn't really matter-- what's relevant is that I was writing at about an 8th grade level by age seven.

Although my parents always emphasized "academics," I believe my mother secretly hoped I would turn out to be artistic. When I was just about seven, she bought me some blank exercise books, encouraging me to "draw outside the lines." It didn't take me but a couple of months to fill them-- but the "mystery" was that I filled them with words, rather than with images. I thought the idea of "writing stories" was just a great thing, and crafted tales of talking moles and my teddy bear going to Mars.

Although writing held great appeal, and somehow offered an outlet for my rather vivid imagination and inner world, I really didn't consider the possibility that I was called to be "A Writer."

Well...

That's not entirely true.

I did consider the possibility, but my mother (especially) wasted little time in indoctrinating me into the philosophy that writing wasn't a "real" job, and that it mostly attracted "artistic flakes," and people who "couldn't make it in the real world," and-- besides-- you couldn't hope to make the income "our kind of people" were accustomed to. I was well into my 20's before I finally came to understand the scale of my mother's delusions of grandeur.

Reasons for writing... or not

I did take some creative writing courses in college, but found that they excessively were (a) about "writing to an assignment" and (b) that those assignments rarely had much to do with what I was interested in writing about. I discovered that I really wasn't much good at writing fiction-- my characters were always rather flat and boring, perhaps a reflection of my own rather isolated upbringing. I did a passable job of writing "research style," but it bored me to tears. What I truly enjoyed doing (and still do) was to pull random ideas out of thin air, and then explore them in the context of human motivation and relationships.

No, I'm not going to explain that. It would take me a dissertation to do so, and you'd end up going to sleep, and then I'd feel guilty about the keyboard indentations on your face. Suffice it to say that even when I was a preteen, I essentially wrote "commentary" and "personal observations."

One of my creative writing professors in college was a very nice man who seemed to genuinely care about his students. Often, he would take time to talk to us about our writing, what we hoped to accomplish. Of course, I was in the business school and not English, which surprised him-- it struck him as "wrong" that I seemed able to generate reasonably literate prose while pursuing such a "soulless" degree program. He would also wag a cautionary finger at me and berate me about my utter disregard for "the rules" of writing. Not least of which was my inclination to just sit down and write a piece from a-to-z without a plan, an outline, a draft or a revision. I'd just write it, and hand it in. In addition, I committed the cardinal sins of starting paragraphs with the word "and," overusing the ellipsis, and frequently resorting to three-word paragraphs.

I still do...

We talked about "the writing life," and he gave me an oft used bit of advice: "write what you know." I explained that what I mostly "knew" was what motivated people, that I could see their "patterns and paths" and how their choices influenced their lives, and how often folks were blind to their own toxic patterns. I was comfortable enough around him to share that I sometimes "intuited things" and "read people." He was comfortable enough with me to share that I had a problem with run-on sentences.

In a manner not much more encouraging than my parents, he eventually told me that it would "be a tough sell without a PhD in Psychology," and that I would "better off" putting my energy into something "more marketable" like regular fiction, journalism, or perhaps some form of non-fiction/technical writing.

I spent 15 years in the "regular" business world. I never enjoyed it much, and failed fairly thoroughly at it. There always seemed to be an alarming gap between what my environment implied I "should" want, and what "felt right." This annoyed the business world, because it runs on "facts and figures," not on "feelings." Still, I wrote newsletters, sales brochures, advertising copy, radio ad scripts and much more.

People around me said "You really oughta write a book!"

I often replied "About what?" and would typically get responses like "I dunno. You just write well."

Eventually, I eased myself into technical writing. I rationalized to myself "well, at least it IS writing," while being well aware that I was deep in the throes of self-deception. I failed pretty thoroughly at that, too (technical writing and self-deception), both because it bored me to tears and because I loathe self-marketing and self-promotion.

I kept telling myself "You've got to write something. You've got to submit some articles." Every time I tried to get started, I ran into the usual disillusion that goes with realizing that I have no interest at all in putting together 1500 words on "The History of Nose Hair." OK, so I didn't write about nose hair. But I did write a series of six articles on the history of fountain pens (among many other things). And yes, they were published. Was I excited? Alas, not very much... what I remember more was an underlying realization that "this really has nothing to do with who I am.

I was 42 years old when I found myself in conversation with a friend (and author) about my love of writing clashing with my lack of interest in writing anything "useful." She'd just finished writing a book about finding meaning in your work, and she told me something important: "Something is a calling to you, if you feel compelled to pursue it regardless of whether or not you'll ever be paid a single cent for your efforts."

Whereas that comment was no help in putting food on the table or paying my electric bill, it did make me realize that I write... because "I have to." It also allowed me to "let go" of the idea that when I wrote it had to be "for a living." And once I could let go of that concern, it became much easier to just let the endless stream of words and commentary in my mind flow. And therein-- perhaps-- lies one of the core lessons in writing one's truth: When you're not invested in the outcome, the writing becomes "real;" your authentic and non-sanitized voice can be heard.

For some, that voice turns out to be "popular," and translates into a huge commercial success. For others, the voice is esoteric, and perhaps UN-popular, because it points people in directions they really don't want to look at... after all, there are a lot of "truths" people would rather not be aware of.

These days, I have a few "main interests" I write about: I write about HSPs and their challenges; I write commentaries about the personal journey to self-awareness; I write about connections, love and relationships; I occasionally write about collectibles (because I make most of my living from them); and even more "occasionally" I write about writing... even though I know nothing about it. Perhaps it is very self-indulgent, but with the invention of blogs, I have pretty much stopped worrying about whether "someone will publish it."