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SCA's avatar

I enjoyed this tremendously, partly for ignoble reasons but never mind.

When I was quite young I was "going to be a writer someday." Everyone praised my command of written English. I did wonderfully in any classes requiring its use, and could pass essay-question exams by writing paragraphs that were beautifully expressed even if they had almost no actual information in them.

I skated on that "gonna be a writer" pond for years. I attended a poetry workshop weekend where a well-known poet praised my work, and I kept skating, warm in the glow of affirmation. All I really did was keep reading.

But worms were starting to eat that apple which had always nourished me well. There were the books I considered perfect, because every word felt right. But more and more I couldn't get through two pages without painfully noticing how often I felt the author had chosen words badly. I couldn't get past that to just enjoy the story. This was happening with some highly-renowned authors I'd grown up on and had revered all my reading life.

I'd always lived with the fear that I was an excellent critic but had nothing original to create myself. I was convinced I could never write dialogue. If I didn't have much to say, how could my characters?

Finally I got to the point where it was put up or shut up. If I thought I knew better than, say, Asimov on how to write a good story, I'd better stop somedaying about it and try.

Fortunately a very painful life event gave me the fuel of fury and the exquisite revenge of being able to do on virtual paper what really ought not to be done for real. Within not too long, in the scheme of things, my stories began to be accepted by webzines and some strangers, who had no obligation or need by courtesy to say nice things about my stuff, really liked them. I had become, in the early flowering of my not-entirely mature years, an author. Heady drug.

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Kathleen McCook's avatar

Encouraging others is rare. Thank you.

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