Another irony of reading those three writing books is that it made me even more self-conscious about writing. I used to worry most about setting up my words so that my story was clear. I fretted over transitions and pace, but I didn’t worry too much about specific word usage. If I kept repeating a word, so be it. I didn’t think about nebulous concepts like tone, style, voice, etc. I just said it the way it came to my brain, and if it didn’t make sense to me later, I polished the text until the meaning shone through. After reading the books, I feel like I need to be doing more (a lot more) to make my writing good.
I have my own pet peeves about the way I write, and I struggle to remove certain weak words, phrases, and idioms from my repertoire. I question my punctuation. I look up the meanings of words to make sure I’ve used them accurately. That’s trouble enough. If I have to obsess over the “prettiness” of my prose, how will I ever get anything written? And does that very concern mean that I don’t have it in me to write good fiction? Should I stick to writing documentation as part of my job, something for which I have always been highly praised, and leave it at that?
The last few months have been transformational for me. Everything is changing. I’m pregnant again and soon I’m going to have to sacrifice even more of my time and energy to childcare. I’m not thrilled about all of these impending changes, but they have forced me to reevaluate the way I look at my life’s accomplishments.
Before, I felt bad because I had accomplished “so little” with my life and because I had “expected more from life and from myself.” I was depressed because my dreams were dying from lack of love and my goals were disappearing along with them. I wanted to hold on to them.
Now, I realize that I have done something with my life. I have accomplished more than some people do ever do. I got myself educated and employed, and I have supported myself financially since. I have a wonderful husband, an amazing son, and another beautiful child on the way. We have a great house that we are slowly turning into a showplace. We lack neither necessities nor luxuries. We are comfortable and happy, and we have put everything in place to ensure that our lives continue that way, maybe even to get better. I’ve learned a lot of lessons from my new family, and I’m a better person now than I was before, when I had all the time in the world and did nothing with it.
So do I still feel like I need to be a writer or a composer or to find some other way to make myself famous in some field? No. Right now, I feel pretty darned accomplished.
That said, writing helps to keep me happy. It helps to keep me sane. And it also gives me a way to record the events of our lives, something for which we will be grateful later. So I don’t necessarily know what direction I want my writing to take, but I know I want to keep doing it.
Perhaps the best thing I can do for my writing is to stop reading those writing books!