Every writer will tell you that no matter what he/she has written, hidden inside are pieces of him/her. That statement always seemed really silly to me. That's because all through school I've only written to get things done. I had due dates for reports, stories, then, eventually, scripts. While all of that was cool, it was just words on paper. Even in my creative writing class a few semesters ago, all I did was throw some clever words together and turn them in with a title. Today, though, I really thought about writing.
I hit my head a few days ago, and due to the sensitivity of my brain, it sort of put me out of commission. Even now, I've had to do all my typing in short bursts. At work, all I did was doodle on a page because looking at a screen (for work purposes, or, more importantly, pinterest and imgur) hurt my head. When I finally did sit down and write something, it felt different.
I finally gave it consideration. I started to put words on a page, and suddenly, they all meant something. I was writing a silly scenario that I thought up a few months ago. It isn't about my life, but while writing it, I realized it is my life. Not that I'm doing swim lessons, or taking a baking class (yet...just wait guys...), but the story is my life.
I thought back to the first story I ever wrote. It was about a ratoncito (a mouse) and a gato (a cat). It was a fable about why cats and mice don't get along. (Mind you, I also illustrated this...it was a masterpiece.) The story is entirely in Spanish, very basic Spanish. I was only 6 at the time. But I still remember the magic of creating this mouse that pissed of a cat... That story was my 6 year-old life made into a fable.
I thought about my next big piece I wrote. I was probably about 10. It was a story about getting lost in space on accident. (A game of hide 'n' seek gone wrong.) I wrote it down somewhere (Grandma might have it in my file box), but I also recorded myself reading it. I didn't have an end to the story, so I made one up as I read aloud. That story was 10 year-old me written out.
My thoughts came back to the story I was writing now. This story is me, right now. 21 year-old, post-college, caught up in the magic of life, me. Suddenly, I got very scared of creating that story.
Now, I do share pieces of me...all the time. Right now, for example. I blog. I post on facebook on occasion. In a way, that's all different. I am very carefully presenting myself to you. I am choosing what I share. When I write a story, though, I don't get to pick what I put in. Okay, wait, let me try that one again. I do choose what I put in, but not which parts of me show the most. I don't know if the reader will see the scared pieces, the inexplicably odd pieces, the silly pieces, the dark pieces, the loving pieces. And on top of that...will those pieces come across as annoying? Will they be accurate reflections of me?
When all of that hit me...the words stopped coming. I know all writers hit that at some point...that scary realization that you are stripping down for the whole world. Writers are some of the most open and honest people, now that I've thought about it. Also the most cryptic. We just reveal ourselves to the world and hope for the best. That's all that can be done really.
I wish I could say that just as quickly as the fear hit me, it left. That, however, is not at all true. I have 5 pretty cool pages I wrote this afternoon while eating a dreamsicle. (I may end up fat at the end of this summer.) I'm not sure I want to share those pages, though. I am proud of them, but then again, they are me...so of course I am. The only solace I have, is that I have a lot of pages to still write to get to my ending. I'll deal with the fear when that time comes.
For now, enjoy this picture of an old couple smiling at a sandwich.
(it's a cellphone picture...the phone was swapped for a sandwich. made me laugh pretty good.)