I am a writer.
This is not a “Eureka!” moment by any means. No light bulbs flashed, no lightning forked across the skies inside my mind, no thunder boomers rocked my inner landscape. It came rather more like an inspiration, a wisp of air on a breeze of thought, as I was composing other things, thinking other thoughts, being who I am so often afraid or ashamed to be…a writer.
I became a writer the first time I noticed the way the office assistants in the doctor’s office where my mother also worked wielded their pens with almost artistic efficiency. I liked the way they held those pens, the way they mastered them and subdued them to their wills as they told the papers they inscribed with meaning what was what.
I became a writer the day I noticed how my teachers used words like bullets, forceful and focused, and never spent, even when they were discharged from the weapons that were their lips. I loved the way they made those words roll off their tongues, the way their accents — and there were many in my younger years — massaged and made those words musical, magical, mystical.
I became a writer the first day I interacted with words on my own, in the books that drew me into their very hearts. Words that arrived on the ships of history, or the wings of romance, or the secret passageways of spy drama, or the guns of war, or the wheels of police drama, or the engines of science fiction and fantasy. Words with spokespersons such as Geoffrey Chaucer, William Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Alistair MacLean, Agatha Christie, Ellis Peters, John le Carré, Betty Neels, Barbara Cartland, Dorothy L. Sayers, P. G. Wodehouse, Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein stole me away from my teenaged world and took me into theirs — the drama, the poetry, the fiction — and showed me how writers negotiate a space for us to be who we are, and to be more than we can ever imagine ourselves as being. They showed me how writers create a world at once true, flawed, and filled with potential. They stole my heart and mind, invaded my spirit, turned me inside out, and remade me into what I have become…a writer.
I became a writer the first time I wrote something that was not meant for red ink or criticism. The first letters to penpals, when I had to sell myself as someone interesting enough that they would want to keep the correspondence; the long letters to my older sister, away in England training to be a nurse; the poems of teenage angst about my size (weight and height), my race, my hair, my dislocation, my loneliness, my fear.
I became a writer at the kitchen sink, re-enacting for an invisible radio audience, and for myself, the dramas I listened to on air (their names escape me now), soap operas for the ears alone. I wrote all the parts, acted in each role, directed and produced my drama as I washed the plates and pots and pans, and slid the knives and forks and spoons under the water. I lowered my voice to be the male lead, and raised it to be his love interest as I scoured the pots till they shined. (I hated drying dishes — it never took as long, and my stories always got interrupted by the last pot dried. And there are no stories in a clean plate!)
I am a writer each morning as I contemplate the sky, and my messed up nails. I am a writer each mid-morning, as I make pronouncements about life and learning that my students wish me to repeat so they can write them down. I am a writer each afternoon as my friends share their vision of me with me, in ways that bring tears and smiles and inspiration to go further. I am a writer as I go home and observe the flow of humanity along the highway. I am a writer as I read the works of those other writers who inspire me with their imagination and creativity and brilliance on here. I am a writer when I chat with friends, on the phone, in text messages, and online. I am a writer when I compose my sexual fantasies, my dreams and wishes, and plant them in the hearts, minds and bodies of the men and women I create.
I have accepted the challenge of writing for pay — VERY SMALL pay, but money is money — based on prompts given to me by my “handler”, and with word limits, and it’s as if someone has poured an elixir directly into my veins. I am energized, excited. It’s like an adventure for my brain. I imagine this might be something like what an adrenalin junkie feels just before he jumps off the cliff, or the bridge, or out of the aircraft, or over the side of the boat into shark-infested waters.
I am always composing. It’s what I am doing as I write this, looking for the next good word, the better metaphor, the best idea. It’s what I do when I watch my Britcoms or Top Gear (the British one), or when I am reading my vampire erotica. It’s what I do in cabinet meetings when the Chief Cretin is spouting the ghastly stuff that putrefies the air and chokes the system. It’s what I am always doing. I think, therefore I am…
…I am a writer.
~ KDB
Copyright 2014
This is not a “Eureka!” moment by any means. No light bulbs flashed, no lightning forked across the skies inside my mind, no thunder boomers rocked my inner landscape. It came rather more like an inspiration, a wisp of air on a breeze of thought, as I was composing other things, thinking other thoughts, being who I am so often afraid or ashamed to be…a writer.
I became a writer the first time I noticed the way the office assistants in the doctor’s office where my mother also worked wielded their pens with almost artistic efficiency. I liked the way they held those pens, the way they mastered them and subdued them to their wills as they told the papers they inscribed with meaning what was what.
I became a writer the day I noticed how my teachers used words like bullets, forceful and focused, and never spent, even when they were discharged from the weapons that were their lips. I loved the way they made those words roll off their tongues, the way their accents — and there were many in my younger years — massaged and made those words musical, magical, mystical.
I became a writer the first day I interacted with words on my own, in the books that drew me into their very hearts. Words that arrived on the ships of history, or the wings of romance, or the secret passageways of spy drama, or the guns of war, or the wheels of police drama, or the engines of science fiction and fantasy. Words with spokespersons such as Geoffrey Chaucer, William Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Alistair MacLean, Agatha Christie, Ellis Peters, John le Carré, Betty Neels, Barbara Cartland, Dorothy L. Sayers, P. G. Wodehouse, Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein stole me away from my teenaged world and took me into theirs — the drama, the poetry, the fiction — and showed me how writers negotiate a space for us to be who we are, and to be more than we can ever imagine ourselves as being. They showed me how writers create a world at once true, flawed, and filled with potential. They stole my heart and mind, invaded my spirit, turned me inside out, and remade me into what I have become…a writer.
I became a writer the first time I wrote something that was not meant for red ink or criticism. The first letters to penpals, when I had to sell myself as someone interesting enough that they would want to keep the correspondence; the long letters to my older sister, away in England training to be a nurse; the poems of teenage angst about my size (weight and height), my race, my hair, my dislocation, my loneliness, my fear.
I became a writer at the kitchen sink, re-enacting for an invisible radio audience, and for myself, the dramas I listened to on air (their names escape me now), soap operas for the ears alone. I wrote all the parts, acted in each role, directed and produced my drama as I washed the plates and pots and pans, and slid the knives and forks and spoons under the water. I lowered my voice to be the male lead, and raised it to be his love interest as I scoured the pots till they shined. (I hated drying dishes — it never took as long, and my stories always got interrupted by the last pot dried. And there are no stories in a clean plate!)
I am a writer each morning as I contemplate the sky, and my messed up nails. I am a writer each mid-morning, as I make pronouncements about life and learning that my students wish me to repeat so they can write them down. I am a writer each afternoon as my friends share their vision of me with me, in ways that bring tears and smiles and inspiration to go further. I am a writer as I go home and observe the flow of humanity along the highway. I am a writer as I read the works of those other writers who inspire me with their imagination and creativity and brilliance on here. I am a writer when I chat with friends, on the phone, in text messages, and online. I am a writer when I compose my sexual fantasies, my dreams and wishes, and plant them in the hearts, minds and bodies of the men and women I create.
I have accepted the challenge of writing for pay — VERY SMALL pay, but money is money — based on prompts given to me by my “handler”, and with word limits, and it’s as if someone has poured an elixir directly into my veins. I am energized, excited. It’s like an adventure for my brain. I imagine this might be something like what an adrenalin junkie feels just before he jumps off the cliff, or the bridge, or out of the aircraft, or over the side of the boat into shark-infested waters.
I am always composing. It’s what I am doing as I write this, looking for the next good word, the better metaphor, the best idea. It’s what I do when I watch my Britcoms or Top Gear (the British one), or when I am reading my vampire erotica. It’s what I do in cabinet meetings when the Chief Cretin is spouting the ghastly stuff that putrefies the air and chokes the system. It’s what I am always doing. I think, therefore I am…
…I am a writer.
~ KDB
Copyright 2014
2 comments:
Hi, Writer Teri. How's Writer Teri doing? I'm beginning to miss Flash Fiction :((
Hi Bill! I'm doing all right. a tad busy, but next week is spring break and I'll have some more time. I have done anything like FIAF since before Multiply folded! :) You're such a glutton for punishment! LOL!
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