Oh sure, I can churn out pages and pages of opinion-saturated essays and analyses, but when it comes to writing fiction, I get a mental block. I’ve often wondered why that is, and came to the decision that I’m simply embarrassed to dictate the actions of others. And you can’t write timidly, or your audience will notice your self-consciousness and your inexperience, and dismiss your work as juvenile and bad.
I told my mother about my lack of talent in this arena, and she became quite alarmed at my statement. Not over my writing itself (she knows I write, and I’ve offered to let her read my Labyrinth analysis, but she’s refused), but over my low self-esteem in the matter. In her mind, I can by gosh write the best darn fiction in the WORLD! In fact, if she had her way I’d be churning out nothing BUT fiction.
You see, Mom doesn’t like it when I mention that I’ve written analyses and reviews of books and video games. Why would I spend all that time dedicated to writing about other peoples’ original concepts, when I can spend it working on my own unique and brilliant ideas? She regularly declines to see my analyses, and instead is highly enthusiastic over my fiction and poetry.
This makes no sense. I personally think that my poetry and fiction is rather lackluster. It’s hardly inspired, and tends toward the repetitive and redundant. My poetry is especially bad, and I can’t finish a story. I have a short attention span, so whenever I begin what I am certain will be the new Great American novel, I get maybe thirty pages into in and lose interest. I don’t know how to end stories in a nice tidy way. It greatly explains the half-finished novels scattered about my site.
However, Mom thinks that my poetry and fiction is terrific. This is based on her sneaking a glance at my little purple poetry book one day and reading exactly one of what is admittedly one of my better poems, Hidden. The last time she read a lengthy piece of fiction by me was in sixth grade; a horrible rip-off of James Howe’s Bunnicula, long lost to the ages. She thought it was “adorable”. She has also read Billy Bluegill (which is again admittedly not half-bad, searing plot holes aside).
That’s another thing; I’m my own worst critic. I’ll sit down and type a few pages, and think, “Hey, that’s pretty good!” and save it on my computer. Then I go back a few days later and re-read it, and start nitpicking. If you think I’m bad at nitpicking other peoples’ stuff, I’m brutal on my own work. Eventually I get to the point where my own work embarrasses me, and I don’t have the determination to save such a worthless piece of tripe.
What you see on my site is about 75% of what I actually save on my computer (of my own works, that is...I have plenty of Missy Good fan fic stored). I have several aborted stories and analyses that will likely never see the light of day, and dozens of half-assed poetic attempts. I still keep them out of a naive determination that someday I’ll get around to finishing them to post later on. I’m a pack rat, and I hoard my work like gold (though it’s mostly imitation gold with a shiny patina).
I’m also quite secretive about my work. Yes, I display my work on my site, but that’s only so I don’t have to directly hand people a couple pages of my stuff face-to face, and tell them, “Here, read this.” I don’t have to see their expression, and I don’t have the direct confrontation involved with such a method. I have handed out little pieces of paper with my site on it, and stuck advertisments on the walls at a local college (if you’re from my Children’s Literature class and reading this: Hi!), but I don’t go to coffeehouses or any public forum and read my work aloud. The ONLY time I have ever read my work aloud was in 12th grade, when my teacher insisted I recite Billy Bluegill to the class (of course, her calling me a genius in front of the entire class afterwards didn’t hurt my ego).
Gods know it’s not difficulties in logistics. I’ve read enough fan fiction and technical material (including a rather dog-eared copy of Strunk and White) to provide me with potentially thousands of pages of material. It’s not a lack of creativity...I’ve had brilliant ideas, usually during work where I lack the opportunity to expand on them. I jot down ideas as I think of them, and when I have the opportunity to write them out in full, by then they seem juvenile, uninspired, and embarrassing.
Also, a lot of my writing revolves around certain scenes. I’ll get an idea for dialogue, or a description pops into my head, and I want to write it down in full. Problem is, I can’t do this 99% of the time. When I do get in front of a keyboard, I’m usually blank. Rare’s the opportunity that I have for idea and keyboard to meld as one; the few attempts at fiction are comparative miracles.
It’s probably just my own inherent self-criticism keeping me from producing a classic masterpiece. Just wait; once I get over that, I’ll start churning out bestsellers every week. Of course, don’t insipid romance novels qualify as bestsellers? Perhaps I’m better suited as a starving artist, ignored in life, revered for the ages.
Ahh, I’m so unappreciated in my time. :)