Memory Lane and Writing

When I was a child, about three years old, my parents owned a fast-food restaurant. You know the white and yellow papers hamburgers come wrapped in when you order them from a burger joint? Those come in ‘reams’ packaged a lot like printing paper, and I used to take it and draw pictures on the non-shiny side (the shiny side wouldn’t take crayon or pen on it because it was waxy) and I would then carefully cut and glue or staple the pictures together and make books. I guess this was my precursor to self publishing LOL

I wrote poetry and personal stream of consciousness type writings most of the time as a child. Weird things, silly things, things that went off on tangents. I wrote a lot of poetry as a teenager. All angst-filled, sad, dark stuff, which was funny, because I wasn’t angst filled or dark at all. I was a goody-two-shoes kid, never got in any trouble, never rebelled, nothing. Well, at least until I ran away from home at 15, but, hey, that’s another story altogether.

I started writing romances in my teen years. I wrote my first novella when I was just 12 years old, a romance that would do Harlequin proud, if it were properly formatted and edited. Back then, I didn’t know how to do dialogue and punctuation properly, even though I read all the time. We are taught those things in school for ‘normal’ writing, but not for stories and such.

I loved to write back then. Of course, I still love to write now, and I’m writing better than I ever have in my life, but something is missing from my writing now. The words are better, the phrases are turned more eloquently, the formatting is perfect and the punctuation is spot-on. I’m really hitting my prime and stride with fiction writing and it’s just flowing from me in unbelievable ways.

But what’s missing? It’s not the same as when I used to write as a kid. Back then, I never shared my writing with anyone. There was no expectation of critique or review. There was no need or desire for anyone to read what I’d written. I wrote for me, from my heart, from my soul, deep inside of me.

I didn’t worry about how the market was, whether my manuscript will sell, or how many agents I would have to submit to before I got representation or to editors before I sold a story. I kept my writing in spiral notebooks and essay books, locked in my desk drawer with a little metal key to open the lock that I carried on a chain around my neck.

In fact, one night when I fell asleep while writing, my mother took my journal from me and read it. I was 15, and she asked me later that day if I was having sex. I told her no, but she didn’t believe me. I really wasn’t having sex, so I was very confused by the questions. When I asked her why she wouldn’t believe me, she said, “I read your diary.”

Ohhhh. I tried to explain how the ‘diary’ was just some of my fiction writing, but she said, “Seems too realistic to me to be fiction if you haven’t been having sex.”

Hey, looking back now, I take that as a compliment, you know? Back then, I was mortified she’d read it. I took the book from her and cried out, “I didn’t write that for you to read!”

I hadn’t written it for her, either. I had written it for me, and I didn’t bother if anyone ever read it, saw it, liked it, hated it, or anything else. The only thing I cared about was that I wrote it when I wanted to write it.

Back then, it was all about the writing… all about the writing.

That’s why I stopped freelancing. I clung on to the last possible moment there for awhile, trying to freelance at a few content sites and such, but the universe kept pushing me further and further away from it.

I’m finally listening. The universe can be quite insistent when it has plans for you.

Today, you might have noticed the name of my blog has changed. No longer am I “Freelancing & Fiction” with Michelle L Devon (Michy), but now, I’m “Fact, Fiction & Folly”.

It’s time to take back writing for me, just because it’s what I love to do, without worrying about whether or not it sells, whether or not an agent or an editor loves it, whether or not anyone else ever reads it.

The decision made, I feel like a child again, scribbling in my little spiral notebooks under the covers, using a flashlight to see so no one knows I’m staying up late writing instead of sleeping.

The joy and love of writing is here, within me, and all I  have to do is start tapping away at the keys on the computer to unleash a powerful creativity boiling inside me.

Of course, I’m still going to submit to agents and editors, but I’m not going to fret over it, worry over it, and most of all, I’m not going to write to meet their needs; I’m going to write to meet my needs, and if the universe deems the needs of the industry and my needs match, all the better.

If not, then that’s okay too. I am back where I was over 25 years ago, writing because it’s what I must do, want to do, enjoy doing.

I am a writer. It’s not what I do; it’s who I am!

Love and stuff,
Michy

PS: Read this forum post, and then leave me a comment here on the blog, and then leave me a link on the forum. I’ll come back here to this post and add your link to it.

Other Blogs on This Topic by Other Writers:

Gillian – Witchmojo!

Father of the House

Jennifer “Why I Write” Wright!

Sharks Can Write? Talented Sharky!

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