by
Judith Lachance-Whitcomb
Another
rejection letter followed closely by another notification deadline passing
without any “you’ve won” for me. I was
so sure this one would have gotten some recognition. The story was one that when I was finished
(rewriting for the twelfth time) made me think, “This is really good!” These
recent submission results lead to a ‘no good writing news’ Thanksgiving for me.
As I plop
down on the couch with my current read, I’m distracted by the question, “Why do
I write?” When working full time, I
looked forward to a time that I could be devoted to writing. I engaged in quite
a bit of professional writing during my career: a number of co-authored research
papers, science education magazine articles, and even a chapter in a book.
However, writing creatively was what I wanted to do when I had adequate time to
apply to it. In my mind, words would flow freely to create engaging stories
that would enchant. It would be easy.
Oh, yeah, easy.
Even as a hobby writer, I find that
rarely do I feel something I’ve written is finished. The re-read/re-write cycle
seems to go on endlessly. Since I choose to primarily write for children, the
constant pressure to utilize appropriate vocabulary to challenge but not
frustrate the target audience becomes very difficult. Additionally, I constantly struggle with
editing, both for grammar and content.
My mind works so much more quickly than my fingers. Regardless of the number of times I re-read,
my mind insists on seeing that which it had intended rather than that which
appears on the paper. Finally, I’m never quite satisfied with the story line.
How can I make it more engaging, exciting, fun? The end project of all of this
will be seen only by a few pairs of eyes belonging to my supportive peers in my
writing group. So, why do I write for a hobby? Other hobbies require an
equivalent amount of “work.” I
knit. Figuring out patterns or
developing patterns of my own challenges me.
The craft requires skill and a significant devotion of time. At least
when I finish with those projects I have something that I give away or wear.
The artifact will be seen and valued, unlike my writings that languish in
stored files on my computer. So, again, why do I write?
I leave my
musings to look at the book I’ve chosen to take solace with, I am Malala. This is the story of the
young girl who has come to represent the plight of young women who are denied
an education. The answer to my query begins to unfold. My love of language – reading
and writing – was nurtured as a young student. Through the tedious diagramming
sentences to the excitement of sharing weekly writing assignments of essays and
stories, a love of language grew. The way words could be manipulated to evoke
feelings from sorrow to glee was a wonderment. The excitement of explorations
of worlds I would never encounter became accessible to me through the words of
others. I wasn’t denied an education that allows me to read and write; I was
immersed in one. Why I write becomes clear.
I don’t need
to be published or win a contest in order to feel fulfilled from writing. I write because I want to…and because I
can. Happy Thanksgiving.