Incoherent Scribblings

On Writing

Now that my novel writing class is over, I hope to have more time to write about something other than stitching here. It isn’t that I haven’t had time to write these past months, rather I felt that if I was going to write something creative it should go towards my novel rather than the senseless babbling that I do here.

So… what did I learn in my novel writing class this semester? The simple answer is a lot. However, that doesn’t make for a very interesting blog post so I will expand.

I think the most important thing I learned in my novel writing class was that I finally got over my reluctance to let other people read what I write. Now, I am sure those of you who have been reading my blog for the past 4 years (If there is actually anyone out there that has been reading that long!) are probably thinking, “What the hell is she talking about? People have been reading what she writes all along.”

Well, I suppose that is true, but I will admit that for a while I turned comments off because even though technically I knew people were reading, it wasn’t until they started leaving comments that I really knew they were reading.

But when you write fiction and people read that… well, it’s different somehow.

Granted, when I write in my blog there is a certain amount of creativity that goes into each post, but at the same time I am reporting what is going on in my life and my life is not that much different than anyone else’s. I go to work, I dabble in my hobbies, I show off pictures of my children cats, I complain about things that irritate me, etc.

But when you write fiction, it’s art.

You pour your heart and soul into this creative process. You think about the characters you create and you become emotionally attached to them. Some days when you write you go places that you would never dream and other days you can’t believe the garbage that has flowed from your fingers. You know the story you are trying to tell and you do your damnedest to set it free. Although I have never given birth, it is the only metaphor that I think can probably do justice to the creation of such a thing.

And like a child, I want to protect my creation. I don’t want other people to criticize it. I don’t want other people to make fun of it or be mean to it. And so, if I keep my creation safe and secure in my drawer or on my hard drive there is no chance to expose it to the unsavory elements.

But eventually you realize that by protecting it (and yourself) you might be doing more harm than good and so you take a chance and you let other people read what you have done.

And that is what my novel writing class did for me. We were all in the same boat. We were all telling stories that meant something to us and as a result, we were sympathetic to one another’s hopes and fears about our writing. Our criticisms were productive and the ones I received only made my subsequent drafts better.

Now, I am not naïve enough to think that everyone that reads my manuscript will be as considerate as my classmates, but I believe now I have a thick enough skin that I can take whatever criticism comes my way.