So now you know two things about me: I am a writer* but I'm not familiar with the seminal work on "writing well," and I'm not an intellectual with a bent toward government-sponsored talk radio. Continue at your own risk.
William Zinsser, I learned that fateful night, is the author of this classic guide for writers. Narcissist that I am my curiosity was piqued by the mention of a new chapter discussing memoirs. Zinsser is also the author of a book entitled Writing About Your Life, which I suspect would also be a smart addition to the ever-growing list of titles in my queue.
Two things I know about William Zinsser: He's a writer and he's right up my alley, because the titles of his two books leave little doubt about the subject matter. And I don't like surprises when it comes to subject matter. (Seriously, I don't.)
Tonight as I write this I turn (far too often) to Google. I like to have my facts straight, get the real scoop before I lay on my witticisms or profound truths. I think there is a comfort in knowing things, knowing what someone has proven before you without going through the effort of the risk of discovering it yourself. I am a master at collecting these facts and synthesizing them, creating something "new" without truly creating anything new at all. And so in the last five minutes I've learned that Mr. Zinsser has his own website (williamzinsserwriter.com), has actually authored eight books, is a non-fiction writer and part-time jazz pianist, and might've been a hottie back in the 40's while he served in the Army (hubba hubba). I've also learned that boy, howdy -- do I have a lot to learn about this whole writing business.
And here are two more things you now know about me: I am a compulsive Googler and WWII-era, bookish Army sergeants incite me to utter things like "hubba hubba."
But what's more important to know about me is this: I have a lot to learn about this whole writing business. And that fact, true as it may be, is the one thing that will paralyze me for sure. I can -- no, I will -- guarantee my failure right here, right now, on this Monday evening in October by suffering under the weight of what I don't know. Every unknown has been for me an ending, often before there was ever hope of a beginning. With few exceptions (only two that I can think of) my life has been one sure bet after another. One boring, safe, tepid sure bet after another, very much like the facts I crave and that are brought to me nightly courtesy of Google (copyright 2010, all rights reserved).
Lately I've started to wonder what I've been missing, though I don't travel too far down this path because it's not particularly helpful. Reminiscing over opportunities that never were is even more pathetic than missing the opportunity in the first place, wouldn't you say? But I do spend time now wondering about the chances still left to take. Is writing one of them? Who's to say. There's a great likelihood that these words will be seen by no one but me and those trusted few whose opinions, feedback, and insights I value. Most people, even those who count themselves as Writers (capitalized for authority!) on their tax returns (a sacred testament indeed!), never know such great success as Anne Lamott, Haven Kimmel, Elizabeth Gilbert or, yes, William Zinsser.
What I believe about these successful writers is that they must have done at least these two things: At some point they took a risk, and in taking that risk they turned away from the safety of facts and the comfort of someone else's thoughts, and they created something new.
Tonight at my desk, surrounded by a half-finished Tinkerbell costume, a recipe for falafel, a stack of expired coupons and countless preschool art projects, I don't have aspirations of retiring on the royalties from my Great American Memoir. Tonight at my desk I am happy to have carved out these thirty minutes to think and write and dream, and I'm happy that the Tinkerbell costume, which yesterday nearly cost me my sanity and my four-year-old her life, is almost finished.
And now you know: I keep a messy desk. I am a very impatient seamstress.
Oh, and this: I like to write.
*We'll see about that, now won't we?
No comments:
Post a Comment