Where does writing begin?

the front of a card made by my mom–a self-portrait

We all have a story why we write or make art or create whatever it is we create. How far back does the story go?

Does my story go back to the first book I fell in love with? (Watership Down) Does it go back to my mother’s love of books? My grandmother’s love of books?

Does it have anything to do with books at all?

Does it go back to rarely being listen to and hardly ever believed?
Does it go back to my dad making up stories about the world around us?
Does it go back to my DNA coming together in just the right way?

Is a writer’s brain wired differently? Or does writing rewire the brain?

Does it go back to trying to remember something I forgot or back to trying to forget what I don’t want to remember? If you retell a story often enough, do you forget which version is true?

How true is your memory anyway?

How did you come to love books? (If you’re reading this I can’t help but think you love books. Am I wrong?)

It can’t be simply because you grew up surrounded by books. If you did. Some people discover books away from their home. They don’t grow up in a house filled with books, and yet they become writers.

I grew up in my father’s house. He had few books. he couldn’t read well. He had a Bible, a few Time/Life books, a dictionary, and a copy of Huck Finn. That was it.

My mother didn’t have many books in her apartment because she had no money for books and moved all the time. But she was always reading library and cheap used paperbacks that she’d sell. Grandmother didn’t have many books because she didn’t like the dust. She hated to dust. She didn’t buy many things because they’d have to be dusted. But she read library books all the time, took me with her, and if a librarian wouldn’t let me check out a book, my grandmother would check the book out for me.

I have hundreds of books. We have so many book cases and still I don’t have enough room for my books. But I can’t bring myself to get rid of them. I don’t notice the dust.

But shelves of books alone won’t make you a writer.

What makes you a writer?

The Power of Words and the Paper They’re Printed on

Write the right thing. I found this video over at angelinelajeunesse. I don’t know her blog well, yet, but I came across her on a facebook group–writers unboxed. Come join me over there sometime.

Anyway, how you word things obviously matters or you wouldn’t write. And the words we choose shape our perceptions. If the written word didn’t matter, why would we fight so over holy books? And how many writers would want their words changed by an editor?

I’ve been sharing a lot of words about the whole self-publish or traditionally published debate. I rule out nothing for my future. Ruling out anything for the future would be foolish since we have no idea what the future will look like.

This discussion has brought my debating side. There are people I can never debate with. What is it about some people you can debate with and still be friends, and other people any disagreement is like a death? I don’t know. But this publishing debate has given me lots to think about.

I’m a romantic when it comes to books.

My grandmother lived across the street from a bowling alley. If you walked through the bowling alley’s parking lot to the main boulevard and dashed across, you would be at a strip mall complete with Publix, Duff’s Smorgasboard, and Daper Dan’s ice cream parlor. The shopping center also had a gift shop. The gift shop sold the usual trinkets, candles, wind chimes, and cards. They also had a corner of books.

I would get permission to walk over by myself and then sit on the floor in front of section of books and spend an unreasonable amount of time deciding which book to spend my few dollars on. I read the backs of many paperbacks, pick my favorites, and set them down on the floor. With books in a row on the floor, I sat cross-legged and stared at the covers. I loved this cover and that cover. Eventually, I had both books, and sometimes I would stop reading just to look at the cover.

And in 2000 my husband and I were in New Orleans. Across from our hotel was a used bookshop. It was dim, dusty, tiny bookshop. We spent an afternoon scanning the shelves. I was crawling on my knees, investigating piles and boxes of books. Going back to where I started to look over the shelves again in case I missed something. I’d pull books from underneath others to see what the book really was. After much inner turmoil I picked Salman Rushdie’s book on The Wizard of Oz. The man sitting on a stool at the counter said, “You love books.”

“Oh, I do.”

“I could tell by the way you kept looking over each shelf, really looking. You’ll love your books,” he said.

And then there came the day I found a book I’d been searching for for years. I found it in a used bookshop in Chapel Hill, and when I saw it, I squealed. I ran to my friend, jumped up and down and caused quite a few heads to turn. “OH MY GOD!! I LOVE THIS BOOK!!” After embarrassing my friend, I leapt to the counter and was still jumping up and down when I paid for it. I hugged the book to my chest. And I discovered it was signed.

If my apartment caught on fire right now and I could save only one book, this would be the one.

Physical books are artifacts. What will we leave behind in this digital age? What treasures will we find scrolling down a screen? I guess every generation has to moan the passing of what they know. My son has many books, but surely he will grow up more comfortable with e-books, but I don’t think I’m ever going to hug a Kindle.

But who knows?

When the world is digital, what will you miss?