Good writing can make you cry- now

Wednesday, August 26, 2020

It can make me cry, anyway.

Of the relatively small list of people I have as good friends, five that I know of, write. One of those has published five novels. Another one is close to publishing her first book. Another could and should write a book about her life but she doesn’t think anyone other than friends would buy it. No doubt, she is wrong about that. Another friend wrote a blog for a while, a very good blog too. Then there are a couple who just write in journals. It all counts. Any of those writing outlets qualify. All of these people I know who write, however they do it, or for how many or few people are aware of them, they are all writers.

I always had an interest in writing, but I was afraid to even try. Like my one friend who thinks no one would be interested in reading about her life outside her group of friends, I feared that even if I was successful in writing anything, what would be the point if no one read it? I have recently decided that writing is the most important part of this process. So what if no one reads it?

In 2013 I met an amazing friend, the one mentioned above who is making the finishing touches of her first book. When she told me that she was a writer, I assumed she must have already written something that I could find and purchase to read for myself. No, it was not ready yet. Her work was for the most part still in handwritten journals. She had made a few entries on a blog at that time, so we traded blog addresses.

For those of you who wonder what made me think I could be a writer, instead of just another blogger, it is her fault that you are reading this now. Ah, it is still on a blog, that is true. But, as I said, it doesn’t matter how or what or why you write. It is all about the process. That is what counts.

This friend told me, after reading a few of my blog posts, that I not only was a writer but that I was a good writer. I still have my doubts about how good a writer I am. But, I know I am a better writer now than I was when we met. What changed was that before I met her, I had doubts about my abilities. When a good writer believes in your writing, it can do wonders for your confidence.

I started this by saying that good writing can make you cry. And if you guessed that it was something this friend had written that caused this reaction in me, you would be correct. I had known she was good. I could tell after reading the first short blog entries.

I should have been ready for the blog entry that made me cry. It snuck up on me. I guess I thought I had gotten used to her style to the point that this reaction wasn’t possible. Why was this post so good? She simply described a series of short scenes that make up a typical day for her now. I found myself seeing every detail in what she had written. She had succeeded in pulling me close to three thousand miles cross country to view the scenes as she had experienced them. Of course, it could help in this case that I haven’t seen her since 2014. Maybe just a little.

Early on in our friendship, I spoke of myself as being a writer in a new blog post I shared with her. When she read that post, this was the most important part for her. She liked that post, but she was happiest that I had referred to myself as being a writer.

Before she moved across the country, I had shared with her an idea I had for a story. We talked about the idea a few times. She helped me focus on the early stages of the plot, telling me that my first plot ideas seemed a bit too unbelievable and that it was important to have your readers trust you and where the story was taking them. We talked about the overall motivation of each of the main characters.

By the time she knew she was to move out of state, I had developed a full story that I shared with her. She was surprised that I had thought it through to the end as quickly as I had. She liked the ending. She told me I should write it. Easy for her to say. When we said goodbye, she told me to keep writing. All I had to do was figure out the start, and how to get to the end. That process would take me another six years, always focusing on how to get to the last scene.

Quite a bit happened in those six years that proved to be a major distraction to my writing. But, those things which distracted me also were possible fodder for the story, I knew I eventually would have to write about. And if I could work my life trauma into the plot, I would only have to write about the trauma one time. Why not use them for the book?

And now, six years later, the book is more or less finished. I say more or less because I know somewhere along the line, I will make a few changes I have already been thinking about. I have given the book to three “first readers”, friends who had said they would be interested in reading it when I had finished. That was two months ago at this point. I guess they have lives that are in the way.

And I am fine with that.

It isn’t like I am thinking about publishing it at this point. The writer I know who has published five books asked me, “What are you working on now?” I told her, “Nothing”. And, I am fine with pausing at this point. Will I write more? It depends on ideas. What about this one that is all but finished. Will I publish it? I am not sure of that. The important thing for me is that I had the idea. I started it, and even though some extreme life trauma interrupted my progress, I stuck to it, even if progress for a time was made simply by thinking about what might happen next. Is it anything anyone else would be interested in reading? Hmm. If I take into account how long it has taken for my three volunteer readers to read it, it is probably only of interest to me and maybe my friend the writer, the one who made me cry.

The writer who made me cry so unexpectedly. By making me see and feel what she had seen and felt, by my reading a blog post from three thousand miles away.