I’ve been thinking a lot about what kind of writing I want to do and the writer I want to be lately. It’s been plaguing me since I got a response back from my advisor on my second packet.
See, it’s hard for me to let someone into my writing process. It’s my process after all and the decisions I made on day one is not the decision I keep on day 29. So having to send a story I wrote in progress to my advisor is weird. And it’s also stressful. Because of that said involvement I rush to finish stories. To get them done and as polished as possible. In that rush the elements of storytelling give way to rush writing. Not a good mix.
And of course, had those stories been genre, it’s been easier to write. Why? I don’t second guess myself wondering if what I put on the page is literary enough. Is it? Don’t know. Should I insert an extended metaphor here? If I say some thing is like something else does it mean that I’m really saying that it is that thing or similar to that thing?
Too many questions. The only questions I want to ask myself through the process are about characters and motivation. Plot. Twists.
That’s probably why I’m starting to like genre better. It’s about story, man. Do I really care about the wispy trees in the scene? Only if it adds to the story. If it’s there to make pretty words, I’m not about that.
So at the end of all this turmoil in my writer’s psyche here’s the solution…
Who cares?
That’s what I’ve come up with for an answer. Who cares? I like writing. I should just write. And then that when I realized the pit fall of MFA programs…sometimes they suck the joy out of writing. I understand why. The concern. The involvement in the process. It’s enough to strip anyone of joy.
How to combat that? Just write. It is what it is. Not everyone is going to like what I write but I can listen to the comments and try new things and maybe it end up being a better story.
After all, it IS me at the controls. I decide the keystrokes. Everything else is just suggestions.
Dear Reader 