Saturday, October 20, 2012

Writing Disillusionment

I've been reading The Hunger Games. As I'm reading I'm asking myself "What makes me think I can be a writer?" I mean, the writing is grabbing and engrossing. It's not Shakespeare or James Joyce, but it's not trying to be. It's just being what it is. And it's riveting. That's the competition we writers are up against. Not that it's a competition between writers for readers, but a competition between just writing, writing well, and writing superbly. It's a competition within yourself to reach for a higher goal. No doubt, Suzanne Collins had a team of editors, proofreaders, etc., to help her book reach the peak of perfection, which most of us don't have--yet. But, still, the book is hers; the idea, the execution, the final product is hers. I feel so much like a poor, inferior writer compared to her. Is that a dangerous thing for me as a writer? Help me to understand.

Friday, October 19, 2012

Mormon Writers

Something I've noticed. A lot of writers I follow are Mormons. Many of them live in Utah (naturally). What is it about Mormonism that creates so many writers? And most of you seem to be YA/Scifi writers. What's with that? Please respond. I'm curious.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Humpty Dumpty

I clearly have the memory, around age 4, of lying in bed in the dark. I believe my parents and sister also slept in their own beds in the same room, as it was a very small house. As I looked toward the window, there was Humpty Dumty sitting on the window seal, filling up the window.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Did I exist?

Tanya Reimer brought up a good point in her comment on my post. If you don't remember it, does that mean it didn't happen? So, I'm in a dilemma here. You see, I don't remember anything from age 3 or 4. Does this mean nothing happened? Does it mean I didn't exist at that time? I think something did happen at age 3 and 4, because my parents tell me so. (Does that give me legitimacy?) They tell me they bought me a dog. They called him Jip, because they paid so much for him. And I ran over him with my tricycle (he lived, no serious injury). I do not remember this. It did not happen.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Memories. Mind Over Matter?

When I was three or four years old, I was playing in the sand outside the three-decker house I lived in. It was a nice sunny day, not a foggy day, or rainy day, or dark day, but a clear warm day in Jacksonville, Florida, and I was playing in the sand with another boy, a black boy. I remember this distinctly. There is not a shadow of a doubt in my mind. My parents say it never happened. In 1949 or 1950 it would have been highly unusual. But I remember it. Did it happen? Or is my mind playing tricks on me? Am I confusing one thing with another? Am I merging memories that have nothing to do with each other? Is this an example of mind over matter? The logical person would say, 'Richard, it never happened'. A more imaginative person might say it did happen. I consider myself both logical (with some fallacious thinking along the way) and imaginative (I write fiction, after all). I say it did happen. How do I know? I remember it.

Monday, October 1, 2012

Giving Birth is Hard; Being Born is Easy

I'm participating in a blog hop from Jane Ann Mclachlan called October Memoir and Backstory Blog Contest (or, at least, I'll participate in some of it; we'll have to see if I make it all the way). So, here is my first post (concerning age 1-2).

I clearly remember the day I was born. It was a cold day in November. Everyone was nervous: my mother, the doctor, the nurses. (Where was my father?) They were all worried but me. I knew everything would turn out all right. I was so happy to be born. I knew I would have a magnificent life, full of exciting adventures; by the way, being born is the first great adventure, is it not? (And, yes, those adventures did come true, but that's another story.) All they could think about was will I be a boy or a girl. Ha, ha. I kept them waiting and guessing until the last second. All I could think about was why is this happening. Why all this fuss and bother? What's so special about being born? Everyone's born, right? We all move from darkness to light, right? (Of course, we all move from light to darkness, eventually, but that's another story.) There is so much to say about being born--the noise, the wetness, the pressure, the cry--yes, the cry, the first sound we make--that makes everyone happy and relieved. At first, crying is a wonderful thing. Your mother, your father, everyone, comes to you when you cry. (There's a time when that changes, but that's another story.) So my first day of life was a great adventure that made everyone happy. Isn't that the point of being born?