I’ve never had much of a
talent for writing fiction. I’ve always preferred to draw inspiration from real
life and write about the world from my own perspective and limited, but real, lens of experience. My love for writing is
inherently selfish – I write to understand, to reflect, to process. I honestly
never even considered having other people read my writing until I started
teaching and my mother encouraged me to “write down everything”. In addition to
keeping a personal journal (as I have done for years) I began to blog about my
experiences as a first year teacher. I'm grateful to my mother for suggesting this as writing about my experiences as a first year teacher proved to be invaluable to my development as an educator and as a young woman just trying to make it in this world. I’ve attempted to maintain my blog writing practice over the past five years (with irregular frequency).
Yet recently my love for
narrative non-fiction has been striking me as rather ironic considering that I
fantasize constantly. My fantasies are mostly inspired by that most imagination-inducing of questions, “what if…” What if my
school was suddenly under attack, how would I handle the situation? I envision
myself sheltering my students and building a barrier of desks to block the
door. Then, like Angelina Jolie in an action movie, I would smash through the
window of my classroom, having built a ladder out of chairs and pieces of
clothing, to shuffle my students outside where I then guide them to safety
after scaling the compound walls. There would also be some big helicopter
rescue in there as well…
Alright, the majority of
my fantasies are never quite that action packed, but every day I find something
to fantasize about. What if that man over there is the love of my life? What if
someone reads my blog and offers me a book deal? What if I get hired to work at
one of the best private schools in NYC? What if I don’t get hired at all and I
have to work as a waitress, barista or bartender (honestly not that terrible of
an idea….)? What if this is the year all my dreams come true? What if this is
the year that everything falls apart?
I’ve always had a flair
for the dramatic. Having been raised in a safe, loving and protective
environment overseas I think my imagination evolved as a result of my need to
feel more alive and on edge in my exciting surroundings. Even though I lived a wonderful life and travelled
extensively as a child, I loved the adrenaline rush of pretending my life was
at risk and fantasizing about falling hopelessly in love. Perhaps Disney is to
blame, or the dry desert sands of Arabia, but however I chose to
explain away my behaviors, I know that I am a woman who will never stop fantasizing about the future.
As I've gotten older I've begun to think more seriously about how I would like to make an impact on the world. Teacher isn't enough. I want to reach more people and contribute to more meaningful causes. I feel as though the only way I can do this is through writing and publishing a book. But what exactly would I write about? I feel like teacher memoirs and confessional prose narratives are a dime a dozen these days. Writing about life as a single woman overseas, forget it. Its been done and it continues to be done. I've always sought to set myself apart from the crowd in some way. I never liked "fitting in" - I've always preferred to stand out. When I reflect upon my life over the past five years, these significant / exciting / terrifying "post-undergraduate" years, I feel as though my life has been quite special and unique. But what exactly would I write about? I feel like books must have some kind of purpose or moral to them and my life is still being written. There are no illuminating culminating life lessons or valuable pearls of wisdom I feel qualified to proclaim to the world based on just my experiences alone. As I sit here typing these words and contemplating the reality of writing something worth publishing, the words "but what's the point" ring out loud and resolutely in my ears.
What is the point?
What is the point of writing all this down? What is the point of publishing these words and sharing them with others when all my writing concerns is myself?
Sylvia Plath just wrote about herself and look at how influential her work became...
Yes, but Sylvia Plath was able to translate her life into fiction. She was able to draw inspiration from life and take qualities and characteristics of people around her and morph them into fictional characters and experiences. I suppose I could do that. I've never tried. Perhaps that can be an ongoing goal for me in my writing. Perhaps if I fictionalize my experiences I can draw greater meaning from them. Yet isn't this a delusional way of reflecting life? Yes. I suppose it is. But I believe that our fantasies can teach us a great deal more about life and ourselves than objective reality can. As Ralph Waldo Emerson stated, "Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures".
As I've gotten older I've begun to think more seriously about how I would like to make an impact on the world. Teacher isn't enough. I want to reach more people and contribute to more meaningful causes. I feel as though the only way I can do this is through writing and publishing a book. But what exactly would I write about? I feel like teacher memoirs and confessional prose narratives are a dime a dozen these days. Writing about life as a single woman overseas, forget it. Its been done and it continues to be done. I've always sought to set myself apart from the crowd in some way. I never liked "fitting in" - I've always preferred to stand out. When I reflect upon my life over the past five years, these significant / exciting / terrifying "post-undergraduate" years, I feel as though my life has been quite special and unique. But what exactly would I write about? I feel like books must have some kind of purpose or moral to them and my life is still being written. There are no illuminating culminating life lessons or valuable pearls of wisdom I feel qualified to proclaim to the world based on just my experiences alone. As I sit here typing these words and contemplating the reality of writing something worth publishing, the words "but what's the point" ring out loud and resolutely in my ears.
What is the point?
What is the point of writing all this down? What is the point of publishing these words and sharing them with others when all my writing concerns is myself?
Sylvia Plath just wrote about herself and look at how influential her work became...
Yes, but Sylvia Plath was able to translate her life into fiction. She was able to draw inspiration from life and take qualities and characteristics of people around her and morph them into fictional characters and experiences. I suppose I could do that. I've never tried. Perhaps that can be an ongoing goal for me in my writing. Perhaps if I fictionalize my experiences I can draw greater meaning from them. Yet isn't this a delusional way of reflecting life? Yes. I suppose it is. But I believe that our fantasies can teach us a great deal more about life and ourselves than objective reality can. As Ralph Waldo Emerson stated, "Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures".
“Writing fiction is the act of weaving a series of lies to arrive at a greater truth.” ― Khaled Hosseini
“That's what fiction is for. It's for getting at the truth when the truth isn't sufficient for the truth.” ― Tim O'Brien
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