Not Well

I have not been well and have not been posting, however I am back and will be posting soon.

Writing Inside the Head

I have heard and read writers who say they hate to write and will do anything to avoid it. I think if anyone saw my blog here on writing they would say avoiding writing was a problem. It is. Yet, I love to write. I love to sit here and just write as I am doing now.

I am past the self-criticism that what I am putting here is immortal and needs to be put on the Internet for other writers to read. Presently, no one is reading my stuff on this blog. I love to write so much that it doesn't bother me all that much although it does just a little. I do write several other places and get published ever so often. I even have some fans which always seems to surprise me. But on this blog, I have no readers. That is OK. I do know some people read me unofficially.

I have a friend who writes and is published often. She even goes on book tours. She is braver than I am for I hate book tours and will even take less money for a book if I don't have to do it. There is always the same question: "Where do you get your ideas?" The answer for me is inside my head. Unfortunately, they often stay in my head. That's the rub, so to speak. I read an author who wrote that he had this problem. I thought I was the only one.

People often say to authors on book tours: "I could write a book. I have a great story." Then they get mad when the author does not want to hear it. Most authors have a head full of stories. The author says: "Well, you need to write it." The answer back is invariably: "I don't have the time." This answer irks me all of the time. It seems to me that their lives are more important. I told one writer wannabee that I could not "not write". I have to write even if it is only in my head. I keep a journal all of the time. I would die if I could not write.

It's like reading. I could not stop reading. I read all of the time or as much as I can. I read now more than I did years ago. The only time I stopped reading novels was when I was in college and graduate school because I was reading required books. When I was in labor having my children I read books that I needed to read for classes. The nurses made fun of me because they thought it was leisure reading.

When I was married, I read when my housework was done after I came home from work. That was a real problem with the man I married. He hated my books. I read the books when he was at work and during my lunch and breaks. I wrote during those same breaks as well. I hated television because it wasted time. We lived in the Midwest where they had tornadoes. I had a dream once that I really remembered. It was when the siren sounded and we were all together on the top floors. Everyone is supposed to go into the basement. My husband like to watch the sky and to see if a tornado was near. In the dream, I was worried about my books because they were in the window wells and the windows were opened. The rain was beginning to fall and they would get wet. I ran down into the basement to get the books and it made him very angry that I would do that. When I woke up I knew from that dream that my marriage was doomed. I knew that from that dream I would use books to save my life and to view the world from those safe windows (I never put books in window wells) through books and that it would make my husband very angry. One book that I remember going down to get was "Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm".

"Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm" is a classic American 1903 children's novel by Kate Douglas Wiggin. Rebecca Rowena Randall goes to live with her two stern aunts in the village of Riverboro in Maine. Her joy for life ends up inspiring them. She faces many trials in her young life, but comes through them with more wisdom and understanding. Despite her impoverished background, Rebecca is an imaginative and charming child, often composing little poems and songs to express her feelings or to amuse her younger brothers and sisters. It is she who names their farm 'Sunnybrook' after the little brook that runs by their house.

The two aunts want the elder sister to come because she is the one that always does the housework and obeys. That is how it was in my life. My older sister was the one that obeyed my mother and did all of the housework that my mother told her to do. Because the mother needed her too much, she sent Rebecca because it would have helped having one less mouth to feed. Rebecca with her bright disposition brighten the two aunts' lives and everyone in the village. In the end, Rebecca ends up being an independent woman and inherits enough money to support her brothers and sisters.

I understood why it was that book, "Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm", that popped into my dream. The protagonist was someone who was positive in outlook and that was a real problem between my husband and myself. I wrote poems and stories and loved to make up stories about the people around me and where I was. I was curious about everything and wanted to explore the world around me. He hated that part of me. He was very pessimistic and hated his life and the way I saw the bright side of things. In the end, Rebecca ends up being independent of everyone and was able to support her family.

Years ago, the stories that I had in my head were not the stories that I was reading. I was afraid to put them down. Sometimes, we would read fiction in class that I liked and the professor would make fun of it. I thought that maybe I did not know what good fiction was. Yet, I read some of the older fiction and loved it. I loved "Moby Dick" by Herman Melville. I read all of Ernest Hemingway and even though he was a chauvinist I loved his books and the professors liked him too. I liked the shorter Charles Dickens but hated the longer novels. I loved the Russian writers although I did not understand them at times. I loved Kafka and did not know why. I love Somerset Maugham but the professors did not like him at all. They did not like the women writers and I did. My stories were not like the stories that I read, but I liked them.

The newer fiction by such writers as John Cheever, Saul Bellow and others were not enjoyable to me. I read Bernard Malamud and I liked "The Assistent" but much of what I read just did not relate to me. The professors liked William Faulkner and I could never get through his books. I think the only thing I ever liked of Faulkner was "A Rose for Emily" and there was something about that story that bothered me.

Finally, I began to write. I was so disappointed in the ones I did write. I began to not care whether or not they were published. I like stories of people who succeed, who fight back and who win. That does not mean my stories are Pollyanna stories or plots. I wrote a story of a ghost who could not stop haunting and why. I really liked that story. I like to find out the why of people's actions. I am not a Deist. I think our Spiritual Guardians do interfere in our lives. I like to show how they do. I am a strong believer in karma.

I always have a story going in my head as I have one going now. I learn a lot about people from the fictional ones. I never know what is going to happen in my stories. I have learned a long time ago never to try and box any character into a particular course of action. I just sit there and watch things happen. Often I think things are going to happen in one particular way and presto they happen in a totally different way.


I pay attention to dreams or at least some dreams. I knew this one was important. I knew that my husband and I were a mismatch and that I would be able to make a living to support the children that I would have. I did. He ended up having a good relationship with his children and sitll does to this day although not with his grandchildren which is too bad.

Part of who I am is writing. I love to write but feel guilty when I do it. It seems as if I am doing something very selfish. It is hard enough to do it and I just make it harder. Yet, when the words flow as they are now it makes me feel so good about myself and life in general.

This is a never-ending story. I have been dreaming about writing of late. They have been positive dreams about sitting here and putting down words and describing the stories still in my head. My head is full of stories too. I just need to put down more of them on paper and on this computer.