Why are you a writer? What started you in writing? When did you know you wanted to write? These, and other variations on the same theme, are the most common questions any professional or aspiring writer is asked. We are asked by friends, family, random acquaintances when they find out we call ourselves “writer”. It is a stock inquiry of interviewers and writer’s group profiles.
Like many writers, the first time I was confronted with the burning question I froze like a deer in headlights. I stammered and said, “Uh, um,” a lot. I am not sure if I gave a coherent answer or not. What I do know is that I had no idea how to answer.
Over the many years since that first embarrassing verbal stumble that never changed. What did change was that, like many writers, I created a generic statement to use, thus avoiding appearing like a bumbling idiot. My pat answer: I’m not sure. I have always written. I just have to write.
While that vague answer is true, I had no idea why it was true. Until recently. One day not to long ago I was in the shower letting my mind wander as it would—some people sing in the shower, I come up with writing ideas—and suddenly something occurred to me. I am a self-centered attention whore.
After nearly thirty-umm years of denial—especially to myself—I can’t hide from it anymore. I love attention. I adore it when someone tells me they enjoyed something I wrote. I get absolutely giddy when someone tells others to read my work. I nearly fainted when I saw that one tiny little article about bridesmaid’s dresses received nearly 1500 hits in a month. It makes me want to pull a Sally Fields and run through the streets screaming “They like me, they really like me!”
Why do I have such a need for attention? I don’t really know. It might be in my genes. I always thought my younger sister was an attention grabbing drama queen. The truth is that as a child my sister was the cutest thing going—as a twenty-something mom she is still no slouch. She could, and still can, walk into a room and become the center of attention without even trying. (Though when I was a kid I thought she did it on purpose and it drove me nuts!) Truly! My little sister could have given the chronically cute Stephanie Tanner on “Full House” lessons in being adorable. The fact of the matter is that I always felt like I faded into the background and no one really saw or heard me when she was around. That wasn’t true of course, but as you can see, even though I never realized it, I have always been a drama queen.
I really have been writing and making up stories for as long as I could remember. My earliest memorie of writing is third or fourth grade when I used to scribble silly little poems in my notebook when I was supposed to be listening to the teacher. These days it might be called attention deficit, but back then it was called being lazy or a dreamer. I just called it being bored.
The same went with making up stories. I have always loved stories. I was a voracious reader. From the time I could read I read everything I could get my hands on. I spent hours alone reading. And when I was doing something like walking home from school, riding my bike, washing dishes, anything, actually, that prevented me from having a book in hand, I made up stories in my head. I never wrote them down. I just made up elaborate stories with detailed characters.. It was my way of keeping myself entertained.
No one else ever knew about my stories or poems. They were a part of me that I didn’t want to share with anyone. Frankly, it never occurred to me to share them. I don’t think I had any concept of what I was really doing. Now that I really think about it, I don’t even remember thinking of “writer” as a career choice at all. As a matter of fact, in junior high I wanted to be an astronomer and an astronaut.
It wasn’t until high school that I truly found the joys of being a writer. I was still doodling poems, only I started sharing them with my friends. Teenage girls love angsty, lovelorn poetry. They gushed, and I preened. I would write love poems for them to give to their boyfriends or crushes because I “could put feelings into words.” Oh, yes, my career as an attention whore had begun.
The biggest prodding I got, however, was from my teachers. The first time I remember knowing that writing was for me was when I was a freshman in high school. My uncle had died shortly before school started and my mom, sister and I were in Texas when school started. My mom, planning to stay for a few weeks enrolled me and my sister in school so that we wouldn’t get behind. As our first assignment to assess our writing abilities my English teacher had assigned us to research something using reference books and write a paper. I had procrastinated—as is my usual method—until the Sunday night before the paper was due. I remember finding a “V” encyclopedia at my aunts house and deciding to do my paper on the Vietnam War. Unfortunately the entry in the encyclopedia was rather short and it was too late to go to the library. The only way I was going to be able to get a three page paper out of it without copying the book was to be creative.
I wrote a story about two young friends who were both drafted to go to war at the same time. I had all the requirements, I put in facts and dates, and cited my resource at the end. But instead of a research paper my assignment had become an essay on friendship and patriotism. I turned my paper in, and worried my self sick until they were handed back the next day. I knew that everyone else in my class had stuck to writing factual research papers, so I was sure there would be a huge “F” and a note about following directions on my paper when it was handed back. But there wasn’t. There was a big red “A”. And a note about how creative and talented I was. I was amazed. And when I took that paper home and showed my mom, aunt, and grandmother I remember being so excited and thrilled with the praise they gave me.
We moved back to Tennessee a few weeks later, so I didn’t have a chance to truly impress that teacher, but that first “A” and “great job” had hooked me. I finally had something I was good at, something that got me the attention I didn’t know I craved. I worked hard, striving to weave the words of my research papers just right to get the smiles and soft pats on my shoulder as the the put the “excellent” graded paper down on my desk. I was told I was talented, and I ate it up.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved writing. I love writing. Words truly are my life. And even so, I can’t really put into words how putting them together into stories and articles makes me feel exactly. Though suspect the joy I get out of pounding out words in comprehensible sentences is linked to the joy that I know will eventually come because of the attention a well written story, be it fiction or non-fiction, brings me.
As I began to realize just how much I love being the center of attention I thought, no, that can’t be true. Because more than I love writing I love my job as an editor and publisher. I love helping other writers get their stories out there to the public. I’m not really selfish, I’m actually self-less. I give of myself to bring wonderful stories to the masses but hardly anyone really knows that I have anything to do with it. Wrong! I know. And that is all that it takes. I see the glory they get and I know that I helped, that I had something to do with it. Whether anyone else tells me “good job” or not, I can tell myself. I soak up the sun through the knowledge that I contributed to their success. So, there you have it, selfish to the end.
So, armed with this new self-knowledge, will I change anything. No, probably not. I don’t think I could if I tried. I’m not even sure what to change. All I can do is embrace it and own up to it. The only question is, the next time I am asked, “Why do you write?” do I give my pat answer? Or do I proudly announce: I write because I am an attention whore!
Why are you a writer? What started you in writing? When did you know you wanted to write? These, and other variations on the same theme, are the most common questions any professional or aspiring writer is asked. We are asked by friends, family, random acquaintances when they find out we call ourselves “writer”. It is a stock inquiry of interviewers and writer’s group profiles.
Like many writers, the first time I was confronted with the burning question I froze like a deer in headlights. I stammered and said, “Uh, um,” a lot. I am not sure if I gave a coherent answer or not. What I do know is that I had no idea how to answer.
Over the many years since that first embarrassing verbal stumble that never changed. What did change was that, like many writers, I created a generic statement to use, thus avoiding appearing like a bumbling idiot. My pat answer: I’m not sure. I have always written. I just have to write.
While that vague answer is true, I had no idea why it was true. Until recently.
One day not to long ago I was in the shower letting my mind wander as it would—some people sing in the shower, I come up with writing ideas—and suddenly something occurred to me. I am a self-centered attention whore.
After nearly thirty-umm years of denial—especially to myself—I can’t hide from it anymore. I love attention. I adore it when someone tells me they enjoyed something I wrote. I get absolutely giddy when someone tells others to read my work. I nearly fainted when I saw that one tiny little article about bridesmaid’s dresses received nearly 1500 hits in a month. It makes me want to pull a Sally Fields and run through the streets screaming “They like me, they really like me!”
Why do I have such a need for attention? I don’t really know. It might be in my genes. I always thought my younger sister was an attention grabbing drama queen. The truth is that as a child my sister was the cutest thing going—as a twenty-something mom she is still no slouch. She could, and still can, walk into a room and become the center of attention without even trying. (Though when I was a kid I thought she did it on purpose and it drove me nuts!) Truly! My little sister could have given the chronically cute Stephanie Tanner on “Full House” lessons in being adorable. The fact of the matter is that I always felt like I faded into the background and no one really saw or heard me when she was around. That wasn’t true of course, but as you can see, even though I never realized it, I have always been a drama queen.
I really have been writing and making up stories for as long as I could remember. My earliest memorie of writing is third or fourth grade when I used to scribble silly little poems in my notebook when I was supposed to be listening to the teacher. These days it might be called attention deficit, but back then it was called being lazy or a dreamer. I just called it being bored.
The same went with making up stories. I have always loved stories. I was a voracious reader. From the time I could read I read everything I could get my hands on. I spent hours alone reading. And when I was doing something like walking home from school, riding my bike, washing dishes, anything, actually, that prevented me from having a book in hand, I made up stories in my head. I never wrote them down. I just made up elaborate stories with detailed characters.. It was my way of keeping myself entertained.
No one else ever knew about my stories or poems. They were a part of me that I didn’t want to share with anyone. Frankly, it never occurred to me to share them. I don’t think I had any concept of what I was really doing. Now that I really think about it, I don’t even remember thinking of “writer” as a career choice at all. As a matter of fact, in junior high I wanted to be an astronomer and an astronaut.
It wasn’t until high school that I truly found the joys of being a writer. I was still doodling poems, only I started sharing them with my friends. Teenage girls love angsty, lovelorn poetry. They gushed, and I preened. I would write love poems for them to give to their boyfriends or crushes because I “could put feelings into words.” Oh, yes, my career as an attention whore had begun.
The biggest incentive I got, however, was from my teachers. The first time I remember knowing that writing was for me was when I was a freshman in high school. My uncle had died shortly before school started and my mom, sister and I were in Texas when school started. My mom, planning to stay for a few weeks enrolled me and my sister in school so that we wouldn’t get behind. As our first assignment to assess our writing abilities my English teacher had assigned us to research something using reference books and write a paper. I had procrastinated—as is my usual method—until the Sunday night before the paper was due. I remember finding a “V” encyclopedia at my aunts house and deciding to do my paper on the Vietnam War. Unfortunately the entry in the encyclopedia was rather short and it was too late to go to the library. The only way I was going to be able to get a three page paper out of it without copying the book was to be creative.
I wrote a story about two young friends who were both drafted to go to war at the same time. I had all the requirements, I put in facts and dates, and cited my resource at the end. But instead of a research paper my assignment had become an essay on friendship and patriotism. I turned my paper in, and worried my self sick until they were handed back the next day. I knew that everyone else in my class had stuck to writing factual research papers, so I was sure there would be a huge “F” and a note about following directions on my paper when it was handed back. But there wasn’t. There was a big red “A”. And a note about how creative and talented I was. I was amazed. And when I took that paper home and showed my mom, aunt, and grandmother I remember being so excited and thrilled with the praise they gave me.
We moved back to Tennessee a few weeks later, so I didn’t have a chance to truly impress that teacher, but that first “A” and “great job” had hooked me. I finally had something I was good at, something that got me the attention I didn’t know I craved. I worked hard, striving to weave the words of my research papers just right to get the smiles and soft pats on my shoulder as the the put the “excellent” graded paper down on my desk. I was told I was talented, and I ate it up.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved writing. I love writing. Words truly are my life. And even so, I can’t really put into words how putting them together into stories and articles makes me feel exactly. Though suspect the joy I get out of pounding out words in comprehensible sentences is linked to the joy that I know will eventually come because of the attention a well written story, be it fiction or non-fiction, brings me.
As I began to realize just how much I love being the center of attention I thought, no, that can’t be true. Because more than I love writing I love my job as an editor and publisher. I love helping other writers get their stories out there to the public. I’m not really selfish, I’m actually self-less. I give of myself to bring wonderful stories to the masses but hardly anyone really knows that I have anything to do with it. Wrong! I know. And that is all that it takes. I see the glory they get and I know that I helped, that I had something to do with it. Whether anyone else tells me “good job” or not, I can tell myself. I soak up the sun through the knowledge that I contributed to their success. So, there you have it, selfish to the end.
So, armed with this new self-knowledge, will I change anything. No, probably not. I don’t think I could if I tried. I’m not even sure what to change. All I can do is embrace it and own up to it. The only question is, the next time I am asked, “Why do you write?” do I give my pat answer? Or do I proudly announce: I write because I am an attention whore!
Tags: authors, Life, women, Writing, writing advice
Posted in Articles & Essays, Personal Essays, Writing
I know about image issues first hand. I am a large woman. I am over 140 pounds over wieght. When I was in high school, I was not. I was maybe ten or fifteen pounds more than what would be considered normal. Yet when I looked in the mirror at 18, I saw the same thing I see now. I saw rolls of fat, huge breasts, enormous hips, a body no man would ever want. I felt so low I would cry myself to sleep because I was positive I was going to be an old maid who died alone because no one would ever love me.
When I look at the pictures of me then, I still want to cry. I cry for that beautiful young girl who had no idea how beautiful she was because she couldn’t fit the “norm” of society. I wonder at how her life might have been different if she had been able to see herself through the eyes I have now. I am not saying I don’t still have those moments of insecurity. Oh, trust me I do. Years of conditioning has taken it’s tole. But intellectually I can see things from a different angle now that I couldn’t at 18. I know I am beautiful just the way I am.