Jen Barton's Blog, page 2
August 2, 2013
Stacks
Last night I spent a few hours at Next Move, a local homeless shelter in Sacramento. I visit every other week and either read to the kids or help them with stories they've been wanting to write.
Last night was a writing night.
We had one story in verse where the sun was blue (loved that—if only I'd thought of it for If Chocolate Were Purple), an alien abduction to Smurfville, and a cleverly written horror piece that left our skin tingling.
It was a ton of fun, and the imaginations were in full gear. Never more, though, than at the end of the night, when the kids found out I was an author.
"A real author?" one boy, around nine, asked.
I hesitated, daunted by the club I'd be joining if I said yes. Stephen King is a real author, Shakespeare is a real author. Kingsolver, Rowling, Martin, Penman, Robin Hobb, Steinbeck. These are authors.
"You famous? You got mad stacks?" a tall girl shouted from the back, saving me from my insecurities.
"No," I laughed, "no stacks. And seriously not famous." I told you their imaginations were in full gear.
"But all authors are famous!" she shot back, challenging me. "Why you ain't got stacks?"
It was a good question. In my mind it hadn't ever been phrased that way, but still, being an author was different than I'd expected as a kid. Less Hemingway and Frazier, more making it up as I go along. And certainly no money, or "stacks."
To be honest, it can sometimes make me feel alone and not-so-legitimate, like my job is to stand in a room talking to myself about all my make believe friends. Just a guess, but I doubt John Irving or Jonathan Franzen has this problem.
But then I remembered all the notes on my phone and all the ideas for stories that are there, how I can't pass a street sign without wondering if it might make a good name, or hear two old women argue in Kohls without imagining and plotting for the rest of the day what might have brought them to that moment.
These threads may never become anything or go anywhere, but like all the unwritten scenes and characters in my head, they're there, waiting. They're part of me and what I love.
I thought proudly of the books and stories I have finished and of that silly, surprised smile I get when I'm writing and a character does something completely unexpected, even to me. I thought of all the hours in that damned uncomfortable wooden chair at my desk, about all the tears and revisions.
"Yep," I said, nodding. "I'm an author."
Glamorous, it ain't. But it sure is real. And recently it's come with a fabulous new nickname. My husband has started calling me Stacks. :)
Last night was a writing night.
We had one story in verse where the sun was blue (loved that—if only I'd thought of it for If Chocolate Were Purple), an alien abduction to Smurfville, and a cleverly written horror piece that left our skin tingling.
It was a ton of fun, and the imaginations were in full gear. Never more, though, than at the end of the night, when the kids found out I was an author.
"A real author?" one boy, around nine, asked.
I hesitated, daunted by the club I'd be joining if I said yes. Stephen King is a real author, Shakespeare is a real author. Kingsolver, Rowling, Martin, Penman, Robin Hobb, Steinbeck. These are authors.
"You famous? You got mad stacks?" a tall girl shouted from the back, saving me from my insecurities.
"No," I laughed, "no stacks. And seriously not famous." I told you their imaginations were in full gear.
"But all authors are famous!" she shot back, challenging me. "Why you ain't got stacks?"
It was a good question. In my mind it hadn't ever been phrased that way, but still, being an author was different than I'd expected as a kid. Less Hemingway and Frazier, more making it up as I go along. And certainly no money, or "stacks."
To be honest, it can sometimes make me feel alone and not-so-legitimate, like my job is to stand in a room talking to myself about all my make believe friends. Just a guess, but I doubt John Irving or Jonathan Franzen has this problem.
But then I remembered all the notes on my phone and all the ideas for stories that are there, how I can't pass a street sign without wondering if it might make a good name, or hear two old women argue in Kohls without imagining and plotting for the rest of the day what might have brought them to that moment.
These threads may never become anything or go anywhere, but like all the unwritten scenes and characters in my head, they're there, waiting. They're part of me and what I love.
I thought proudly of the books and stories I have finished and of that silly, surprised smile I get when I'm writing and a character does something completely unexpected, even to me. I thought of all the hours in that damned uncomfortable wooden chair at my desk, about all the tears and revisions.
"Yep," I said, nodding. "I'm an author."
Glamorous, it ain't. But it sure is real. And recently it's come with a fabulous new nickname. My husband has started calling me Stacks. :)
