Risa Peris's Blog - Posts Tagged "writing"
When I Became a Writer
I am participating in the ‘Writing Contest: You Are A Writer’ held by Positive Writer - See more at: Writing Contest
I became a writer when, at the age of thirteen, I read Gone With the Wind and was sorely disappointed. It wasn’t that I thought I could do better, it was just that I had created an alternate plot to the title when I was seven. The Civil War and antebellum South didn’t seem nearly as interesting as the great storm, magical diamond necklace and invading aliens that my plot had. My parents were avid readers, book collectors and sellers. We had more bookcases in our home than chairs. I fingered every title and fawned over every cover. I was a good reader but couldn’t quite grasp the language in adult books. Not at seven. Not yet. I liked my mom’s books the best. She read romance and I was quite captivated by the flowing dresses, long tresses and very adult bosoms the women had on the covers. I tended to ignore the men on the covers. Boys had cooties. Boys pulled my pigtails. I would pull out a book and stare and stare.
“Risa, what are you doing?” My mother would stand before me with her hands on her hips.
“I want to read it.” My voice was whiny.
“You’re too young. Think of something else to do. Read your chapter books.”
“Those are for babies.” I was petulant.
“Then write.”
“Write?”
“Write your own story.”
“Write about what?”
“Think of something. Be creative.”
I stared at the books lined on the dusty bookcase. Rapture in Tuscany. Clan of the Cave Bear. Falling Into You. The King’s Knight. Gone With the Wind.
“Gone With the Wind. What a curious title,” I muttered aloud. My mother had walked away and was no doubt in her easy chair sipping Diet Coke and watching General Hospital. I got a composition book and a Hello Kitty pen and wrote in block letters - GONE WITH THE WIND.
“Wind, wind, storm, something goes missing, something valuable, it goes into the wind.” I was brainstorming. Priming the pump. Letting the creative juices flow. That’s what I thought in my head because, at seven, I only knew cliches. I scribbled.
“What if the something valuable was a necklace? What if the necklace had magical powers? What if aliens from another universe wanted those magical powers? Geez, this is good. This is really good.”
I scribbled and scribbled and scribbled some more. My hand started cramping. I was having too much fun to stop. I wrote until dinner time. I went to the dinner table with my notebook. We were having meatloaf. I hated meatloaf.
“How was your day?” My father asked.
“It started off horrid. Then it got boring. But now it’s fascinating.”
“What were you doing?”
“Writing. Want to hear?” Mother, father and my brothers chewed and looked at me expectantly. I cleared my throat and spoke. There was great emotion in my voice. I felt tension in my stomach. I finished with a dramatic flair. No one spoke.
Finally, my teenage brother piped up. “That’s stupid.”
“It is not pig face!” I was hot. How dare his cootie infested body criticize me.
“Uh, what do aliens have to do with the Civil War?” It was my other brother.
“The Civil War?” My voice had weakened.
“Ha, I knew it. She doesn’t even know what the Civil War is. You don’t know Gone With the Wind.” “My story is better.” The vanity of writers was instinctive to me. Everyone laughed. I blushed redder than the ketchup smeared on the meatloaf.
“It is better,” I maintained. They laughed some more.
My father patted me on the back. “Your story was creative. Something to keep in mind, everyone's a critic but not everyone is a creator. Keep that in mind.”
“Sure. Whatever that means.” I sipped my Kool Aid.
When I was thirteen I started reading all the books on the bookshelves. My mother told me Gone With The Wind was going to be on TV in a few weeks.
“Maybe you should read the book?”
“Maybe I will.” I had just finished The World According to Garp so I picked up Gone With the Wind. It was sweeping. It was romantic. It was boring. If only it had aliens. I couldn’t write better than Margaret Mitchell but I was positive that I came up with a more interesting plot when I was seven.
“I’ll write my own book.” That’s when I became a writer. I became a writer when I had the audacity to think I could create interesting plots and that other people would want to read them. I became a writer when, contrary to bad reviews by my family, I still had faith in my words. I became a writer when I understood it was far better to create than to kick back, critic and complain. I became a writer when I realized I didn’t give fig about money or fame. I just wanted to write, whether I had an audience or not.
Van Gogh painted and only sold one painting in his life. He didn’t stop painting. Not once. Be damned to all! Just write. But don’t cut off your ear. You kind of need those.
I became a writer when, at the age of thirteen, I read Gone With the Wind and was sorely disappointed. It wasn’t that I thought I could do better, it was just that I had created an alternate plot to the title when I was seven. The Civil War and antebellum South didn’t seem nearly as interesting as the great storm, magical diamond necklace and invading aliens that my plot had. My parents were avid readers, book collectors and sellers. We had more bookcases in our home than chairs. I fingered every title and fawned over every cover. I was a good reader but couldn’t quite grasp the language in adult books. Not at seven. Not yet. I liked my mom’s books the best. She read romance and I was quite captivated by the flowing dresses, long tresses and very adult bosoms the women had on the covers. I tended to ignore the men on the covers. Boys had cooties. Boys pulled my pigtails. I would pull out a book and stare and stare.
“Risa, what are you doing?” My mother would stand before me with her hands on her hips.
“I want to read it.” My voice was whiny.
“You’re too young. Think of something else to do. Read your chapter books.”
“Those are for babies.” I was petulant.
“Then write.”
“Write?”
“Write your own story.”
“Write about what?”
“Think of something. Be creative.”
I stared at the books lined on the dusty bookcase. Rapture in Tuscany. Clan of the Cave Bear. Falling Into You. The King’s Knight. Gone With the Wind.
“Gone With the Wind. What a curious title,” I muttered aloud. My mother had walked away and was no doubt in her easy chair sipping Diet Coke and watching General Hospital. I got a composition book and a Hello Kitty pen and wrote in block letters - GONE WITH THE WIND.
“Wind, wind, storm, something goes missing, something valuable, it goes into the wind.” I was brainstorming. Priming the pump. Letting the creative juices flow. That’s what I thought in my head because, at seven, I only knew cliches. I scribbled.
“What if the something valuable was a necklace? What if the necklace had magical powers? What if aliens from another universe wanted those magical powers? Geez, this is good. This is really good.”
I scribbled and scribbled and scribbled some more. My hand started cramping. I was having too much fun to stop. I wrote until dinner time. I went to the dinner table with my notebook. We were having meatloaf. I hated meatloaf.
“How was your day?” My father asked.
“It started off horrid. Then it got boring. But now it’s fascinating.”
“What were you doing?”
“Writing. Want to hear?” Mother, father and my brothers chewed and looked at me expectantly. I cleared my throat and spoke. There was great emotion in my voice. I felt tension in my stomach. I finished with a dramatic flair. No one spoke.
Finally, my teenage brother piped up. “That’s stupid.”
“It is not pig face!” I was hot. How dare his cootie infested body criticize me.
“Uh, what do aliens have to do with the Civil War?” It was my other brother.
“The Civil War?” My voice had weakened.
“Ha, I knew it. She doesn’t even know what the Civil War is. You don’t know Gone With the Wind.” “My story is better.” The vanity of writers was instinctive to me. Everyone laughed. I blushed redder than the ketchup smeared on the meatloaf.
“It is better,” I maintained. They laughed some more.
My father patted me on the back. “Your story was creative. Something to keep in mind, everyone's a critic but not everyone is a creator. Keep that in mind.”
“Sure. Whatever that means.” I sipped my Kool Aid.
When I was thirteen I started reading all the books on the bookshelves. My mother told me Gone With The Wind was going to be on TV in a few weeks.
“Maybe you should read the book?”
“Maybe I will.” I had just finished The World According to Garp so I picked up Gone With the Wind. It was sweeping. It was romantic. It was boring. If only it had aliens. I couldn’t write better than Margaret Mitchell but I was positive that I came up with a more interesting plot when I was seven.
“I’ll write my own book.” That’s when I became a writer. I became a writer when I had the audacity to think I could create interesting plots and that other people would want to read them. I became a writer when, contrary to bad reviews by my family, I still had faith in my words. I became a writer when I understood it was far better to create than to kick back, critic and complain. I became a writer when I realized I didn’t give fig about money or fame. I just wanted to write, whether I had an audience or not.
Van Gogh painted and only sold one painting in his life. He didn’t stop painting. Not once. Be damned to all! Just write. But don’t cut off your ear. You kind of need those.
