What Makes a Writer?

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I am currently on page 72 of Margaret Atwood’s Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing, and have two things to impart so far. One, I feel an incredible kinship with this book. Two, prepare for many posts that reference it.

So, as I sit here on Wednesday night, two days before my post is due and having set my last idea back day after day after day to the point that it’s two days before my post is due and I only have the semblance of an idea, I decided to share one of many favourite phrases from Atwood’s piece even though I’m not done the whole.

The context of the following excerpt is pretty basic: Atwood is wondering what goes into the making of a writer. Is there some special formula rooted in childhood that produces the writer? Is there some defining moment? What makes one choose the torture?

“The childhoods of writers are thought to have something to do with their vocation, but when you look at these childhoods they are in fact very different. What they often contain, however, are books and solitude, and my own childhood was right on track. … Because none of my relatives were people I could actually see, my own grandmothers were no more and no less mythological than Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother, and perhaps this had something to do with my eventual writing life – the inability to distinguish between the real and the imagined, or rather the attitude that what we consider real is also imagined: every life lived is also an inner life, a life created.” (Atwood, Margaret. “Who do you think you are?”. Negotiating with the Dead. Anchor Canada Edition. 2003. 7.)

The part after the ellipses is the idea I identify with greatly. Most of my childhood involved a lot of deceased or estranged relatives only brought to life through stories. And on more than one occasion a new relative popped out of the woodwork for one reason or another –I’ll utter war child once and only once.

Many of the people I came to meet I had already formed an image of and a backstory for. I had already decided who they were and how I felt about them long before I had my first face to face with them. And no, that is not an ideal practice.

My brother and I also spent ages outdoors, on our own, coming up with fantastic stories for the make believe games we’d play. Of course, when I wasn’t doing that I either had my nose in a book or sketch pad or a journal with a cat or two curled in my lap. Toss in my vivid imagination (that got me into more trouble than I care to think about), and I totally understand this existence Atwood describes.

To this day I get lost in the veil of reality-unreality and make up stories in my head constantly. I do it as a defense mechanism, I do it as relaxation, I do it because it’s second nature and sometimes I simply slip into my head unintentionally and have to jar myself back into the real world. The many lives I’ve lived, I tell you…

No, I don’t think any of these habits or pieces of upbringing are what make a writer a writer. They’re only one foundation, though they seem to be a popular one.

I guess my favourite aspect of this topic is thinking back and looking at my life and attempting to pinpoint that moment that has led me here, as the writer typing away at my keys. I’m sure there’s more than one moment though the navigating is tough.

I’m head over heels for this book. Especially because Atwood does more than speculate. Here’s an answer to the question What Makes a Writer a Writer? stripped of all romance:

“When I published my first real collection of poetry…my brother wrote to me, ‘Congratulations on publishing your first book of poetry. I used to do that kind of thing myself when I was younger.’ And perhaps that is the clue. We shared many of the same childhood pursuits, but he gave them up and turned to other forms of amusement, and I did not.” (16)

Sheer doggedness is likely the answer, a refusal to relinquish the pen. Though some romance would be nice.

What are your thoughts on this?

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