Author

Have you all read, The Hunger Games? They are fantastic, and interestingly morally challenging books. Especially considering that they are intended to be young-adult reads. I had a number of different people in my life over the last year or so mention them to me, and I never did much about getting my hands on the books. I was vaguely aware that a movie was being made, and that my English teacher and reading specialist friends were ecstatic about this. But, I was busy dealing with other things. A relationship that wasn't working, a job I was feeling the need to shed but wasn't prepared to leave, this blog, finding the resolve and accountability I wanted, my spiritual center.

Honestly, I spent a lot of my time working out my "stuff" on a treadmill, on a couch in my therapist's office, and in this writing. And sadly, I didn't read much between about March of 2011 and November 2011.

But, I found myself in an airport at 5am in early November. Let me just say that, I have a lot of rules and routines. Foods I don't eat, how often I drink caffeine, my regular breakfast every morning, exercise, etc. But if I have to wake up at 3am, to leave at 4, to be at the Southwest counter at 5am, a lot of that gets suspended. So, at 5am, after making it through security (which, if I can just brag for a minute, I am such a pro at) I found myself with a bagel, a cup of coffee, a bottle of water, and 90 minutes to kill.

I was actually surprised that a book store was open, but it was. And a paperback copy of The Hunger Games was displayed and was $6.99. At shortly after 5am, it seemed like seven dollars was a good risk to take. The clerk became the 47th person to tell me how amazing the book was, and by the time I landed in Florida, I was hooked. (This is not the first time this has happened to me. I refused Harry Potter hype until after the third book was out thinking, "There's no way it's this good." Of course it was, and I'd add, I give many thanks to the dealer who pushed it on me. I now own the series and then some. I continue to resist the Twilight series . . . resistance may be futile but I just don't think I'm going to go there. For lots of reasons. And it was recently pointed out to me that it is ridiculous that I haven't read Game of Thrones yet.)

So, I've proceeded as a good addict to push this on other people. I've gotten three people so far. And the one who recently got his hands on my copy was talking to me about the book last night. He said, "Well, I think it's interesting to talk about this with an author."

What?! What?!!

I tried to play this cool, but in truth, playing things cool is not a skill I can put on my resume.

I was shocked to be referred to as an author. Yes, I publish here on a not infrequent basis, but ummm, anyone can do that. It took me all of 2 minutes to get an account established and less than an hour to design the page and set of pages holding this content.

Can anyone say the things I say? No. I like to flatter myself and think my writer's voice is unique. Certainly influenced by a lot of my reading, as well as by the audience I think of as my readers. Of course, I don't know exactly who they are. Part of the nature of blogging is that I don't know exactly who my readers are. When people comment on my posts - often on FB - I know they are reading here. Sometimes people make comments to me in other conversations and I realize, Oh, the only way they could make a joke to me about hoping I don't have to spend too much time on a stairmaster is if they read the entry on that because I haven't made that comment elsewhere.  (Then I preen a little and am secretly very pleased with myself for writing things that people are interested enough in to think of after the fact of reading it. It's totally egotistical, but true.) So, I can list for you two dozen people that I know have read this blog at some point, but what I can't tell you for sure is who's not reading this (my aunt? The guy who sells me bandaids? My next door neighbor?) or who is reading exactly what in here. Just because my friend Rebecca and I had a deep discussion about one of my posts, doesn't mean she reads the next.

I suppose this is the same for any "published" writer - that once you let your words out into the world, you don't know exactly where they will go. But, since the "publishing" is so informal, I feel that all the more palpably.

I have been published in small ways, but this is the most substantial, varied, lengthiest writing I've done that other people read. I have and continue to sometimes be a very amateur poet. I have and continue to write short stories (less and less . . . I like short stories, but it doesn't feel as connected to me when I'm writing them). And I am still pecking away at some children's books ideas (Oh, Deliliah the duck, I haven't forgotten you and your electric blanket). I also wrote a thesis, two masters, and countless papers in grad school. And when one reader remarked of this blog in the fall, "Christie, you should really look into writing professionally," my sharp tongued answer was, "I do write professionally. I write memos, communication documents, letters that my boss signs, and field visit reports." That sarcasm was ill placed since writing is central to someone I know myself as. I've been writing words and proudly displaying them as "stories" since I was 5.

In that sense, I identify very strongly as a "writer." It is part of who I am and how I interface with the world, and more importantly, the people in it. It is part of how I experience myself, or at least a side of myself that I don't fully know otherwise. I see and feel differently when I am bent on fixing words to what I'm experiencing. It sounds almost . . . autistic but it is an important thing to know about myself. This was never more evident than when I was in high school. I had a group of friends who were, perhaps not unsurprising to all of you now that you know me a little, very intense, and maybe just a little more grown up than teenagers are good at being. Because we spanned three graduating classes, a lot of different class schedules and interests, and housed some romantic relationships within the circle, there was often a lot to discuss. Problems to solve. Feelings to be tended. Wounds to clean out and salve. But we couldn't always find the 2 or 4 or 6 hours to do this in person. I found myself often exploring things that needed to be told, handled, discussed, or admitted by writing long notes. This was my primary occupation in high school. It might have looked like I was sitting in history class, but in practice what I was really doing was penning novel-lengthed letters most of the time. This had variable results with different people in the group, and at different times in different situations.

It is not, I don't think, an accident that the person who received and responded to most of those letters was the person in all the world I was most connected to then, and still today. (Oh the many blessings of having someone who has seen just exactly who you are for 32 years and still calls you "friend.")

I began to notice that while writing everything down was slow, and not immediate, I was able to process and feel things in a deeper way than if I just held it in and blurted it out loud when we were able to talk. This was the seeds of recognizing that the place that I am most introspectively honest with myself is on paper, and that sharing that is much less difficult for me than it might be for other people. Importantly, when I am able to be that honest to myself, to really access what is most deeply felt, deeply held, deeply raw for the person I am to myself, I am better able to be better at being that person to others.

There is no discounting that. I am a writer in that this is a very important part of the tools I bring to the task of walking through this world and the outlook I have. It is woven into the fabric of who I am and won't change.

In that sense, I suppose I am an author. I frame words around things and other people read them. I share who I am by being more verbal and articulate than is reasonable for most people. I am a creator, originator, and where others use pictures, musical notes, code, paint, I fit words together to try and create the feeling I want others to understand . . . more often, if I'm honest, the word-fitting and puzzle-piecing is for my own peace of mind and comprehension and those who read it and "get it" are secondary.

But author feels a step removed. Should that be defined by how many people have read me? Whether or not it's a professional pursuit? The manner of being published? Probably not, if I'm careful to think about the lifestyle of writing and what it means for me.

Like many writers, or artists for that matter, I feel compelled to write. It's not always easy or comfortable. But it often feels like less of a choice and more of a  . . . necessity. I find myself writing more and more often than the average person. I feel convicted by what I have to say and by getting it set down correctly. In college, while other students lamented revisions, I looked forward to getting feedback and getting what I printed on paper right. In high school I arranged my schedule around a new and experimental creative writing class. It has always been the case that when doing homework I make myself do busy work, math, calculations first and reward myself with writing papers. I often don't feel cold, hungry, tired or notice external indicators of normal life when I'm writing. I once wrote a paper I was thrilled about in 8 straight hours, from 9pm until 5am. Three revisions included, and forgot to check the time and go to bed. It's not a chore or a task for me often, and even when it isn't a joy it is a need as strong as or stronger than the need to eat or sleep. Even now in the cold and sober light of being a real grown up, I often find myself writing these posts and realizing after . . . oh, it's 2 hours later than I intended to eat lunch. Or, oh, it's the middle of the night now. and I have an interview tomorrow. Huh.

There are other creative pursuits in my life, and I mostly do those for fun or because I want to challenge myself. I sing because it turns on part of my emotional faucet that I don't control otherwise, and it accesses my issues around being guarded or vulnerable more succinctly than anything else. I take pictures because the combination of science, technology, and artistic vision involved in getting that right still baffle and amaze me. (When I get it right these days, it is usually an accident, but I'm getting better at reproducing those accidents.) The difference is, I have always written, and do so even when there is seemingly NO REASON to, and sometimes reason not to! The other pursuits are choices. I benefit from those choices, and I love singing and photography no less for being things I pursue consciously, but writing for me is a passion akin to the innate faith that some of my friends have, and have never questioned. It is simply what I do.

Annie Dillard has written copiously about The Writing Life. I'm not sure I can match myself up to that austerity and drive, though, I know other authors who have written about their processes as being far more practical. The theme is, most of the authors I admire started writing not to make money, but because they couldn't not.

In some senses, it's strange that the question of writer vs. author hasn't occurred to me before. I think I'm still likely to hedge my bets and not claim author-hood until I have some external and overwhelming reasons to claim it, but I can claim being a writer firmly as a lifestyle and outlook. this is the unrelenting fact of my life - that since I could speak and understood words could be written and read, I have felt the unrelenting need to participate in that activity. Whether that becomes a full time pursuit or something I do because it's who I am regardless of paycheck source, well that story is still unfolding.