I've been thinking a lot about writing, and about what "writing" really means for me.

I know, somewhere in my heart, or in the back of my head, or deep inside my soul or insert metaphor/cliche here, that I want to be a Writer. I want business cards that are blue and pretty and say "Lucy Ransdell, Writer" on them. I want an office with books and hardwood floors and pretty rugs and a big window and white flowy curtains. I want to spend a good part of my time with pen and paper and keyboards and monitors and, most importantly, with words. I want the writing life, a life where I have time to live and think and process my thoughts and observe others and create run-on sentences with no commas and weave that all into stories that might make other people think.

But why?

That's what I've been pondering lately. I'm looking for a little direction, to tell the truth. It took me 27 years to figure out what I really want to be, and now it's time to narrow my findings down a bit. (Okay, okay, 27 years is a little dramatic. I'll just take it from when I graduated high school at 18.) It's taken me nine years to figure out what I really want to be when I grow up, since I didn't have a clue back when I was supposed to pick a major. Now I'm left with the actual hard part: doing it. Just when I thought the going would get easier, honestly.

I've digressed - back to the question. Why?

I think it has something to do with honesty, with coming clean. Saying things out loud that people normally talk about in hushed tones. Telling the truth about the human condition, or at least the human condition in my limited experience. Putting difficult subjects out there, even if it's hard or scary or uncomfortable for the reader. Putting mundane things out there too, things that are a part our common experience that people can relate to.

I want people to read what I've written and appreciate it for what it is: my take on things, whether thinly veiled in a short story, or made pretty in a poem, or point blank on my website.

On the other hand, I also want people to read what I've written without considering me at all. I want the finished work to stand alone, for who I am and what I think and what I look like and what I chose to do with my life not to matter. I want my finished works to be singular objects, unconnected to the author in those ways that make people discount important feelings and opinions and thoughts.

Like all things, writing starts with thoughts. Basically, I want what I think to matter.

I don't know who I want it to matter to, really - just to whoever happens to come upon it, I guess. It would be nice if my thoughts and subsequent creations actually made some kind of a difference. The kind of difference that my favorite books have made on me, like Art & Lies by Jeannette Winterson, or Good in Bed by Jennifer Weiner, or even Inspiration Sandwich by Sark. Seat of the Soul by Gary Zukav is a good example; it's not fiction but it has certainly changed the way many people see themselves in relation to this whole universe we live on, including myself.

Ultimately, making a difference doesn't matter, though, because it's out of my control. Completely.

So much for wanting what I think to matter. Geez.

That's all for now. I'm sure I'll return to this subject again soon. Right now I've thought myself into so many circles that I've lost perspective a bit. Time to stop and regather, time to enjoy this beautiful Friday evening in Austin, where it's so lovely outside just before dark that it almost hurts.

Lucy loves you |