I hate being a writer. I shouldn’t even call myself a writer. What am I doing on a writing retreat with actual writers? I suck.
The voice in my head prattles on, and now I realize there’s a new voice picking up the theme.
“My poetry sucks,” calls Sheila from the yard where she sits on a blanket in the sun, looking every bit a writer.
“No! You’re great. Keep going,” says Sarah from her perch on the front porch. She, too, looks like a writer, surrounded by books and papers riffling in the breeze.
Sheryl sits next to me on the second floor porch, Mac Air open on her lap. She’s watching a pair of hornets. “Are they having sex?” They are, his furry rump rhythmically bouncing against the female’s smooth one. Sheryl and I comment that neither of us has ever envisioned bee sex, despite the proverbial birds & bees. The male hornet abruptly flies off and the female methodically wipes her hind parts with her back legs and departs in another direction.
“I had an idea for a new forward for my memoir, but now I can’t remember what it was.” Sheryl sighs, gets up, and goes inside.
I’m left sitting here with two dead-end memoir trails and two crappy poems that I’m embarrassed to even save on my computer after hearing Sheila and Sarah read their poetry last night.
I was excited about this trip to The Porches, a writer’s retreat in the foothills of southern Virginia. A few of us came last year, and I’ve thought of that trip with longing all year – Wow, can’t wait to get back to The Porches; I’m going to get so much done!
Now that I’m here, I begin to recall the painful false starts and fruitless scribbling I experienced on my last visit. Then, too, my harsh inner voice called “Failure!” I had brought along a file full of scenes and characters for a short story everyone said needed to be a novel. I was ready to launch my literary career.
I can’t remember what I ended up writing, but it wasn’t a famous novel. It wasn’t even fiction. As much as I wish I could write fiction, it rarely happens because there’s this little element called “plot” that completely escapes me.
I probably wrote a blog post about what a fraud I was, and how I wasn’t really a writer and what was I doing on a writing retreat anyway?
Maybe the muse will strike this afternoon. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll just spend the rest of the weekend reading a book I would never have glanced at a few years ago, but which I’m finding fascinating: The Writer’s Journey: Mythic Structure for Storytellers and Screenwriters.
It’s much easier to read about writing than to actually write.
Still, it’s a lovely day – spring has fully arrived. The redbuds on the sides of the road boldly claim their moment, and the trees along the river are dusted mint green.
I came across a lively black snake this morning celebrating the sunshine in a newly planted bed of pansies. Maybe she’s my muse . . .
Jonathan Scott Griffin
Jan 07, 2018 @ 22:56:42
It’s easy to feel like a failed writer. Sometimes it feels like we write and no one is interested in what we have to say. But we keep writing because we must. It’s who we are. Writing sustains us just as much as food and drink does. We need to write as much as we need oxygen. Sometimes all we can do is write for ourselves.
melanielynngriffin
Jan 09, 2018 @ 18:08:11
As they say, “Writers write!”
nfattouki
Apr 20, 2014 @ 12:37:05
The porche looks like the the ideal place to write 🙂
melanielynngriffin
Apr 20, 2014 @ 14:37:17
If one is a real writer, yes! 🙂
Terry Kepler
Apr 14, 2014 @ 18:18:16
Well, I think that if I love reading it, and you wrote it, that makes you a successful writer. So, hah!
melanielynngriffin
Apr 15, 2014 @ 17:13:40
I knew the universe was all about you! Glad I can be a part of your entertainment galaxy.
jane02050
Apr 14, 2014 @ 12:31:02
well, good for you you do no go silent.
moi? mum. MUMMMMMMMM. i just sit here.
well, i’m working on my real estate empire and that’s no small thing.
did we ever discuss the QE2? i want to go on it to Europe. this summer.
that’s my next little knot to investigate today.
i’m so proud of you that you keep sharing what is true for you in your posts. i so wish i could even just write for myself. maybe that is my goal for today. 500 words to myself.
thank you melanie. i can manage that goal at some point today. i can.
the wind is FIERCE today. makes me want to stay inside.
jane 202 236 8282
melanielynngriffin
Apr 14, 2014 @ 12:35:45
QE2 – what a wonderful place to write! A travel piece in the making.
Meanwhile, 500 words for you sounds perfect. My pen always moves when my journal’s open, even if my “real” writing on my keyboard is paralyzed.
The wind blows away staleness. 🙂