Life is constantly evolving. Things change and morph as time goes by. That’s nothing new. Few people would argue that we are living at a time in history where the planet seems to be evolving on so many different levels and at a speed we’ve never experienced before. The Internet has played a huge role in that. Suddenly, thoughts and ideas can be shared in seconds, instead of what once took days or even weeks. Does anyone write letters these days or does it take too much time for them to arrive?
As a writer of historical fiction, I find myself even more aware of how much faster life is then in years gone by.
I was thinking, the other day, how just as writers evolve, we are all constantly evolving on a personal level as well. The person we were a decade ago, for instance, is not the same person we are today. It doesn’t mean we changed dramatically, although that change could be dramatic. Sometimes change happens so slowly we’re not aware of it until we have reason to reflect back and think “Hmm, I never would have done this or that a few years ago.” I’m sure we’ve all experienced these moments.
A writer evolves as well. It’s made clear in the stories we write and themes we choose to tackle. Over time our style evolves as we work toward finding our true voice. Sometimes, in the beginning, self-consciousness can prevent us from exploring a certain theme or character, stifling our creative flow. We’re not sure what others will think. and so we might shrink into the background, opting for a safer route, the one most expected of us.
There are also those critics out there who’s opinions might matter much more to us than they should. Writer or not–we all have these critics in our lives who never seem to tire of trying to force us into following the path they’ve deemed more appropriate. They are the people who often think they know what’s best for others.
There is also our own “inner critic” who has absolutely no problem crushing our dreams and demanding we be more realistic.
Me? A Writer? Who would read something I wrote? Who would pay money to read something that came from my imagination?
Sound familiar?
Putting work out there for others to scrutinize can be scary, no doubt about it.
For a writer, the stories we create are often very personal for many different reasons. But I would argue that we are the only ones who can write these particular stories because we view life from our own unique perspective and wouldn’t it be a shame if we gave that all up because of own fear? There is nothing more satisfying for a writer than having someone connect with one of our stories. Or maybe we shed a different light on a particular subject for someone or maybe even give them a new concept to consider.
So, if you’re a writer and if you choose to look at life as a means of evolution, perhaps you’ll be more gentle with yourself and come to the understanding that just as life continues to evolve, all writers evolve. This means, your writing will change, as will the themes and the complexity of your characters. And perhaps as your writing evolves you will learn to trust in the knowledge that you’re included in that evolution and simply allow your creativity to flow.
Maybe what you write won’t find a publisher immediately, maybe it never will. But f you stick with it, your writing will evolve over time and you’ll eventually find a place where you are comfortable with the act of creation.
Across the lake from where I live there’s an island. Plenty of trees but nothing else, it’s basically deserted, if you want to use that term, although we have seen the remains of human activity left behind on the shores from time to time while out in our boat; the remnants of small camp fires and some empty bottles.
prove I could do it or to rack up a bunch of publishing credits that I could wave like a victory flag. I started writing as a matter of survival, that little voice that one day reminded me of how important writing had been to me in my younger years. Back then I didn’t care about publication, I only cared about writing a story and expressing whatever it was inside me what needed to be said. Growing up as a middle child sometimes left me feeling stifled. It was difficult for me to communicate my feelings verbally. I was often shushed. But the written word offered me a safe place to fall, a way to communicate without making too much noise. Plus it felt right.
The other day someone asked when I’d last written a book. I quickly replied last year. But that’s not really accurate. Yes, I finished a book last year, but I worked on it for several years before declaring it completed. Even then, I only ever refer to it as a manuscript. (Not a book until it’s published.) I have several manuscripts in various stages of completion, ones that go back many, many, many years. It’s the nature of writing, I think; the ability to simply pick up and start or stop or even change directions. I don’t wear blinders when I write. Sometimes my eye wonders. I see a potential story some place else and I quickly jot things down—a paragraph, a sentence, a page—for a later date.
Laura Best 