Why I Became a Writer
Tuesday, March 2, 2010 at 10:02AM My first memory of what I wanted to be when I grew up was a writer. Back then I used the word, "author" - somehow this word stuck in my mind. A writer.... well, that could be anything.
I read at an early age and I read a lot. My parents and siblings both tell stories of me forever having a book in my hand. I also was known to pore over the family set of encyclopedias for hours - having them splayed out on the floor, one article jumping me to another (my favorite section was "See Also").
Okay. I was a bit weird. But it made me fairly good at trivial pursuit. Interestingly, my son does the same thing now - except he has a little thing called the internet to help him along. I had the Weyburn, Sask. library and my stack of World Books. Old school, dude. (For some reason, this is one of the few things that impresses him).
I digress. Often.
But this thought of being an author was a bit like those kids that wanted to be fireman, or doctors, or astronauts (though, some of them might have became just that). The desire drifted away as I grew up and was replaced with another: art. Here in the story, you might think that I'd say teaching, or carpentry, or social work, or some sort of semi-normal job. But I have never been semi-anything. So I followed the art career thing, and continue to follow it. But along the way, a few decades later actually, that childhood desire returned. And I know why.
I was still the guy with a book in his hand - everywhere and anytime. Though, my choice of reading material began to change after art school. I started reading that literary stuff. I grew up on a steady stream of sci-fi, fantasy, heavy on the action/comedy/weirdness factors (and if all three were combined - even better). In my academic electives in college I took some literature courses, along with one creative writing course, which I barely recall. But I do remember the lit classes. They introduced me to Vonnegut (instant obsession). And John Gardner (later obsession). The switch wasn't right away, but I really found there were books that I just couldn't read anymore - the badly written ones. I clearly remember reading Marathon Man - and going, "this is really shitty writing". Huh? Where the hell did that thought come from? Then I'd pick up another Vonnegut, and another.
Where I am leading to is the books the ignited that childhood dream - I still remember clearly which ones lit the fire.
Catcher in the Rye
I read this when I was 25. Kind of late compared to some other angry young men - and just to add, I wasn't an angry young man, nor am I an angry middle-aged man. But I was simply amazed by the writing, and the character. I was reading it on the subway, coming home from my studio in downtown Toronto. And I thought, Hey. I want to be a writer. Where did that thought come from?
100 Years of Solitude
Right around the same era - a studio mate lent me his paperback copy of Marquez's book. I'd never read anything like it. It was magical, dreamy, totally engrossing - I recall reading it to my wife, pregnant with one of our kids - she wondered what the hell I was going on about. It was kind of weird and every character had the same name. For me, I didn't think I could ever write such a book (and still think so) - but again, this desire to write, to create magic on the page came back.
Smoke
This was some years later - and not a book, but a movie version of a book. I had no idea who Paul Auster was. But I came home from watching this beautful little film, with William Hurt playing the writer and Harvey Keitel speaking aloud what I found out later was "Auggie Wren's Christmas" story, and I knew - I had to start writing.
Rock Springs
This came along after I started writing - so it wasn't the one that lit the fire. But it keeps it burning. Everytime I think of the kind of story I want to write, I think back to Ford's book and how much I would love to create something like "Communist". I have read it many times, underlined things, deconstructed it, and loved it to pieces. It confirmed for me that not only do I want to write, I need to.
This posting came out of a desire to reinvigorate that desire. Please comment on the books (or films, music, copy on cereal boxes or anything...) that made you want to write.
Reader Comments (6)
This is a great post, Craig. We share many favorite books and authors. Interestingly, I don't remember a precise moment that influenced me to write. Maybe because it was always at the back on my mind. As a kid, I read a lot, and wrote too, but was never encouraged (having those strict Soviet parents who think that one should engage only in very useful activities, that would help one to be "ahead" of others. Considering the harsh Soviet reality, I don't blame them.) But I always wrote a little. Had my notebook. Wrote short stories and long rhyming ballads.
When I was about 19 I wrote a series of flash stories, and then asked a friend to read them. He said that was the worst thing he's ever read, and this, for some, reason, discouraged me for years.
But I remember the moment I decided to write seriously. I was taking a graduate course at York University, and I had to comment, in any way I chose, on a postmodern piece. For some reason I felt I had no clue what the piece was about, so I wrote another piece, in response to the first. And then I thought, cool. I will write. I will get better at it. And then I joied the old zoetrope. And then I left it, for no reason. And then, 4 years ago, when my middle child was 11 months old, I learned about nanowrimoe,and wrote my first nano novel, and since then I've been very serious about writing.
Great blog, Craig! For me, writing and music are all mixed up. I have unconditional love for both. I grew up in a house full of book and music, LOUD music from my dad's series of audiophile experiments and shelves full of books, some with odd leather covers which made them feel alive. I didn't read his books when I was a child, but I looked at them hard and often. Like you , I read the World Book Encyclopedia. Nothin' weird about it, man
When I was very young , six or seven, I wrote verse. Rhyme was very appealing to me and making rhymes fit what I was trying to say with my seven year old sensibility felt like victory.
As far as I can remember, my first real intoxication with the idea of being a writer was after reading Poe's The Masque of the Red Death. I read it over and over again. I think I became hypnotized by the rhythm of the language and the exotic and probably only half-understood imagery.
These days, as a book reviewer, I read a lot of published stuff that makes me despair. All these words that take me nowhere. But fiction is not dead. Poetry is not dead.That's crazy talk. I have the good fortune to have writer friends whose work is full of life and meaning and yes, music. It's been a while since I wrote something I'm truly proud of but I intend to keep on trying.
Such lovely responses Carol and Ania - thank-you. Nice to know someone else read those World Books.
I was an early reader, too. My mom taught my sister and I to read before entering kindergarten. We had World Book and Book of Knowledge addictions, plus my mom always provided a vast library.
I read Catcher in the Rye in high school and I imitated Salilnger's Holden voice in my correspondences with Viet Nam soldiers. I fell in love with Holden Caulfield. But my drive to write came much later in life, though I always enjoyed stringing words together (my 4th grade teacher had me read my poetry to the school principal). My turning point came with reading Lorrie Moore, specifically, "You're Ugly, Too" in the year 2000. Been writing short fiction ever since.
I enjoyed your post very much!
We used to go to the library once a week. I’d scoop up as many picture books as I could carry and read them all in the first day or two and then starve for books until the following weekend. One of my favorite things was when the bookmobile came. It would always park right out in front of our house. It was like my own private library.
Before that, before I could read, I remember setting up my desk chair in front of our fireplace with a tv tray and gathering as many notebooks and pieces of paper I could find and shuffling them all around and pretend to be writing while the rest of my family watched tv. I remember taking myself very seriously and getting very upset if anyone dared to interrupt me.
I can’t remember a time I didn’t want to write. I read everything I could get my hands on. I started writing poetry in the 7th grade in those little black and white composition books. Never showed anyone my writing until I was a sophomore in high school and my English teacher read a poem of mine out loud to the class. Later that same year (great English teacher) I wrote my first short story, a one page western called “One Hot Day.” I’ve been writing and reading ever since.
I never considered any other profession. I’m mad for pens, pencils, journals, binders, folders, reams of paper. Whenever I’m on vacation I go to every bookstore and office supply place in town. I owned a 1919 Chandler and Price printing press in 1975 and hand made a collection of my poetry on it. I created and ran my own literary magazine from 1977 to 1979. There’s really nothing I’ve ever wanted other than to write full time. It’s pretty much my one and only dream.
I wonder if the World Book people know how many they inspired. I am going to sound like an old fart here, but when I compare the long afternoons spent with those green and white (classic binding) tomes to surfing Wikipedia - well, there is no comparison.
Loved the story about the bookmobile, too. I was lucky enough to have a great local library - I pretty much lived there.
thanks again for the comments