I’m not just a writer. I’m a storyteller. I started telling stories before I learned my alphabet. Once I discovered how to read and write, I learned that I could write something on paper and I could show it to others who had not heard me tell the story. But writing my stories came later when my family could afford the extra paper and pencils. Poverty sucks.
When I was a child, I was very introverted. My family members were the only people I could tell my stories to. When I was in elementary school, recess was an ordeal of loneliness until I started worldbuilding in my head. It took a while to realize I was interacting with my imaginary world. I would come out of it to see the other children staring at me. I had been walking around, miming various actions and moving my mouth silently. Finally one of them asked me what I was doing, and I began telling him about the sandwich factory I had built. For some reason – hunger, maybe? – I was fascinated by the thought of automated assembly lines surrounded by machines slicing and stacking and wrapping meat and cheese sandwiches. I had never seen an assembly line, but I guess we had been studying something on the subject. Where were all the sandwiches going? I didn’t know and didn’t care. It was the process that fascinated me.
The other kids thought I was nuts, but they began talking to me more, and I slowly made friends. It helped me get through school. Then we moved, and I had to make new friends. Since I was still introverted, it was difficult. In the fifth grade, our English teacher discovered I had written a story. I think it was about a horse since she had been reading a chapter a day from a novel about a horse to the class. My story had several chapters as well, and she read a chapter of it every day to the class. They did not seem impressed. But they were happy they did not have to face a quiz about it, so I got no criticism.
I continued writing, the plots changing as I aged. In the tenth grade, I was writing a teenage romance. I had a thick spiral notebook dedicated to it. A couple of weeks before the end of school, our history class teacher had pretty much finished everything on his curriculum and just told us to keep it quiet during class. I immediately hauled out my notebook and began writing on my story. The seat to my left was filled by a hulking football player. He was a nice guy, but physically imposing. I didn’t realize he was reading the page I was writing until I filled the page and started to turn to the next with my left hand. He pinned my hand to the desk and leaned over.
I was speechless with shock and mortified by the immediate teasing coming from his friends behind us. He ignored them and me and finished reading the page. Then, still silent, he took the notebook away from me, flipped the pages to the story’s beginning, and read the whole thing. I sat there too terrified to protest. Luckily he caught up before the end of class. I had no idea whether he’d let me have it back. I had no idea what he was thinking as he read it. It was a teen romance, written by a girl who had never had a boyfriend. Would he make fun of me? Would he tell me it was trash? Would he think it was about him? It wasn’t, but would he be able to tell?
Just before class ended, he finished and handed the notebook back. He looked at me, a warning clear in his expression. “Finish it before school is out for the summer,” he said. “I want to read the end of it.” He got up and left the room, still majestically ignoring his friends as they swarmed after him, demanding to know why he had held hands with me and then read my notebook. I finished the story. I did NOT want to find out what would happen if I didn’t. After he finished it on the last day of school, he finally announced his opinion of it. “A good story,” he said with an approving nod. Nothing else, but I didn’t need anything else.
I lost my introverted nature over the next few years, but I never lost my love of story telling. I wrote stories, I wrote poetry, I wrote songs. I sent two books to publishers, and the editor told me that the beta readers had really liked them, but it wasn’t quite what the publishers really wanted at the moment. I had learned about genre publishing by then, so I wasn’t surprised, but I was glad the beta readers had all liked my work.
One day I got the chance to have a science fiction/fantasy work of mine critiqued by a couple of professional writers and several amateurs as part of a science fiction convention. You paid a fee, you sent in a chapter or short story, and received a copy of their work for you to critique. I was always taught that if you need to offer criticism, make it constructive or leave it alone. I learned that not everybody felt that way.
Science fiction and fantasy is such a broad genre most people have their own preferences for a certain kind. Some have strong likes and dislikes of certain subjects. At our session, we were supposed to go around the table, offering our critiques of one writer at a time. The writer under the microscope was not allowed to argue with someone’s opinion, or defend their writing, or even speak until the end. When mine came up, one amateur writer hated the whole story because it was based on a parallel world. I didn’t worry about his opinion because that was his only criticism. He just didn’t like parallel worlds, so he blew off the whole story. Another young man loved my story. He told me he couldn’t wait to read the rest of it. I’m hoping to finally get that thing published soon, so maybe, wherever he is out there, he’ll be able to.
The other amateur writers were more focused on the technical aspects, like grammar and punctuation, and didn’t really have much to say about the story itself. My work had been totally different from theirs, so I wasn’t surprised. Then one of the pro writers, a white middle-class suburban mom type, complained that my characters were not believable. “A teenage prostitute? Where were her parents?” Yes, she said that. Everybody stared at her for a minute, and she looked like she couldn’t figure out why. I don’t even remember the rest of what she said, I was so flabbergasted by that naive remark.
The other professional writer was a Canadian who wrote urban punk fantasy. He tore my story to shreds, slapping the manuscript copy on the table. “Nobody talks like that!” he snapped, and proceeded to vigorously point out how terrible everything else was in my story. I was speechless about that, too. Everyone looked vaguely embarrassed as he wound up. When he was finished and I was allowed to speak to all of their critiques, I just smiled at him and told him I’d work on the dialogue. I was from the rural southern United States, and he was an urban Canadian with a teenage daughter. Maybe he didn’t get to listen to the kind of conversations I listened to. I ignored everything else he said since it sounded like opinion, which didn’t worry me. I was just pleased that one young man, who was my target audience for that story, really liked it. That meant I had done it right.
I have had other comments since on many different stories I have written. One lady told me about one story that she laughed and then she cried and then laughed again. I said good because I had as well while I was writing it. One lady told my church that she had not finished one of my books yet, but felt that it had changed her life, and urged all of them to read it. Whoa! I’m not sure I meant to do that, but she seemed happier, so I was glad.
Strong ego? You bet. I love to read what I write. I like getting good reviews, but bad ones don’t bother me. I may have to publish my own books, and I don’t make money at it yet, but I’m enjoying myself. I get to tell stories, and that’s all I want to do.