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Ah there's a question. What is it that motivates people to scribble away and then plonk it on the net for anyone to see and comment on... or not.
It is often a highly personal thing as is at times the writing. I make no assumptions or assign reasons for others, but I think it likely my own will be echoed by some, at least. Others will see a similarity in approach or method, even if the motivation differs.
So why? Seeking some parallels of understanding, thought and questions; about two years ago I searched around and found some stories. Ah... so where there are some there must be others and there were. So I read and browsed for about 6 months. Some I liked and some upset me. Some disgusted me, but I read all sorts to see what there was, what thoughts might be out there.
And then I thought, Ok... I'm not stupid and I can put words together, sort of. So... I did. It was an attempt in a semi-fictionalised way to understand myself, to exorcise a demon or three. Plus maybe to see who else there might be that had similar thoughts or needs, maybe make a friend or two, pen-pals, whatever. And then maybe there's a pinch of ego on the top, Just enough to say hey, here see... with hopes and fears taking turns.
So Eighteen months and some soul baring and searching and a few stories later, all of which will have pieces of me in them, if not all quite true to life, here we are. It is a sharing of feeling, experience, fear, love, sorrow and pain. And a whole bunch more. Do I do it well? Shrug... I try. But I don't 'work' at it. It's done when and where I can, between life and survival and just stuff. Hopefully some few will connect in some way, and yes I have made a few friends and more friendly acquaintances. But it is not a job and I don't study it, it is an outlet... a reaching out.
Responses are sort of like the old; ART... well I know what I like. Don't we all. I mean does one like a painting more because you know what paints were used or whether the brushes were made from goat hair from a herd of Angoras kept in a pen in the back yard? You either like it or you don't. The knowledge of how might make the appreciation a little more, but it won't change it. Tastes vary sometimes widely, perfectly fine, it's all out there somewhere.
Now whether you like or don't or simply don't get it or have your own fears and anxieties to get past. Hey that's what it's all about. A bit of sharing and maybe caring, give and take. Read and think and take what is given freely. And when you can, give some back.
Here is the best for that, not the first or even the third site I found. Not the first to be graced by my masterful (cough, cough) literary efforts... and yeah a J K Rowling book deal might be nice, but I'm not totally delusional and then of course you do have to have a book... but yes BC is the best of it's type. It aint perfect, who or what is, certainly not I. But it is here as are we that come here and long may it be as it is. Because it helps...
Ok sorry... getting all verbose and stuff and still only said a quarter of it. Maybe I should go away for a bit and finish a damn story or something.
Comments
Just to add..
BC is the best of the sites for me because it's the most PERSONABLE. There is a realness here where Fictionmania (just to name one) is more of a story repository. BC is a place to relax, make friends, share thoughts, feelings, and receive support.
Huggles!!
Alexis
Maybe this is why.
Kristina,
You don't ask the easy questions do you. Jill asked this a little over a year ago, and I answered with a (I thought) clever list of reasons. This time I'll answer it more directly. Hell if I know. (but that won't stop me from discussing some possibilities.)
I do work at writing; and most of what I write is tossed away, at least to some distant file. You have seen the process, and I tried to write a story the showed a fictionalized view of it. I was told that that story just got in the way of the story, perhaps it did - except that was the damn story. Sometimes (and it is when I think I write best) the words come easily, usually each one is the result of an internal battle without any satisfactory resolution. I want every word to have two meanings (or at least serve two functions.) Shakespeare could do that, almost every word of 'Hamlet' contains irony; I can't. I fight to find that illusive, infamous Rule of Three; the beginning, the middle, the end; the background, the quest, the goal; the novice, the apprentice, the master; within each chapter, within each paragraph, within each sentence. Alas, I can't.
So I'm told that what I write aren't stories at all. What the hell. I think that each scene in my 'Scenes' is a story and each group is too. But I don't give obvious impediment/success highlights, nor the tightly closed denouement, so it is not a story. Well, my life is not like that, nor is much of the fiction I read or write. People who prefer Tom Wolfe to his cousin, who have Steven King or Dan Brown on their list of great writers (NB, 'favorite' is a whole other thing.) won't care for my stuff, or see the point in even my less experimental things. (Please see 'The Point', an animated film written by Harry Nilsson.) But I think there is a difference between writing and 'story telling', and I just try. I just try to make it new, surprising, different. (And by setting goals that I don't expect to reach, I protect myself form the failure that would come anyway.)
Reading those two paragraphs I think I must have gained the labels, arrogant and pompous. Well maybe (but, again, I try). But please realize, I'm not telling anyone what to do, or saying anything is better than something else. I don't think that; I'm just talking about what I'm trying to try to do right now when I write. I don't believe I know what is the best story, or the best way to write. The harder I try to learn that the more questions I learn and the more answers I learn are wrong. If I still dreamed of being an Author, I would probably work on different things, but I don't. And all of this was meant only as a ground for my answer to the real question of 'Why do it?' anyway.
I have been told (or it was implied, or I inferred that it was meant) that I write only to feed my ego. Well that is wrong. Nothing I do makes my short comings so clear to my self as writing. (Which only means I can hide them better in other areas.)
In my family (maybe in all) each child had a role. One older brother was 'the Star', his successes were celebrated by all, his failures were mourned by all (when they could not be denied.). My sister was the lightning rod; she got in trouble before anyone else could (it help that she was also 'the sweetheart', so all her sins were only venial.) My twin brother was the hero, he always jumped into the middle. My eldest brother was fourteen years older than me and had got the hell out of there before I could form a memory of him, probably another lighting rod though.
It was my chore to cheer everyone up. When my father threw the stature of the Blessed Virgin at my mother, I quickly got the paste. When my sister got slapped by my mother for wearing the wrong thing or being late, I hugged them both. I gave lots of hugs; I did chores when it wasn't my turn but others were too hoarse from yelling; I wiped up a lot of spills; I made lots of small presents and colored lots of pictures. I'm still doing that kind of thing in my jobs and personal life too. (Side question: Did I get this role because of the incipient gender/sexuality issues - confusion? difference? - or did that come from the role?) That has a lot to do with why I write: "Hey, cheer up everyone! It's OK!" It is compulsive. ("Just take the damn thing and read it, Pretty Please.")
"Scenes" was conceived of as a gift to a very good friend. A childhood that she did not have. However, before it was posted it had grown beyond that. Luckily, I have matured enough not to try to steal someone's life to give a dream to them. Luckily, I found many more people to give it to (or to try to give it to.)
The second part of the reason for writing, is because of the value of stories to me. Since I was ten, only words have given me security. Even hiding in academics meant dealing with people, and that gave responsibilities. In words alone I could hide and, though I was not a good reader (I'm still not.) I could become something else somewhere else in books, but also is only in that place that I am me for me.. What better thing could I give to others than that magic. Even if I can never get all my ideas down on paper (really, the screen.). Because I have about ten more stories started and ten beyond that conceived of. And the dream of writing them is itself a small reward, or a balm. And, yes, they all contain with in them personal pains and personal dreams that need the soothing effects of ink (metaphorically speaking, no one really uses ink anymore do they?).
OK, that is a lot more self disclosure than I ever intended to make anywhere,and who cares? I don't get that much actually written anyway, but it might contain an answered to your question for one person who has written anyway. But here is the thing, Kristina, don't stop. Don't let a lack of comments, or the total cluelessness of some about what is involved in all this disappoint you. All those words you type are the result of a life, and each is of infinite value. Make them accept it.
Hugs, Love, Joy
Jan