Truth

It's a gorgeous day, but I wasted it. I missed my bus this morning, the one that was expected to whisk me away to a writer's meeting. Now I need to wait a week and to make more apologies. I'm always making apologies. I'm certain they get old, fast.

But that's not the point. Here's the thing about me and writing. I have it on good authority that I write well. I don't doubt it, either. I've always been facile with words, literate, and able to string words together. A good portion of that is practice, but there's some raw talent, too, that I believe comes from reading a lot and just picking up how to do things, how sentences should look and behave. Then, I've taken a few courses in copy-editing which have helped immensely with grammar. And, I've had several classes where I've learned to be concise and how to make my writing less lame.

With all that said, one would think I'd have no problems. But I see two necessities in writing. One is the language used, and that can be taught (it's how I've learned). The other, though, is the more important: the content.

I can write well, but do I have anything to say? I can take someone else's idea or story and make it read well, but can I carry off a novel on my own? I can write so people can understand what I'm saying, but can I come up with ideas that people will want to read? If I have something to say I can do it pretty well, but I beat myself up a lot about not having stories worth telling.

Now I need an injection of talent, of knowledge, of story-telling ability. Lots of books suggest ways to become creative, but crafting ideas into stories has long been my challenge. I can't tell what's wrong with my stuff.