Over on The Original BRO-Log, Minister Faust asks people to share the stories of why they became a writer. Because he’s a friend, writes great books and has always been generous with his time and thoughts, I’ll try to answer.
I usually wouldn’t bother. I don’t self-identify as a writer, a blogger or anything other than “Ryan Oakley” unless my tongue is shoved as firmly into my cheek as my finger is into your eye. I write, sure. Am I a writer? I’m not sure what that creature is. Or even what a “creature” is, per se.
Seriously: Is it an animal or a monster? Some sort of created animal? It’s a weird fucking word. Creature. Been bugging me for weeks now.
And I’m not entirely sure why I starting writing. I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember. Maybe it has something to do with my environment.
pic nicked from here
Mom used to tell me bedtime stories about animals that needed rescuing and the first stories I can remember writing down were about talking animals. The only one I can remember was about a raccoon who held in his feelings until he inflated like a balloon. I’m not sure how it ended for him. Badly, I suspect.
Indeed, the first time I can remember being moved by words was driving to kindergarten with my Mom playing “Dancing in the Dark” by Bruce Springsteen.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pk8VZgJkpeg]
There’s a lyric in that song — “You can’t start a fire without a spark”– that just blew my mind. It made me feel something I had never felt before; some haunting apprehension of futility that no child should feel. (Not until they’re fifteen.) I remember being amazed that words could create such a nameless emotion.
Aside from The Boss and Mom, Dad always told a lot of crazy stories about various capers. Being a Londoner, wordplay was his birthright and I learned some strange terms that other people didn’t know. None of them should be repeated on a family blog like this one.
Ahem.
But I think picking up some of his slang, which my peers couldn’t understand, combined with a childhood lisp, which took me out of class and placed me into years of speech therapy, made me physically aware of language.
Some words were dangerous –specific snakes hiss– and possessed the power to really fuck me up, make me a laughingstock and set me apart from others. In a bad way. As a child, there’s no other way to be set apart.
I could never take words for granted. They always required thought. Pen and page were a more trustworthy way of delivering them than tongue and teeth.
I aped what I saw other people writing and what I read –stories, essays, articles– and over time my stories got better and I started enjoying the process of writing them. I have a lot of fun when I’m working playing. And when I’m not writing I feel like that old raccoon: About to pop or float away or otherwise end badly.
When I am writing I feel like a gambler in the zone, playing to extinction.
If I could quit, I would quit. The whole process feels like some sort of bizarre mental problem; part compulsion, part crutch, part idiocy, all of it unbecoming in an adult. It’s probably hurt my life more than helped.
It’s a reasonably nice day out. And here I am. Doing this shit.
And yet, even with my basic contempt towards this dependency, I am still enthralled by words. Their meanings and their organization fascinate me. I like their rhythms, their tones and their rules. There’s some sort of magic there.
Perhaps it’s because I have no talent with them. Anything I’ve ever been able to do with words is due to hours upon hours of work, study and consideration. The result I yank out of them is always less than the effort I’ve put in. No accidents, genetic or otherwise, have granted me any skill. I have no natural ability.
That might be what keeps me interested. That might be why I still believe in their magic. I don’t understand words. I never will. And there’s nothing more boring and less magical than a problem that’s been solved. Thankfully, I’m in no danger of solving this one any time soon.
5 comments
Minister Faust
May 26, 2009 at 3:13 pm (UTC -4) Link to this comment
Great post. Great story. My friend.
MF
Barima
May 26, 2009 at 8:00 pm (UTC -4) Link to this comment
There’s a power in words, alright, Ryan. And you, to my mind, recognise that more than a good majority of the blogging commune
It seems exceedingly fitting that your father is a Londoner, not that I’m biased or anything
junior alien
May 31, 2009 at 1:31 am (UTC -4) Link to this comment
I disagree with you. You DO have talent. You use clear, beautiful language that’s a pleasure to read – and you get to the point.
But I think the act of writing is always a little bit like child-bearing: it can be extremely painful until the child is out. When that’s done, you look at the outcome with a little distanced amazement.
The reason why I DON’T write except for private diaries is that it gives me cramps in the brain.
Lady Amelia
June 3, 2009 at 5:50 pm (UTC -4) Link to this comment
I think this is a fine place for a reversal of one of my more common statements, in response to what I like to call “pomposity”: “Is he conceited or convinced?” In your case, I would say instead “humble” — you truly do have a gift for words — your efforts are not unnoticed, and as a reader and a writer both, I tip my hat to your eloquent post, sir.
~Lady K
Ryan Oakley
June 3, 2009 at 7:01 pm (UTC -4) Link to this comment
You’re all very kind. Thank you.