For the last 2 weeks I've been reading a biography on Scott Fitzgerald. At the moment, I'm completely wrapped up in his wreckless, genuine, extravagant, and tragic life story. I'm at the point when his wife had her first mental breakdown, and Fitzgerald is entering a period of both his best and worst work, but certainly not his most popular phase. (Funny how life works in those extremes.)
I suppose if someone wrote my biography they would describe this last as my busiest non-productive years, but the one that shaped me into the woman I became. So much has happened, and I tend to feel like there's been no rest, but I know I've changed. My dear husband mentioned something to me the other day about applying for some grants so I can pursue writing full-time. I love the fact that he knows that nothing would make me happier, and he believes in my talent.
That conversation along with the fact that everything Fitzgerald wrote was completely autobiographical has inspired me. In between writing his novels, he wrote short stories and essays to pay the bills. So why can't I do the same? Buried in my soul are countless stories that need to be heard. There's the story of my mother's mental illness, working in this migrant town, the idea of the expectations Gen-Xers feel, and the loss of innocence.
I think just maybe that the "outside looking in" feeling I've had all my life is a perspective given to me so I can be an outside narrator commenting on my own generation. Of course, this could also all be grandiose thinking, but something tells me it's the real thing. It can't be just coincidence that I'm compelled to chronicle what's inside at the same time I will finally have some time to do so.
If you know me...if you have known me...if you spend any amount of time with me, you know I'm a writer to the core. I think I finally know that now.
I suppose if someone wrote my biography they would describe this last as my busiest non-productive years, but the one that shaped me into the woman I became. So much has happened, and I tend to feel like there's been no rest, but I know I've changed. My dear husband mentioned something to me the other day about applying for some grants so I can pursue writing full-time. I love the fact that he knows that nothing would make me happier, and he believes in my talent.
That conversation along with the fact that everything Fitzgerald wrote was completely autobiographical has inspired me. In between writing his novels, he wrote short stories and essays to pay the bills. So why can't I do the same? Buried in my soul are countless stories that need to be heard. There's the story of my mother's mental illness, working in this migrant town, the idea of the expectations Gen-Xers feel, and the loss of innocence.
I think just maybe that the "outside looking in" feeling I've had all my life is a perspective given to me so I can be an outside narrator commenting on my own generation. Of course, this could also all be grandiose thinking, but something tells me it's the real thing. It can't be just coincidence that I'm compelled to chronicle what's inside at the same time I will finally have some time to do so.
If you know me...if you have known me...if you spend any amount of time with me, you know I'm a writer to the core. I think I finally know that now.
Comments
And your husband believing in your talent is the most priceless gift that a girl can be offered. Kudos to him! If you run out of stories, I have some to tell....and no writing talent with which to extract them from my brain:)