I is for Insecurities

My own insecurities keep me from moving forward. This may surprise you, but maybe not. I don't feel at all secure in my writing. You'd think that an English teacher would feel most at home, most confident in writing, but I don't.

I'm very much attuned to how writing should look and sound. The sound that I like in my writing and in the writing of others is voice. I want writers to sound like themselves, and I'm confident in that area. I used to tell my students to "let their fingers do the talking," to do their best to sound like themselves talking to me, minus the grammar errors. If you've never talked to me in person, just know that if you read my writing out loud, you'll probably be hearing me . . . minus the Southern accent. So voice or lack thereof isn't what bothers me about my writing.

What bothers me about the writing itself is that it looks so elementary. Many sentences begin with "I," and I don't like that. But that's the way I talk, and remember that I'm talking to the page. I try to do some correcting before zapping my essay or piece off, but I don't catch everything.

The main thing, though, that makes me feel insecure in my writing is that not many comment on it, not even my family. Every once in a while, my husband will say something that makes me know that he likes my writing. For instance, just today he said that I should write a memoir about our daughter. I did one about our son, but I flatly refused to write one about Wendy. I told him that she'd remember incidents in her life in a very much different way from the way I remember. And, of course, I remember correctly. (HaHa!) It's one thing for her not to SAY anything much about my writing, but it would be emotionally draining for her to DISAGREE with what I said about her life.

One summer, I took my tape recorder (you can tell that it was a long time ago) with me when we visited Frank's mother in Snoqualmie, WA. She and I sat for hours with me asking her questions about her life and her responding. So much laughter and some tears as we worked together for several days. Two Christmases later, I transcribed our conversations and wrote a book about Grandma. I printed, bound it (with lots of help from Wendy and her husband), and and gave a copy to each of Grandma's children and grandchildren. Do you think that I received one thank you from any of them? No . . . only a couple of comments about errors. I don't mean to whine, but it doesn't take much energy to show appreciation.

Last summer, I wrote a book for my cousins. It was a memoir of our growing-up years, complete with photos. I wanted to include some of their memories, but they surely didn't remember much. I fleshed out some of the things that they told me to make the memories more interesting. Wendy published the book on Lulu, and I ordered two for myself so that I could show them what they'd be purchasing, should they decided to invest. I gave one to Gail, the only cousin older than I am. Several cousins have ordered the book, but no one has said anything about the content, not even Gail.

And then there's the book that I wrote about Jay. I will have to say that one friend wrote a beautiful thank-you note after reading it, and it meant so much to me. So far, nothing from anyone else, though. I must admit, however, that some people haven't had the book very long and might not have had time to read it. Also it's not the kind of book that most people read from cover to cover. But when they do read it, they'll find that it's written well and that it's interesting. So . . . a little comment would be nice. Before I leave this comment, I must say that Frank shows it to everyone who comes to visit if we’ve been talking about his talents, which are many.

I think I sound like a whiney baby in this post, and I’m sorry. Just had to vent!