You know how life just seems to roll along? You do the things you need to do every day. Or you do the things that you seem are important and will propel you and your career forward. Then you read some innocent words or see something just as innocent on television or hear something on the radio and within seconds your life is turned, shaken and spit at your feet for you to ponder. I read those innocent words yesterday and it has caused me to ponder and reflect and ask too many questions without finding the answers. So my dear blog readers I want to put this to you. Don’t worry if you don’t have an answer, I don’t either. I’d probably ignore the answer if I had one.
Do I write seriously? Wait. That should be rephrased. Do I seriously write? Wait, wrong again. Can I think seriously about my writing? Wrong one more time. Seriously, do I write? Stop. That’s the questions I am asked when I tell people I am a writer. Do I take my writing seriously? Maybe that isn’t the exact phrasing but it’s probably as close as I can get in the middle of the night.
The inkling of doubt came to mind yesterday when I was reading the posts on one of the writer’s groups I belong to. A couple of the writers have recently bathed in the glow of successfully published books. The question was posed to them, ‘how do you treat yourself once a book has been completed and off for final publishing?’ Hmmm. The consensus seemed to be they would attempt to read a book, long waiting on the side table for their pleasure. Attempt? Books that have been waiting for a long period of time and haven’t been read yet? Are they serious? I read the works of other authors all the time, every day in fact. Damn, it’s that word again. Or do I have this writing thing all wrong? Am I missing the seriousness of my writing?
I have to tell you there isn’t much seriousness in my writing as I write humor and the last thing I would want is for anyone to take my writing too seriously. That would mean I am a complete failure in my chosen genre. I, on the other hand and at the other computer, do take my writing seriously. I think about it all the time. I make notes constantly in my blue notebook. I even dream thoughts and wake up just long enough to jot down a remembered thought or two.
As for the writing itself, I do take it seriously. I seriously try to fit it in between the two day time jobs I have, the chronic illnesses I live with, my family and friends who often fall to the wayside, my hundreds of plants, those I try to help in their travels of life, my online chats, all the hundreds of e-mails I feel I need to read each day, the books I read, the on-line articles that teach me how to be a better writer, the letters (yes I still write letters and mail them via snail mail) and all the other minutia of life.
I write all the time. Sometimes it letters. Other times it notes. I probably have 4 books and 51 stories currently in some state of being written. I write reports. I write thoughts. I write blogs. I write. I write. I write. I’ve been told the more we write the better we become at it. Seriously, I should be an expert now. I’ve used more dead trees in my pursuit of writing than most producers of toilet paper. That is not a comment on my writing, just one of those abstract thoughts that make it from my mind to paper.
The above ramblings from my tormented mind may allow you think that I don’t write seriously. Damn it. I mean seriously write. But I do. It’s just without all of these other things I wouldn’t have the stories, observations, and happenings of life that make up my stories.
Why am I in this quandary today? It’s that damn word – serious. So would someone please tell me, ‘can I be considered a serious writer?’ Or have I totally missed the mark and my chance at allowing others to laugh with me, at me, or by reading my words?
From the life and mind of:
Wanda M. Argersinger
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