Last week, a friend of mine might have said, “You’re a good writer.” I say “might,”because last week I wasn’t feeling like a good writer. I was having some writing challenges and that is not easy to take for someone who writes like it’s breathing on a regular basis. Anyway, he followed that comment up with the question, “What do you want to do with it?”
It’s the perennial “book” question.
I told him that I don’t know. That hitching my wagon to a book would be a bit like getting a tattoo; and I’m not a tattooed person because I simply would never be able to choose a design that I would love and want to be permanently marked with; it’s too much commitment. Now for people who have known me for any length of time probably find this odd — the girl who got married at 18 is afraid of commitment?! Well, yeah! Maybe that’s WHY!
What am I going to do with writing . . . I’m doing it, in a way, aren’t I? I blog and I certainly write enough for work (although, in the field of public relations one of the first hard swallowed truths is that you will write under someone else’s name — you may even publish an excellent piece in a notable publication with someone else’s byline and bio attached to it. You will write plenty with no name attached. There is no writing ego in PR.
Blogging changed some of that for me; I could write and publish without cost and uninhibited (for the most part). I could write as me (one reason for the eponymous blog www.marijeanjaggers.com (such ego! A blog named for myself!).
I’ve also written numerous articles in more “traditional” publications, ezines, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, magazines . . . two styles I ceased pursuing long ago were fiction and poetry. Gah do I write some bad poetry. Ironically, some of those poems have been published, as have a handful of my short stories. But that was long ago and I’ve been amicably separated from the act of fiction, the travesty of my poetry, for many years.
Where is it going though? I really don’t know. I stopped writing plays the minute my father started. I’ve lost several starts to books — books that were going nowhere — and have others languishing on hard drives. I just haven’t fallen in love with one, yet.
Maybe this, then will be my epitaph: “She spent more time falling in love with people than words; she was the writer that almost was.”