Born to Write? (Or Yet Another Reason Julie Wright is My Hero!)

by Kerry Blair

I haven’t written fiction for two years now. If there is some sort of “imagination gland” that prompts the prolific genius of authors like Sariah and Jeff, mine should have shriveled from lack of use. Alas, it seems to be as hyperactive as ever. Cases in point:

1 I tell myself a story every night. I have one plotline I’ve been embellishing long enough to reach Volume 87 or so. Since it’s science fiction/fantasy/horror, I keep changing rules, characters—even worlds—to keep myself hanging on my every word. But it has recently come to my attention that everybody doesn’t do this. Some people listen to soothing music at night. Some people count sheep. Some nod off when their heads touch the pillow. Some people, I hear, even obsess about life’s challenges. I envy them all.

2 I rewrite dialogue in movies, often before the actor has delivered the line. If that isn’t odd enough, I also decide how a movie must end and am invariably disappointed if the screenwriter’s version deviates from mine. Fortunately, this doesn’t happen much. Modern movies are nothing if not predictable. Well, not all modern movies. Indies often fool me, as do many French and Italian flicks. I don’t know if it’s because Europeans approach storytelling differently or if reading subtitles throws off my game. At any rate, I understand there are people who enjoy cinema without composing “better” lines and/or dissecting every plot point. I wish I were one of them.

3 I find people fascinating and want to get to know them. All of them. I am Sariah’s worst nightmare: the nut who could have struck up conversation on the deck of the Titanic—or possibly while dog-paddling in the freezing waters below. I have made lifelong friends at book signings, in the airport, and through transactions on ebay. My family claims I am possessed of a freakish hyno-stare that forces people to tell me everything about themselves in three minutes or less. Not long ago my daughter and I were in line at a local store. All I said to the man behind us was, “Those are my favorite crackers” but it was enough to activate the hypno-stare. While Hil unloaded our basket, I learned that the guy ate cheese and crackers because his wife left him, but when his son moved in he’d learn to cook, and then they’d move because he was looking for a better job in construction, but he’d take weekends off to fish with his boy like his father had with him back in Arkansas where his grandfather was a barber.

I am not making this up, I only wish I was.

4 I am compelled to learn the story behind every antique I collect. If I can’t uncover the story, I make it up. That second thing is much easier, by the way. Worst case: I was once haunted by an antique wedding portrait. Every time I visited my mother, I dropped into the local junk shop to see if the picture was still there. It always was, and the man’s eyes always seemed to follow me. I made up endless stories about that couple, but none rang true. At last my mother bought me the picture. I tore the paper from the back and ripped the photo from the rococo frame. In faded, flowery script was penned: Wm Louise Loutt #185 Crown (illegible).

Eureka! How many Crown-Somethings could there have been in the United States at the turn of the last century? (Eight.) But how many William Loutts could have married a Louise in Crown-Something between 1880 and 1910? (Only one.) Further research revealed that William and Louise and their infant daughter died in a house fire in 1892. They had no close relatives; certainly they had no posterity. But they had me and I did their temple work. I do not doubt that when I pass through the veil, William’s face will be one of the first I recognize. Still, who does this kind of thing? That’s what I was afraid of.

5 I “write books” even when I have no intention of writing books. A couple of weeks ago, Gary and I spent an idyllic weekend in Jerome—a barely-restored ghost town 248 twisting turns over Mingus Mountain from where we live. It is absolutely charming. Tourists are awe-struck when they arrive, but soon have nothing on their minds but shopping, eating, and relaxing. I did the first two things, but my mind kept twisting like the serpentine road above.

Okay, I thought. What if the heroine of the book I will never write is an artist in Prescott? And what if she sells some of her stuff at that charming little shop here in Jerome? And what if she and the hero drive over one morning . . . no, evening, twilight is spookier . . . in a small car . . . no! They ride a motorcycle; way scarier . . . and the bad guy tries to run them off the road and they meet this old prospector (and there is one!) and end up hiding in the skeleton of an abandoned hotel . . . it’s haunted, of course and . . .

Goodness! It got so bad I couldn’t look at anything without it becoming part of the story. I finally began to tell my husband about it before I burst.

“Write a book,” he said encouragingLY. (Sorry. I love adverbs almost as much as ellipses.) It’s not that Gary cares whether or not I write, it’s more that if I feel compelled to spin tales of romantic suspense, he would prefer I tell them to somebody else. Anybody else. And if down the road people might actually pay for them, well, so much the better.

6 I am brevity-challenged. (Perhaps you’ve noticed.) But having given this a lot of thought, at last I can answer Julie’s question: No, I was not “meant” to be a writer. I love Julie Wright’s comment: If God had meant me to be a writer, He’d have made me better at it. (That’s not Julie, but it’s so me!) I simply can't believe I was foreordained to toss eight or twelve silly, adverb-rich novels of LDS romantic suspense into the body of world literature. I have also come to think that I will not be held accountable for never writing again, as long as what I choose to do instead is meaningful and of service to others.

Do you have any idea what a relief that is to someone like me? I honestly think I quit writing because of the overwhelming pressure of the gift/talent/birthright thing. (I was so bad at it!) I think Julie saved me, and now maybe I can write when I want to because I want to. I am even considering signing on to Tristi's July BIAM challenge in the hope composing on my computer by day will save me from the space opera in my head at night!

And then they all sat down to read the Book of Mormon. After that, they went to a fireside, married in the temple, and lived happily ever after. My son says this is how all my books end. (Excuse me, pretty much only the trilogy.) The thing is, I figured that since I was at a loss for a conclusion for this blog, I might as well throw it in, if only to get the creative juices flowing again.