Writing is Easy: You just stare at a screen until the magic happens.

I have always enjoyed writing but due to an unfortunate incident with an unfortunate classmate who made an unfortunate remark about one of my stories my love of writing went underground for about 45 years.  But alas it has returned and I have been enjoying my efforts over the past 8 years.  As George Eliot once said, “It’s never too late to become what you might have been.”

I have been working away on my personal essays with some success and occasionally dipping my toe into the realm of fictional stories with less success.  I often hear writers say they don’t know what’s going to happen next in their stories or what their characters are going to do and I never understood that.  Don’t they have the story in their head when they sit down to write it?  

But something happened this last year.  My husband, Jon and I were at a writer’s retreat in Casperia, Italy in a beautiful palazzo surrounded by rolling hills and hosted by an elderly Baroness named Anna and her best friend from high school, a Countess named Renata.  I am guessing they were both in their 70’s to 80’s and two of the most joyful women I have ever met.  Embraced by this beauty and the inspiration and support of ten other writers at the retreat I decided to attempt once again a fiction story. 

During one of the workshops I started typing a fictional story based on a prompt given to us by the workshop leader and the strangest thing happened.  The words flowed and the story came out and I didn’t know where it was going.  In the end it took an interesting turn that I wasn’t expecting.  I kept typing and the words kept coming and I barely had time to think.  It was one of the most amazing feelings!  I finally got it!  I finally understood what writers meant when they said they weren’t sure where the story was going or what their characters were going to do.  I had no idea why it went the way it did, it just felt right.  

“The woman was seen every morning walking down the street, her socks bunched around her ankles and rolling into her beige orthopedic shoes.   Using her cane for support, she took an unsure step, and another.  But she held her head high and every once in awhile swung her hips as if doing a dance from long ago when she was young and vital.  The look on her face was one of melancholy, not sad, not joyous, something in between.  Her hair, shiny and gray, was pulled up into a messy bun like a birds nest deserted by its inhabitants.  As she walked she spoke of past loves, jobs, vacations, friends and family.  By now the neighbors were used to her ramblings and although not friendly because of her odd ways, they tolerated her daily musings.  It was a 7 year old little girl who followed her, dancing when she danced, listening to her stories and keeping her company during her long walks around town.  Betsy didn’t seem to mind the old woman’s strange ways and instead embraced them.  She was thrilled to have a friend as she too was lonely.  And together they made an unusual but seemingly happy pair.  

It was a beautiful Fall day when the old woman walked into the street not looking to the right, not looking to the left, just moving in the same direction she always moved.  The car missed her but hit Betsy and as Betsy’s lifeless body lie on the street the old woman turned briefly, a tear ran down her cheek, then using her cane for support, she took an unsure step and another, holding her head high and swinging her hips as if doing a dance from long ago when she was young and vital.” 

What I find so interesting about this whole experience is that I didn’t even know who Betsy was in the story.  I was just typing away and Betsy came into the picture.  I also didn’t mean for Betsy to die.  It was’t until after I finished the story that I realized that Betsy was the woman’s younger self.

I didn’t sit down with this idea for a story.  I typed and the words just came.  I find this so fascinating and such a lightbulb moment.  It’s not the quality of the story that I think is remarkable it’s how it came to be.

As writers we are often told that the most important thing we can do is get our butts in the chair every day even if all we write that day is junk .  There are days when I sit with my hands on the keys and stare at a blank page for what seems like hours.  There are days when I force myself to write and all that comes out of me is stilted sentences, awkward wording and old cliches.  But then one day something like this happens and it flows.  And it’s magic.  

I don’t care if my little story ever gets published or if people understand who Betsy is when they read it.  What is most important to me is my new awareness, respect and appreciation for the process.   It’s exciting, it’s mind-blowing, it’s intoxicating, it’s intriguing and I love it!!

Maybe I AM becoming a writer.