The Collaborative Writer Forum For Aspiring and Published Writers
RE: Your earliest writing experiences...in Your previous experiences with writing... Mon Aug 15, 2011 9:32 pm
by Mercurial Malachi • 5 Posts
RE: Your earliest writing experiences...in Your previous experiences with writing... Tue Aug 16, 2011 1:06 am
by collaborativewriter • 85 Posts
oh, thank you very much... I am very excited about my new website. Links to mystery stories... no. I am working on one right now, though. It's actually my first, since I promised myself I would finally write in that genre before leaving this mortal coil. I have a tiny bit of experience with writing scripts, in that I did a whole bunch of research at one point, and developed an idea. I do know someone who is a professional in that world, who lives in Los Angeles, however, if you would like to talk to someone about that.
RE: Your earliest writing experiences...in Your previous experiences with writing... Tue Aug 16, 2011 6:33 am
by collaborativewriter • 85 Posts
I forgot to add that I haven't been able to focus on my own fiction in this past year or so; I've been working on developing the website, plus I have two pieces of non-fiction that I am going to self-publish. So that's been my focus recently. I am almost ready to get back to my fiction, though... I think it was last year that I had a fairly disastrous hard drive crash (since your hard drive will crash when it drops on the floor repeatedly—sigh—and lost parts of the mystery I've been working on, so that set me back.
RE: Your earliest writing experiences...in Your previous experiences with writing... Tue Sep 06, 2011 1:05 am
by Michael • 1 Post
First that i remember was an attempt at poetry when stirred by the TV mini-series,"Roots",back in the 70's.Along with some ramblings of the heart as i fell in love for what was probably the first time,though it was eventually my 2nd marriage.My only publication was a poem i produced for our wedding invitation,which was motivated by the desire for healing and success in this new relationship.Recent changes in my evolution as a soul was enhanced by astrological transits that gave me a forum to dialogue with like minded folks,and with an unknown ability that was seeking an outlet to express thoughts and ideas.Very challenging for one who has shunned traditional education and pursued a life and career of hard manual labor,masonry and construction.Now,a different set of skills are needed to accomplish some goals in relation to these thoughts and experiences of my soul 's journey, as i try not to be so concerned with the outcome and remember to enjoy the journey.
RE: Your earliest writing experiences...in Your previous experiences with writing... Tue Sep 06, 2011 8:24 pm
by collaborativewriter • 85 Posts
RE: Your earliest writing experiences...in Your previous experiences with writing... Sat Oct 29, 2011 8:42 pm
by Bundlebee • 3 Posts
My first experience of writing was preceded by an event that coloured the way my pen was forever to be slanted, and this even before I’d really got it out of my pencil case at all.
I am Elisabeth (Beth) McIntyre. In 1976, we moved from a Mediterranean marbled terrace affair to a foggy and wooded piece of uninhabited land near my father’s hometown. My first recollection was a borrowed, dark brick edifice that appeared to my mind to have been inhabited by horses. It had windows you could never be sure would close again, presuming you managed to get them open in the first place.
Then came my first day at a nearby school, where we all dressed in chocolate brown and all the buildings were one storey high. Some of the kids were already known to me by then; they approached me and they begged me to introduce myself as Bethy in class. I saw no reason not to. There seemed to be a promise of something undying in their eyes; undying laughter as it turned out. When the teacher sought to introduce me to the class by asking my name, I said ‘Bethy McIntyre’ and to my dismay, complete chaos ensued. Uncontrolled laughter exploded all around me. I had no notion of what could be causing it, and this made the experience even a little frightening; I was relieved to be deposited with the headmistress in one feral swoop.
Following a bout of whispered strategising in the Headmistress’s office, my parents were called in. They were informed of my impersonating a child afflicted with cerebral palsy, called Bethy McIntyre. My parents said I couldn’t possibly have known that ‘Bethy McIntyre’ was the name of a famous child paraplegic prodigy-on-the-telly, who could do all sorts of clever tricks with her feet; we were newly arrived from overseas and had no telly and no notion of famous paraplegics.
But this event was nothing compared to what followed. At best I had appeared to be a rebel with a discipline problem; soon I was to belong to another category of problem altogether.
There was a teacher at this school, who really nurtured the artist in her wards. We would look at painting in our books and she could make the figures come alive with stories and elaborate descriptions of what they were feeling in the pictures. She sent us home every weekend clutching our exercise books with febrile fingers as she had us believing that we could really reproduce the likes of a Gainsborough or a Van Dyke with our sticky little crayons and aspirations if we so wanted. I felt empowered to communicate with these people being portraited centuries ago. If we got an A, it was because we had obviously whittled away our weekend and were on to becoming committed for real. I was becoming committed to a fantasy world full of people in extremely odd-looking garments with pinched expressions, both of which were doubtless related, but I felt there was a potential to lift these people and their children into the light and into the world in some way.
One day, out of the blue, our teacher decided to give us a creative writing assignment. It was fair to assume she expected something earth- shattering; she asked us for an account of a dramatic event, something stupendous that had happened to us personally. I decided to be inspired by the pictures in my book, even if they’d lost a little life in the copying. The dour faces staring out at me from the grainy paper of educational institutions; Dutch and English intransigeance in shiny oils, now with the patina of wax, were too much for a writer to resist. In any case, there was no point writing about my life overseas, as my brother had already tried that at his school and had been accused of lying by his teacher.
I settled on describing what it was like to be one of those children in the Dutch paintings. It was the most dramatic thing I could think of. I also couldn’t write about something that had happened to me, because I have an Attention Deficit. An Attention Deficit means you have so much happening in your head that you do not know what is going on most of the time. Once, as a child, my brother fell out of the car and I didn’t even notice. I can only remember thinking on that occasion “Wasn’t brother sitting beside me just now?”. To give due where it is deserved, even small children know that people do not disappear in a puff of smoke like that.
So, I carefully crafted my first creative assignment, and handed it in with great expectations of the power of English literary traditions and pensive expressions in paintings.
Foreheads at school immediately became creased and rubbed with concern at my mental health and my situation and what was I thinking. Their question was why a child functioning well was writing about existential anguish at all? I did not know then that existentialism terrifies the English. My essay, or paragraph, was taken to be a sort of religious confession of being, perhaps, possessed in some fashion. My Pa said it had something to do with the teachers having two left feet. They considered that I had already confessed to having been overseas, which sounded very like ‘diseased’ the way they said it, and to being eponymously related to a paraplegic on the telly. I found myself being suitably arranged in the common mind to fill the gap between their lost aspirations and my lack of foundations. It was put to my parents that there was something wrong with me, and by association, something was wrong with them.
Nowadays, they call it culture shock.
So, naturally, I came to change school, and only dared to write in code after that, like a spy. I would eventually publish in very obscure Anarchist publications sold in very seedy bookshops full of people looking for ideas. My art career as a crayon-wielding master painter started up again only much later on. This time, as before, I overshot the runway. It is in the nature of such things to repeat themselves .
RE: Your earliest writing experiences...in Your previous experiences with writing... Sun Jan 27, 2013 10:39 am
by Laura7 • 1 Post
RE: Your earliest writing experiences...in Your previous experiences with writing... Sun Jan 27, 2013 3:07 pm
by pedrempel • 2 Posts
My earliest experience came when I was around 10 years old. I wrote a sequel to Treasure Island called Blood Island, which more or less combined (1) my desire to escape from my life and have an impossible adventure and (2) the need to express the violent anxiety I was experiencing at school. To accompany the rather sad narrative, I added my own illustrations: cutlass clashes, crowded brawls, musket attacks. I showed the novel around, to my parents and my parents' friends, but don't really recall any of the responses except one. My dad's colleague Pat had a look then gave me a strange look, as if he saw a future serial killer standing right in front of him. I took it as a negative critique but didn't really understand what he meant. Far from dissuading me, however, I decided then and there that I wanted to be a writer! I had enjoyed the creative process, the purposeful alone time and, I think, the catharsis.
RE: Your earliest writing experiences...in Your previous experiences with writing... Sat Feb 02, 2013 5:12 am
by Nancy Newman • 1 Post
In trying to recall my earliest writing experience, I draw a blank of anything written during K-12 other than last minute book reports or current event reports. Even those don't ring any memorable bells. As a teenager I discouraged myself to journal for fear of someone exposing my innermost thoughts to harsh public criticism. Somewhere between the transformative years and adulthood, I crystallized the fear and frustration of writing enough to discourage both journaling and creative writing. I do recall one event in my early twenties, while working as a secretary at Universal Studios that my screenplay writer boss invited my input on how to phrase a particular sentence. My less than five minutes of fame disappeared back into the pages of script typing and business documents.
While not being able to bring myself to write, the imaginative side did run wild with storytelling to my young children. Ridiculous fantasy and unbelievable plots were completely accepted. When they out grew the stories, my "talent" faded into the background. I recall the paralyzing years of frustration in not allowing myself to write when others readily proclaimed the joys of journaling. Perhaps the beauty of age has tipped the scales enough to dislodge the roadblock. Whatever the cause or reason, I am grateful to finally be able to step through the doors toward writing. Not sure where to go, I thank you for your support in mapping this process and aiding a more enjoyable journey.
Living my life each day with fullness,