Whatever Made You Want To Write A Book?

"Richelle, whatever made you want to write a book?"

That's a good question. One I've been asked more than once. And if the answer were as simple as "Just because", I would end right here. But my personal motivation came from a mix of circumstances perfectly intertwined. Honestly, it is a miracle I ever made an attempt to put a lengthy story on paper.

Picture this...

It was one week before Christmas 2006, and I was sitting at my computer filling out Christmas cards. It is tradition to include a short family letter with the card, nothing big, just a line or two highlighting the accomplishments of each family member. The house was eerily quiet that afternoon with my husband at work and my three boys gone for Christmas break. I missed my children terribly. Painfully even. My thoughts were bogged with concerns for them. Are they okay? Are their needs being met? Are they safe? Are they happy? Do they miss me?  But to worry over your babies is normal for any caring mother. That's what I kept telling myself after whispering the hundred-and-twenty-seventh prayer for their well-being.

I realized all the worrying was doing me no good, but when your life revolves around your children for so many years, what do you do when they are gone? I needed something.  A hobby or... well, something.

I finished jotting down the yearly accomplishments for all my kids and my husband, which left mine for last. It wasn't that I was saving the best for the finale or that I was humbly mentioning my family's achievements before my own... no... the truth was, I just plain could not think of anything impressive to write about myself. What had I done in the past year?

Well, I had worked both outside and inside the home. I had made 1,100 meals, if not more. I had washed 2,000 sink loads of dishes, if not more. I had laundered, folded, and put away 600 loads of clothes (say it with me now, if not more.)  I had mopped floors, vacuumed carpets, changed sheets, scrubbed toilets, washed mirrors and windows and screens. I had weeded and re-weeded the garden, mowed the lawn, and given haircuts to my family. I had driven kids to and from school, scouts, mutual, karate, track, and whatever other functions they needed to attend. I had tucked my boys into bed with 365 nighttime prayers and bedtime reading. I had done all the regular, runaround, expected, mommy/housewife stuff.

But the question that troubled me was "What had I accomplished outside of chores?"  What personal achievement could I make note of in our Christmas letter?

I could think of nothing. That realization made me slump even further in my chair. Already moping about missing my boys, my spirits sank low realizing I had done nothing extraordinary in ages.

Did I mention that this was twenty years after my high school graduation? Oh yes, that too was on my mind. Twenty years! Where in the world had the time gone? What happened to all those amazing things I was going to do once I left home after high school? Where were the talents I once utilized in my youth? I no longer sketched or painted or danced or sang or played piano or performed in theatrical plays. My talents had been set aside for years. Neglected. Abandoned. How had that happened?

So there I sat, bemoaning lost years and the fact that happily-ever-afters don't come in happily-every-days when a sudden whisper of inspiration hit. A simple but powerful thought.

"If for the past twenty years you had written just one sentence a day, you would have composed a novel by now."

Don't ask me where it came from, but the idea was like a slap in the face, both admonishing and inspiring. 

Could I write a sentence a day? Yes! Easily! I could jot down a sentence in a matter of seconds!  But what was there to write about? I mean, you need an idea for a story, right?

The fact that I was brooding over high school memories took me back to the days when I used to finish classroom assignments so quickly that a good chunk of time was left to idle away. And what did I usually do with that time? How had I spent all those free moments in class?  Quietly drawing and daydreaming.

I had my favorite fantasies too, those I revisited and expanded on over time. One beloved adventure starred a young girl destined to rule a small world that thrived in another part of the galaxy. This was the story I never forgot. Truth be told, it was a daydream I sometimes entertained as an adult. Especially when I needed a healthy escape from reality.

In that moment of what I consider divine inspiration, I determined to write a book. A novel. The story of my favorite daydream. The account of Queen Eena of Harrowbeth.

I vowed that in twenty years from December 2006, I would at least be able to say I had written a novel, even if it meant doing so one sentence per day. I started typing those first few words at that very moment.

There is more humor to this tale than you might realize.  For you see, if you had asked me five minutes prior to my epiphany if I would ever attempt to write a novel, I would have laughed aloud (probably snorted) and exclaimed "Are you crazy? Do you have any idea how impossibly challenging it would be to write an entire novel? It would take like for-e-ver!"

You should also know that I earned my college degrees in Mathematics and Natural Science.  Never touched English literature.

Also, there is a tiny bit of truth I should probably confess: for the majority of my life I had a passionate distaste for writing. 

Are you laughing yet?  Okay, how about this...

Honest, true story.

In high school, my worst subject (not that I didn't earn high enough marks in the class) and the one area of study I groaned about the most was English. I hated writing assignments. Hated them. I think the reason why I hated them so much was because no "correct answer" existed.  Not like in mathematics where 2 + 2 = 4, no arguments.  But for English classes, I could scribble out a paper that one teacher stamped with a big, beautiful "A" while another instructor branded the same paper with a scarlet "C".  Writing became a matter of trying to please some disinterested adult whose expectations you could hardly guess. Not to mention the fact that the subject matter I was forced to write about was usually depressing and utterly boring.

And so I loathed writing.

I remember the day clearly when as a teenager I stood up from the kitchen table to stretch my stiff muscles. I was working on an English paper, and as I rose to my feet I made a firm, bold statement meant for any ears in the house. "I hate English, and I hate writing, but knowing my luck I'll probably grow up to be some stupid writer."

Well said, foolish teenager. Little did I know the twisted ironies of life.

And so, many many years later, pushing forty years of age, I sat at my computer and determined to accomplish a feat I deemed highly challenging. I figured it would take years, but the odd thing was, it didn't seem so impossible when I looked at the goal as a mere few sentences compounded daily. The more I wrote, the more I found myself craving free time to add additional paragraphs. I discovered an enormous difference in my frame of mind when it came to composing a work meant to please only me versus struggling with a composition meant to impress others. 

It is actually freeing.

And sweetly delicious.

And unbelievably addictive!

So I will eat crow and admit... I do love writing. 

No, no, I'm far from being a Victor Hugo or a Charles Dickens, but I profit by as much joy from the journey as I'm sure they did.  And it pleases me. I hope that for some readers out there, my stories prove entertaining enough to please you as well.  So, that is my answer to your question, "Whatever made you want to write a book?"

Writer's Nightmare

"A daydreamer is a writer 
just waiting for pen and paper."

~ Richelle E. Goodrich

Where do stories come from?  How does an author conjure up new adventures, new characters, and realities that seem to peel off the printed page?  How do they engage the reader's imagination so effectively?  And how is it that so many diverse tales even exist, with more scribbled out daily to add to a truly endless library? 

The fact that billions of unique people enter and leave this world (and perhaps other worlds) is proof that at least that many unique stories are possible.  But how do authors think up these wild tales?  Though this is a frequently asked question, there is no single answer--no perfect process.

Some say that artistic insight is granted by the Muses, and that it can be robbed from a writer by the same beautiful goddess of inspiration.  Others account for creativity by calling it talent--a gift from God that improves with use.  There's also the thought that inspiration is whispered influence from ghosts of past poets and authors.  And still others attribute an unsettled mind or unbridled imagination as the spring of creative writing.  Genius?  Madness?  Delusions?  Dreams?  Or the gift of an enchanted pen?

I believe...  " Artistry exists in everyone.  What makes it blossom is a soul's personal desire to find an outlet for expression." 

~ Richelle E. Goodrich

In the same way that people are not born with identical characteristics, writers are not inspired in the same fashion, nor for the same reasons.  Some require outside stimuli to spark a creative flame, needing environmental immersion in music or softy-whispered poetry.  Some prefer to be surrounded by panoramas of artwork, collectibles, or a library of favorite books where every glance is tied to memories that act as prompts for fresh ideas.  

Many writers read incessantly for inspiration, taking in a wealth of finely-narrated stories, allowing these adventures to swirl and blend in their subconscious until new ideas emerge, borrowed from proven talent.  Still other authors formulate their best stories from everyday experiences; adopting the hobby of 'people watching' in order to develop realistic and colorful characters.  They often write in public settings--at a central table or hidden in a corner--to observe human interactions when not engaged in furious bouts of writing.  Some books are simply the result of adoration for another being's existence.  

Then there are artists, like myself, who work best in the absence of stimuli, craving peace and utter silence.  Perhaps this is because of being easily distracted.  Or because imagination treads as warily and timidly as its mistress, willing to abandon inhibitions only in solitude.  Or, perhaps it is that silence allows the whispers of muses to reach the ear, while stillness invites the gentle hand of divine inspiration.  

"Some build their castles 'mid thunderbolts and fireworks.  

My worlds take shape in silence."

~ Richelle E. Goodrich

And that brings me to another place of serenity where many have been inspired to write.  I speak of the extraordinary realm of dreams.  Whether hypnotized by a vivid daydream or overcome by sleep, raven to the winds of fantasy, the creative process sprouts wings within a disencumbered mind.  Imagination runs wild, as they say, because nothing is absurd or unreal or nonsensical in Dreamland.  Dreams innocently grasp the possibility of anything!  The trick is - during that hazy state between slumber and cognizance - to quickly memorize the performance before it evaporates in the light of reason.

Regardless of the circumstances and means for artistic creativity, all authors will agree that when immersed in the process, writing is a passionate experience.  The hours spent forming a written work can make one obsessive, distracted, compulsive, and neurotic even, especially when it comes to those rare, precious occasions of streaming pure inspiration.  To have a muse moment interrupted - to watch her scuttle back into hiding with unshared insight remaining on the tip of her tongue - is a wicked irritation.  When a writer's eyes glaze over, when she stares off at nothing or appears to be memorizing the lines on a blank page, when she falls asleep at the desk.......tiptoe softly.  For a writer's greatest desire is to receive inspiration; her greatest nightmare, to have tossed to the wind what could've been captured in words.  

WRITER'S NIGHTMARE

By Richelle E. Goodrich

I felt a grip on my arm that shook my body, forcefully pulling me toward a tunnel of darkness. The threat of consciousness stole my steady breath. For a moment I believed myself to be under siege; ripped from the sky in mid flight, my wings useless against the monstrous claws shredding my reality. I struggled to remain, to be left alone, aloft. Reaching with wings that through the power of imagination were suddenly feathered arms, I grabbed at the air. My hands clutched at something solid. Wooden. A desk. My head spun as I held the furniture, suffering the illusion of falling.

"I was flying," I gasped, realizing suddenly that it had all been a dream. "My best fantasy ever."

Lifting my head from its resting spot on the writing desk, I worked mentally to secure the fading images, hoping to capture their essence to memory before they faded away forever. Bitterness tainted my heart against the hand that had jerked me into sensibility. Why was I always so callously awakened while doing my best work? Why not let me dream?

What no (spouse) of a writer can ever understand is 

that a writer is working when he's staring out of the window.  

~Burton Rascoe

Cu Rhantaco!

     It is almost Thanksgiving, a day to count our blessings and express gratitude to those who have enriched our lives. For me, there are a great many family, friends, and even strangers I wish to thank for their kind and supportive gestures.

     But as I attempt to convey my thanks, it hits me that the words thank you seem too simple and utterly lacking. Though genuinely offered, this over-used expression leaves me frustrated because the depth of my appreciation is less than adequately communicated by that time-worn phrase.  When I say "thank you," I mean so much more!

Can you see my dilemma? I need a new expression of gratitude that by definition imparts stronger feelings. I know, you might believe that expanding the sentiment does the trick. And yes, I did play with the idea.

           With heartfelt thanks  

       My deepest thanks  

       Many, many thanks

 With sincere thanks   

Thank you kindly  

 Immeasurable thanks  

 Thank you greatly  

 Thank you immensely 

 Thank you from the deepest recesses of my heart

But alas!  These all seem lacking.

It occurs to me that a Harrowbethian word encompasses more of what I’m searching for—having stronger meaning and emotion packed in a single utterance. By definition, the Harrowbethian equivalent of "thank you" communicates greater sentiment and esteem.  So here it is...

rahntaco: (rahn’-tah-coh) Such abundant appreciation overwhelms me that it spills over in search of you. 

Now, is that not better than, uh... Thanks?

So surrounding this lovely Thanksgiving holiday, I would like to send out a heartfelt rahntaco to my family, friends, fans, and all who have helped me along my journey by supporting my writing ambitions. 

 

Cu rahntaco!

And in case you're wondering, Co cohme (coh'  coh-meh) means you're welcome.


If you are interested in learning a few more Harrowbethian phrases (called Bethan tongue) visit the HARROWBETH page on my author website.