The Dilemma

I just finished reading the book "The Help." It was a fantastic book with vibrant, interesting characters and excellent story-telling. It reminded me of why I love reading, of becoming immersed in another time or place or life and feeling somehow a part of it all. It reminded me of how my teachers used to tell me I would be a writer someday. I wanted to be. I longed to be like the authors of all the books I so loved, to write something more important and timeless than the standard essays and papers that got high marks and critiques. The dilemma was always...what to write about?

I read once that there are very few original plots or storylines, only particularly interesting or unique retellings. I think, for the most part, this is true. And it was always a sticking point for me. How to take a basic idea that has been told and retold again and make it new and exciting? Different. Worth reading. Nothing ever came to me. I tried and tried to think of an angle unexplored or a nuance overlooked, to no avail. So I sort of gave up on the idea and hoped that perhaps, over time, something would come to me...

On the other hand, people say, write about what you know. But this perspective was never very appealing for me. What do I really know? Really. I spent my teens years committed to academia and it's related pursuits and accomplishments. Unlike most twenty-somethings, I spent the last decade married and having babies. Certainly, those might be worthy things to write about, but what would give my perspective value, weight or lasting credibility? I'm one year into my 30s; I've given birth to five, almost six, children; and I have experience with child-rearing up to age 7, which, in the grand scheme of parenting, amounts to very little. In some respects, it's a unique resume, though overall experience is lacking. Breeding ground for a classic? Not so much. Anything based on this aspect of my life would amount to nothing more than yet another book on parenting or become a dreaded self-help book.

Sure, there were the two years or so that I was completely determined to go into the military, was appointed to West Point, encountered the all-too-familiar reality of the passive-aggressive (and sometimes blatantly aggressive) male counterparts to whom my presence was unwelcome, struggled with eating disorders and other health problems and then eventually resigned...only to deal with a few more years of depression, guilt and bitterness. But why, I've always wondered, would anyone care to read about ME? That's an entirely different category of writing. Biography. And there is absolutely nothing that has ever persuaded me of the merit of such an undertaking. Biographies are for statesmen, heroes, celebrities, amazing stories of conflict and survival...not for plain old tales about ordinary lives. Everybody has bumps in the road. Trials here and there. Obstacles to face and overcome. Nothing unique about that. Especially since, in my view, I never actually overcame anything. I let go, which I've come to accept, but I didn't rise above.

So, it's back to the same dilemma I face every time I think about writing. I read books that I love and envy their authors. I have so much to say and yet nothing at all to say. Instead I sit and write about writing. I write about wanting to write. I write about...nothing. Even now, I feel irritated with myself for even recording my thoughts. It sounds like nothing more than a pity party, which it isn't intended to be. It's merely a reflection on the difficulty of writing something real and lasting, of how rare it is to come across a really fantastic, influential and life-changing book and what a triumph that is...not only for the author who wrote it, but also for the reader who has the pleasure of experiencing it over and over again. I suppose I can take solace in the fact that I AM only 31...and, perhaps, that elusive idea or unusual experience will come to me eventually. And, if not, it will not stop me from being an eager consummer of the books I would so like to write myself.