My typewriter is black very similar to this (above), but not as nice. My mom is holding it for me. Everyone remembers their first time. It was the year of the hugely popular "Sweet Valley High" book series about the twin sisters attending--yes-- Sweet Valley High School. I thought those books were the absolute coolest. It was scrunchy cool! I loved those characters. I too have sisters, 4 of them. They were and continue to be my best friends. I was so inspired by my own siblings and the book series that I knew my first novel had to be something as cool and fun as "Sweet Valley"--I was 9 don't judge me.
I had written tons of poems. I had a spiral notebook full of them. Through my poetry, my place as a writer was solidified. My 5th grade English teacher, Mrs. Judy, published my poem titled "In Thine" about the joys of true friendship and love, in our school newsletter. Some of my peers thought an adult had penned it for me. Off those comments, I felt my next step was, naturally, a book.
I typed nine pages, single-spaced using a vintage typewriter my mom had. Not sure how she came to have it, but it was very similar to the one pictured above. It was black and nailed to the case. Typing my first chapter was loud and laborious work. The keys were stiff and ribbon constantly got stuck. Talk about working your fingers to the bone. But, after, those pages were golden, if I weren't such an innocent I would've smoked a cigarette. Probably not, I'm still such a nerd and at 9 was terrified of health issues. Nonetheless, I proudly handed my golden pages over to my older sister to proof and critique. She was and still is an avid reader, incredibly smart and the ideal choice for feedback. I excitedly anticipated her notes! I was that girl waiting for that hot new video game and the store was opening in 2 minutes. She gave me the first couple pages. It looked like I slit my wrist and started my period on those pages all at once. She proceeded to tell me how stupid it was and that it wasn't original at all. It was just like "Sweet Valley High", which she had already read. For the record, my work was different, but maybe not different enough for her taste.
Big shoe print on the chest of a puppy--it was the worst! I wish I could say I persevered and kept writing, but I didn't. I continued with poetry and in high school I created our school newsletter, but that was all I could muster. My immigrant parents added to her noise by saying writing was a hobby and no way for any woman to make a decent living. My mother decided that her daughters would never be dependent on a husband for income, but also determined a respectable income could not be attained by being a writer.
My senior year in college, the time you realize you have to actually become adult, I made a revelation: I had no choice but to be a writer. I decided I would suffer for my art. I decided that I would be poor--for a little while. Ha! I decided that I would continue to hone my craft. I regularly take classes on dialogue, structure, style and recently a screenwriting course through UCLA Extension Program. I read books on writing, and I read books. Funny, when you're writing you don't have much time to read, but I find it crucial to have a book on deck at all times. It took me one year to read a 500 page book. I'm proud that I finished that book! Yes, I included the page number so I wouldn't seem so lame!
There is always going to be someone who will rain pooh on your book or script parade. It will bring you down because normally the person reading is someone you highly respect. Try and find the constructive note through the harshness and ignore the rest. At 9 I didn't know how to do that and my parents certainly weren't a beacon of light. They were and are great parents, but there failings came in how they valued a creative profession. Immigrants don't understand art and money, but that's another post on another blog or an episode of "Master of None" with Aziz Ansari on Netflix. I love that show!
Keep writing! Keep writing! You may have already had your first harsh, apocalyptic criticism, but don't let that throw you down the black hole of doubt and despair. Don't let that stop you from getting behind your modern desktop or laptop. The best way to overcome fear is to run toward it. You'll discover that when you get that place of absolute terror that you were running from your shadow the entire time.
Love,
Lorna O.
I had written tons of poems. I had a spiral notebook full of them. Through my poetry, my place as a writer was solidified. My 5th grade English teacher, Mrs. Judy, published my poem titled "In Thine" about the joys of true friendship and love, in our school newsletter. Some of my peers thought an adult had penned it for me. Off those comments, I felt my next step was, naturally, a book.
I typed nine pages, single-spaced using a vintage typewriter my mom had. Not sure how she came to have it, but it was very similar to the one pictured above. It was black and nailed to the case. Typing my first chapter was loud and laborious work. The keys were stiff and ribbon constantly got stuck. Talk about working your fingers to the bone. But, after, those pages were golden, if I weren't such an innocent I would've smoked a cigarette. Probably not, I'm still such a nerd and at 9 was terrified of health issues. Nonetheless, I proudly handed my golden pages over to my older sister to proof and critique. She was and still is an avid reader, incredibly smart and the ideal choice for feedback. I excitedly anticipated her notes! I was that girl waiting for that hot new video game and the store was opening in 2 minutes. She gave me the first couple pages. It looked like I slit my wrist and started my period on those pages all at once. She proceeded to tell me how stupid it was and that it wasn't original at all. It was just like "Sweet Valley High", which she had already read. For the record, my work was different, but maybe not different enough for her taste.
Big shoe print on the chest of a puppy--it was the worst! I wish I could say I persevered and kept writing, but I didn't. I continued with poetry and in high school I created our school newsletter, but that was all I could muster. My immigrant parents added to her noise by saying writing was a hobby and no way for any woman to make a decent living. My mother decided that her daughters would never be dependent on a husband for income, but also determined a respectable income could not be attained by being a writer.
My senior year in college, the time you realize you have to actually become adult, I made a revelation: I had no choice but to be a writer. I decided I would suffer for my art. I decided that I would be poor--for a little while. Ha! I decided that I would continue to hone my craft. I regularly take classes on dialogue, structure, style and recently a screenwriting course through UCLA Extension Program. I read books on writing, and I read books. Funny, when you're writing you don't have much time to read, but I find it crucial to have a book on deck at all times. It took me one year to read a 500 page book. I'm proud that I finished that book! Yes, I included the page number so I wouldn't seem so lame!
There is always going to be someone who will rain pooh on your book or script parade. It will bring you down because normally the person reading is someone you highly respect. Try and find the constructive note through the harshness and ignore the rest. At 9 I didn't know how to do that and my parents certainly weren't a beacon of light. They were and are great parents, but there failings came in how they valued a creative profession. Immigrants don't understand art and money, but that's another post on another blog or an episode of "Master of None" with Aziz Ansari on Netflix. I love that show!
Keep writing! Keep writing! You may have already had your first harsh, apocalyptic criticism, but don't let that throw you down the black hole of doubt and despair. Don't let that stop you from getting behind your modern desktop or laptop. The best way to overcome fear is to run toward it. You'll discover that when you get that place of absolute terror that you were running from your shadow the entire time.
Love,
Lorna O.
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