Needed: Attitude, Not Aptitude

by Kathy Flake

They say some people are born to write. I always thought I was one of those people. I began making up stories when I was still young enough to sleep with a nightlight (okay, so I slept with a nightlight when I was twelve). The point is, storytelling was always a part of my life. The characters in my head were my best friends, my "real" family, my favorite toys. My neverending stories were my very own classics, Newberry Award-winning, Caldecott-illustrated dreamscapes. My child-approved Prozac. Not even a library card contained as many possibilities as my imagination, on a good day.

I eventually was published, although the print run was quite low. My second grade teacher, Mrs. Benton, typed up the stories I’d written in class, mimeographed them and gave one copy to my parents, another to the principal. (This is the same principal who branded me a rebel when I refused to leave my mom’s car the year before. I’m not sure she appreciated my masterpieces of purple–literally–prose.)

But three decades later, here in Grown-Up Land, I’d rather mop floors than write fiction. I’d rather search the Web for broccoli recipes than write the next chapter in my WIP. I’d rather answer spam email than write prose. The joy is gone; the escape route closed.

I’ve been questioning whether I was indeed born to be a writer. Maybe I just don’t have the skills it takes. Maybe I don’t have the perseverance. Maybe I don’t have enough words. Maybe I need more time.

Maybe I need alcohol. (F. Scott Fitzgerald managed quite well on whiskey sours, didn’t he?)

Of course, the truth is, I already have everything I need, or the means to find it. Some of it I was born with, some I managed to pick up along the way. Some came from friends; some came from books. Some probably came from my dental fillings. (Like that rock star romance I never finished, thank God!)

Everything I need is right here, just waiting to be mined. From my own mind, not the wide world web, or my to-be-read pile. I simply have to banish the self-doubt, the need for perfection, and an adverb or two.

I need to get back to that child-place, where creating wasn’t a chore. When I didn’t care if I had too many adverbs, or too many lines, or too little motivation. When I didn’t need Prozac, only prose.

I’ll take the time travel machine: back to nightlights and second grade; my publisher, Mrs. Benton; and the Bobbsey Twins, who taught me the meaning of the word "determination."

And if that doesn’t work, I’ll take up drinking.

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