The first time I realized that some people don’t understand the difference between the writer and what writers write came as a shock to me.
Last year, a man (why don’t we call him Dick?) I had broken up with read some of my blogs in a pathetic attempt to spy on me(otherwise he couldn’t be bothered with my writing habit) and was appalled at what he read. It didn’t fit into the loving, domestic relationship we had tried to build.
Dick didn’t understand that I could write about something and not live and breathe and be who or what I wrote. ” I don’t know you,” Dick whined at me, in his passive-aggressive, pathetic way.
I knew it was over. After all of the time we’d spent together he hadn’t a clue what was dear to my heart. He was right, he didn’t know me at all.
Rest assured my dear ones, heartaches heel and our Dicks fade away. I have been happily writing ever since my Dick disappeared. Just this week I had a wonderful opportunity to read part of my novel on a radio program dedicated to writers and artists of all sorts. One of the two short pieces I read was a bit racy, but best illustrated the crux of the novel. “Very risqué,” one of my pals commented. “Very brave,” another piped in. Burlesque was the word that my host used.
The feedback I have gotten since then is quite interesting, some flattering, and some rather questionable. Just for the record, I do not whore around in back alley-ways, nor do I cavort with my co-workers in a sexual way. I do write about that though.
So, to my radio fans – don’t mistake me for the girl in the alley with her petunia sticking out in the wind. You’re likely to get a slap for your appetizer and your very own teeth for an entree. You see, despite being a fearless writer, I save my delicate flower for my own, very private life. Be it with Tom, (not Dick) or Francis. Those intimate moments of my personal life are shared only with the wonderful man who shares my bed and my heart, not the pages of my novel.
For those readers who may have mistaken the writer for fictional characters in a novel, or poem, or blog, I will clear up the confusion.
Writers write to entertain, communicate information and ideas. In my humble opinion, the best writers write to provoke thought, question our ethics and politics.W riters inspire conversation. Great writers inspire change, courage and social revolution.
Lucy Maud Montgomery did not stroll around with long, braided red locks and daydream her time away. She was Lucy, not Anne of Green Gables for goodness sake! As far as I know, J.K. Rowling did not fly around on broomsticks and sleep under the stairs. Nor did she wear dorky glasses and sport a cape.
Writers do often ‘write what they know’, as the saying goes, but they are not the characters in their works of fiction. Writers are their own, private, wonderful selves.
Don’t get me wrong, I stand by a lot of the advice I dole out here in my ANDSHELAUGHS boudoir. I also like to tease you with ideas and thoughts. I hope those provocative little stories I tell to inspire all of my delectable, luscious, readers encourage you to be fearless and love the life that you live. No guilt. No regrets.
Advice; For all of you readers out there….don’t be a Dick.