My counselor wanted to know if I kept a journal. She said something to the effect that because I read so much, I should be able to write. (she actually said that I'm "well read", which I had to edit out here, I just couldn't face it.)
While when I am inspired, I think I probably write reasonably well, I usually don't have much of any substance to say. I know a couple of "real" writers, people who *work* at it and get published and *paid* and things. I'm not a writer, not in that fashion. I certainly don't have any stories beating on the walls of the inside of my head, hammering to get out.
Back in the day, in various schools, I got good at padding. Five pages on <insert some boring topic name here> when I only have three facts? No problem, I am your huckleberry. Instead of stories, I have marketing. And I'll be the first to admit that I like words and phrases with curlicues and filigree and lace trimmings. I'll come all over Old British Novel stylistically, which is just wrong. Sigh. So, out in the real world, when self-editing, I have to cut and cut and simplify like mad. Strunk and White would be pleased. At least, I hope so.
I am a reader who is capable of occasionally making it go the other way. Crafting something out of words feels immensely complicated to me. It's a variation on the smorgasbord problem. There are so many fabulous words and you can put them in almost any order. It's intimidating.
Note - I do this blog just to put things somewhere, to try and bleed off the steam as it were.
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