What Kind of Writer Am I?

I find myself asking this question a lot lately. You'd think that this would be a pretty simple question for someone who writes but I have a way of complicating even simple things. If you are feeling a little lost at this point, then I suggest you take a brief moment to read the title before we continue. There, feeling less lost now? Good. That makes one of us at least.

So, 'what kind of writer', what does that mean? For me it has be 'what is your style?', that thing that other authors, bloggers, writers, and probably editors and agents call your voice. Hmm. There is a lot I'd like to say, but I'm afraid most of it would be wishful thinking. You see, I used to have a fairly comedic style-  a mix of goofy and surreal humour, sentences that flowed easily into eachother, but that writing voice belonged to a younger version of me, a less tired and bitter version of me. My writing voice now, on good days, (like this very moment perhaps) is colloquial and personal, spiced with moments of dry or sardonic humour. The good days are far fewer than my bad days, however, and on those latter days it's hard for me to say if I have a style at all.

What would you call a style that consists of rambling to yourself in a literary way, in a slightly imperious air, about your negative thoughts and doubts, like a British aristocrat monologuing to himself in his study in the midst of a rainstorm, his room lit by a single flickering candle. What would you call that? Melodramatic? Oh, sad, you say. Yes, I don't think I can argue with you there. Then on bad days my writing voice is thus: sad.

I think even if I have a voice, however inconsistent it is, my real issue is how I might reconcile it with the types of writing I'd like to do. Put another way, will the same voice work for an essay, for a story, for a whatever, the same way it works for a blog post? That may be a bit of a useless musing, something I am quite good at, mind, but I should probably find out for myself. I'm not quite pinning a certain feeling down, though, as I write this. There is a thought bouncing around my mind, that tempts me to say 'it is ailing me', the brooding British noble trying to claw his way out of my mouth, or at least into my brain. Cease thy meddling and sweeping gesticulations amidst the confines of my mind, ye apparition, leave me!

The thought, I think, or at least I ponder, I wonder, or should I say ruminate upon, is that the style I have is not necessarily the style I want. At least, it is not the only style I want, and I would happily trade away my Melancholy Melodramatic British Man™ for a writing voice similar to Terry Pratchett's. How does develop another writing voice though? The me on paper is often so different from the me in real life. My colloquial, paper 'me' is perhaps closer than the wigged, portly, British man who occasionally possesses my fingers, and so it seems that I could just work on an additional voice to add to something I could one day haughtily refer to as my repertoire. Another part of me says, you are what you are, even in your writing voice, keep it or change it but you don't really have more than one, just multiple sides. You don't have more than one personality, and your writing is just a reflection of that. Oh, that sounds very wise. But tell me, wiser self, if that is true, what about that insufferable British man in my head?

Perhaps, if you ignore him, he will just go away...?

The Answer is to Give Up

My life, at least from where I stand, is so often paradoxical. I have to wonder if others share the same sentiment, particularly with regard to their own self-improvement and goals. Most lately what sits at the forefront of my mind is that often my best progress is made after I have given up. Of course 'giving up' implies that no more progress would be made, so perhaps it's more of a metaphorical casting-away. If I give something up, I get better at it.

Let me avoid being vague any further. Often I become fixated on a goal, writing for instance, and so I set myself about the goal as any other might. I try and make a practice schedule and stick to it. I read about writing and, in general, read more of everything. I do my best to immerse myself and drive myself forward so that I might make steady strides forward and improve upon my modest skill. Over time schedules, routines, can become hard to maintain. The goal becomes a source of stress, but you know what they say, time and pressure make diamonds. Perhaps I just never let the pressure build enough. I think as a pressure cooker I am woefully inadequate though, as I have myriad holes through which I can not help but lose steam. With that I know I can't make a diamond, I'm not even sure if I could make a good jam.

Then comes the decision to 'give-up'. It's not an inapt description, but it is a bit misleading. I do decide to give up. I do, in my current example, give up my writing schedule, and my focus on reading-up on writing, and additional reading, and all insistence of steady dedicated practice. I can't say that I gave up on the idea of writing but, on the steady pursuit of that goal, I have definitively relinquished control.

Yet for some reason I will always come back to the goals I gave up. I will come back, only with less stress, with less focus on improvement. I come back writing just to write, and somehow make better progress that way. I don't practice as often, I don't stare at a blank page until my brain pretends to start working. I just write when I can and somehow that works. And I don't understand that. I don't understand how dedicated practice can feel like such a standstill, yet make better progress with what feels like dabbling. It's as if dedicated practice is a trudge up a gravel hill with each step losing almost as much progress as you gained. It's not as if I couldn't climb higher that way, but it is so much more tiring. I am confused as to why this seems to be my lot. Fix sights. Strive. Give-up. Improve. In that order.

Email is Quaint

When did emails become quaint? It seems like not long ago writing pen and paper letters had become a thing of the past. How archaic, you have to manually drag ink-coated metal or graphite embedded wood across paper? My my, perhaps I should write with a quill for a more authentic experience! Email was the wave of the future; effortlessly compose and correct, instantly send, and revel in your ability to attach as much as you can cram into the file-size limit. Was. Email was the wave of the future, then that wave washed ashore with a quiet 'fsshh' and slid back out to sea. 

This realization dawned on me just a moment ago, as I considered sending an email. I hadn't sent one in a while and as I considered what to write I thought: maybe I should keep it short because I don't want to go overboard. Wait, go overboard? In an email? This, coming from the guy who used to write a small novel's worth in some emails? That's when it hit me, email is just an annoyance now. It's for when you need something in writing; also, it's a convenient place for all that junk mail to pile up. At least in my email I don't have to take the junk out to the recycling. 

We are so connected now that email is too much trouble. I can call someone with the touch of a button, and with hardly more effort I can see their face in a video chat. I can send instant messages, from anywhere that matters, and have a conversation in real time. Why do I need email again? Oh right, so I have somewhere convenient to store all my purchase receipts. Someone sent me an email? Weird, why didn't they just send a text message? I exaggerate a little bit, but not much. This is my generation now. Calling someone when it isn't urgent is considered a faux pas. I know I am in slightly more techy circles than some but I regularly log into a voice chat server where I am connected with all my friends and we talk whenever we have something to say, as if we were all just sitting at our computers with walkie-talkies. It's the next best thing to being in the same room. Email is just slow and clunky by comparison. 

So much for email.