Traveling down the weedy path

I've had a week of enforced downtime now, with thoughts and observations chasing each other around like squirrels in the fallen leaves. Since the world was spinning out of control --- literally --- it was hard to read or write or watch tv for awhile, and that made me revert to an old favorite from childhood: listening to stories. Thank goodness for a public library with audiobooks.

I also had more than enough time to simply think. Stories have been a staple for me my whole life. I had parents who read to me every day, complete with voices and gestures. I also collected stories from life. I was one of those kids who would sit on the backstep or up on the stairs while the grown folks were talking. I was blessed with excellent hearing, and tried not to miss a word or inflection, even when I didn't understand the significance of their speech.

As soon as I learned to write, I delighted in writing stories. Most of them are mercifully lost to the sands of time, but a few examples lurk in boxes and files. I can remember following my mom around reading her my creation while she was fixing dinner or folding clothes. Every so often she would respond with "mmmhmm" or "oh my" and even I knew she was only half listening. But the fun of it for me was not the audience, it was hearing the words I had written spoken out loud, like a "real" story.

I became more self-conscious the longer I went to school. My writing usually got good grades because I was careful and knowledgeable about the mechanics. I have my father to thank for good grammar and wide vocabulary. But to have my work judged and given an A,B,or C (I never got lower than that!) was distinctly uncomfortable and limiting. I began to worry about criticism. I began to tailor my words for teachers. Just as, in art class, red cows and blue grass were not okay, writing that was too imaginative or too personal would not be acceptable.

The schism between public and private writing became fully delineated when I was 11 and started to journal in earnest. My early journals still contained stories, but they were tales that nobody else was invited to read, especially teachers. The main character was lonely or afraid, hiding from a thunderstorm because she couldn't get into her house. Couldn't turn that in because I knew a teacher would march that straight down the hall to Daddy's bandroom.

Now I am once again in the netherland between public and private writing. I still journal and nobody reads that stuff. Believe me, you wouldn't want to. But the novels I've written and sent into the world, my public writing, represents only a tiny fraction of what I want to say. They were the easy ones, the ones that could garner approval or at least acceptance, and if they didn't I would probably not know about it. But I'm over the newness of seeing my work in print and on kindle, and knowing that people I don't know would actually read it.

I stand at my crossroads. Hello Robert Johnson. (I wish!) Do I continue to keep it easy and light? Or do I go into the murkier places? Do I try to write for a particular slice of the reading public or do I write for me? I've been wrestling with this for months now. The current book is at a turning point and is tugging me in a direction I didn't intend to go. But these characters have been more insistent, more direct already, than any others I've written. I could easily follow the general outline and live happily ever after, and follow it up with another and another. Maybe I'd even find an audience and augment my retirement pay. There's certainly nothing wrong with that, is there?

Or maybe I follow the muse down into the labyrinth. I might end up with nothing to show for it. I might decide in the end, that it truly was just for me. I don't even know where it is leading, but I can tell already that it's not Hollywood.

I know the answer, of course. In order to preserve my personal integrity, I have to go full tilt. It's not an either/or forever. But for this moment --- and however long it takes --- the path that beckons is the one less traveled. And standing at the crossroads, it looks just a little bit scary.