to jinx or not to jinx

My grandmother is my biggest fan.

Not that I haven't had my fans over the years.  And you could argue that grandparents are supposed to fans of their grandchildren.  After all, that's what grandparents are for, right?  To have the fun and let the parents worry about the discipline.

That's not to say my parents aren't also my fans.  I'm an only child.  Of course they are.  They have supported me through the wild schemes of youth, encouraging me to follow my dreams.  As long as those dreams happened to coincide with theirs.  Or, at least, my father's.  Not to sound bitter, but I have come to the conclusion that most of my childhood was an attempt to please my father.  "An attempt" I say, because I was born with a will just as stubborn as his, although admittedly more passive aggressive.  I spent most of my life attempting to be the princess of academia, trying to prove to my genius father that I enjoyed studying and writing essays as much as he does (let's face it, the man's hobby is collecting college degrees).  And maybe that's when the doubt crept in.  The belief I'm not smart enough or talented enough, no matter what people told me, no matter who they were (I still am in doubt of the head of the Humanities department -- the entire Humanities department for the whole of UMUC Europe -- telling me I'd be a cinch to get a PhD in Humanities.  But maybe that's because I actually know what it takes to get a PhD).

So most of my young impressionable life was an effort to please my parents and teachers and prove that I am as smart as they say I am.  I don't remember much creative writing in high school.  If any.  Mostly explication of literature and timed historical essays (of which I would get perfect scores if I would just keep my facts straight).  Writing became a thing to conquor, a skill to master for the IB and AP tests.  Surrounded by young geniuses, I once again felt I had to not only prove myself to my parents and teachers, but also my peers.  Lunchtime comparison of grades kept me on my toes.

Yet I couldn't stop the daydreams.  The flights of fancy.  The desire to express my creativity.  The thrill of beauty in music and art and words and nature.

It's taken some years, but I've finally come to the conclusion that I am creative.  Artistic, even, if I dare to be so bold (though if you actually call me that, I'll probably argue).  It's taken some years to really believe that I can write.

Of course I can write.  I can string sentences together.  My grammar is fairly decent and my spelling better than average.  I don't consider my vocabulary to be vast, but I enjoy increasing it whenever I get the chance.  And I know I can write because ever since junior high (when someone other than my parents were grading my work), I would receive "well written" on my papers.  Or a similar epithet.

But I surround myself with the literary greats and compare myself upward.  I always have, in anything I do.  So when I'd receive a compliment, I'd think, "but so-and-so can do better."

I say all this because I've been writing lately.

Sounds foolish, doesn't it?  "Zeph, dear, of course you've been writing.  You've blogged every day this past week!"

True, but blogging isn't writing in my mind.  Yes, it's the stringing of sentences and trying to spell correctly and make something that might be interesting to someone who lives outside my head.  But it's random.  Rarely planned.  And rarely read through again.  Blogging isn't writing.  It's just... blogging.

But a recent Saturday afternoon found me with nothing to do, a fragment of a story in my head, a visual image that amused me, and a handy laptop.  Two hours and seventeen pages later, I was startled at the world I had entered.  That I had formed.

Not that I never have story ideas or that I never try to get them down.  I'm sure if I added up all the story starts I've done over the years (none of them going further than five or six pages), I would have a lovely thick novel.  No plot, but a bizarrely written book hundreds of pages long, peppered with characters who have promising starts but no point.

But this was different.  Seventeen pages in one go (more than that, really, because I kept deleting and editing).  By the end of Saturday night, I had fleshed out the characters in my mind and had actually stumbled on a story.  A point.  By Monday night, when I finally screwed up the courage to actually re-read the thing (something I've always hated, reading my work), I realized I was actually curious and invested.  By the time Monday drew to a close, I had not only finished establishing this world (pages of scribbled notes), but had created a dozen or so more characters that are now clamoring for attention.

It's rather overwhelming.  I've never gone quite this far.  The most I've written was a story extending approximately seventy pages and while a few descriptions and situations still amuse me, it was, all in all, rubbish.  But this... I'm compelled.  I see this characters in my mind's eye as if they're truly there.  My Monday night spent scribbling out plots and timelines has created an entire family that I'm desperate to get to know.

So... I'm writing.  And I'm enjoying it.  I love the creative process, the discovering characters and realizing you make them talk (although I have a sneaking suspicion I sometimes lose control of them).  I'm not saying what I'm writing is any good or that it will ever go anywhere (in fact, my typically unsupersitious mind is convinced that now I've actually admitted I've been writing, all my creativity and passion will dry up -- hence the title of this entry).

But whenever I've pulled the story up this week, I picture my grandmother's face, and how every time I see her she asks if I've been writing.  And how she says that she thinks I have an incredible talent.  And that she hopes one day I'll achieve my dream.

I don't know if I'll ever finish this story, much less show it to anyone else.

But I do know one thing.

Should I finish (and I'm praying I will), I know who will be the first to read it.  The one person who always had faith in me.  The one person who never made me feel I had to prove myself.

My number one fan.

My grandmother.