Beth
Sunset over a southern lake
I joined the Writin’ Wombats in the beginning, when we were fussing and fuming about a writing contest. Seems there were quite a few who thought a writing contest should be about good writing rather than gaming the contest. One group of us got together—online—and continued our discussions about writing.
It was good.
Good to talk with others about the stresses and joys and challenges of writing. Good to ask questions of others dealing with the same issues. Good to hear that I wasn’t a lone ranger after all. And then after the talk about writing, there was talk about re-writing. Then the joys of finding an agent and publisher. And we can’t forget the fun of marketing both ourselves and our books.
I’ve not yet had the pleasure of dealing with agents and editors and publishers and the reading public, but I will one day. And I love learning from other writers about their trials and successes. I even love hearing the rejection stories. I’m hoping I’ll be prepared when my time comes. I’m certain, however, I’ll be a wild thing trying to deal with all the extras that come with being a writer.
‘Cause it’s not always about the writing. I mean, sometimes it is all about the writing and the words. But in truth, there’s much more to writing and being a writer than putting the words on paper.
As I said, I’ll learn about that firsthand one day. For now, I’m learning all I can from my friends.
One of my dance students having fun
I also have a life outside writing. I was a dance teacher and choreographer for many years. I loved putting together dances, expanding themes and using repetition and changing pace and building to a climax—yep, all practices a writer needs to use as well. I also enjoyed teaching, watching as students learned what their bodies could do, things they never imagined they were capable of.
Jefferson Memorial on a winter's day
History fascinates me; I could visit historic sites every month. There’s something about the places where great events took place that stirs me—did the participants know they were creating history? Did they know others would walk where they walked, wondering about their lives—how they lived and loved and dreamed? What do I have in common with a woman from 200 years ago? One thousand? Are we so different? Would I even understand her world, or would I be an alien, ignorant and lost?
I may never know. But I can imagine the past. And the future. And I can write my imaginings for others to enjoy.
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