I have wisdom to impart

I’ve been writing a long time, ~fifty years, from when I was about five and started telling my ADHD-addled brain stories to put myself to sleep. I started writing real-person fiction (although I didn’t know what that was¹) in fifth grade with a short story we were assigned and kind of just put my teacher in shock that it was so good—and that I’d dared to use a classmate’s real name. It really was good, especially for a fifth grader. Wish I still had it.

I chugged along through my teens, wrote some RPF wish-fulfillment I destroyed because my dad found a book proposal² that disturbed him so he gave me an ultimatum: Let him read it or destroy it.

I destroyed it. Mind you, I’d typed that in triplicate with carbon paper on a manual typewriter that was heavier than the wrecking ball Miley Cyrus writhes on. Next, a classmate read an assignment and said with a very confused look and tone of voice, “This … sounds like something you want to happen.” Well, I mean, yeah.³

Anyway, I went to BYU and wrote more that was so treacly it embarrassed even myself, so I burned them in the sink of my dorm’s bathroom. I remember that very clearly.

Occasionally in there I’d spin up little snippets of celebrity RPF,⁴ but not often. Every scenario I could concoct was too far-fetched, even for me, but what was worse—I mostly didn’t write these down. I’d tell people. With great excitement. Nobody made fun of me to my face. Maybe they were entertained. Maybe I just came off as too unhinged. Maybe I just never heard whispers. I don’t know.

I was growing up, hitting all my baby writer milestones, doing what fanfiction and RPF writers do, only I was doing it alone, never knowing there were other people doing the same thing I was. I was nineteen when I met two girls who actively wrote fiction with New Kids on the Block⁵ in the heroes’ roles. By name. I sat there listening to their wish-fulfillment RPF, watching their excitement. I can’t remember how many emotions rolled through me, but shock, disgust, wariness, and envy were four of them. Let’s address these:

1. Shock. That anyone did this. By the time this happened, I wasn’t writing too much, and I sat there thinking, “Hey, I grew out of this a while back. These girls are my age. What are they doing still twirling around with glee?”
2. Disgust. I might be wrong, but I got the distinct impression that they truly believed their fantasies could come to life if they got close enough to Jordan Knight and Joey McIntyre to make it happen. I felt rather mature and level-headed by comparison, which is something I never felt. I knew the shit I wrote couldn’t happen.
3. Wariness. I didn’t know what to make of their enthusiasm in telling me this. I didn’t make fun of them. I was half entertained. Maybe they were unhinged. I didn’t know. I never told anyone else.
4. Envy. They were so free and open and unashamed of their frothy creations and their belief that they could make it happen if they got the opportunity. I wasn’t that free anymore. I’d been called on my motives and inspiration too many times, too seriously, with no mockery, not to have tamped down my enthusiasm.

Finally, I wrote a whole novel. You know, the one you shove under the bed after a while because you still had training wheels on. I let an older friend who was in an English grad program read it, and while she had issues with my lack of verisimilitude, she was very encouraging about my writing, structure, pace, and voice. Then I let a whole lot of other people read it, who said they loved it. Okay, good. I had a basis on which to continue.

I (mostly) moved on from wish fulfillment a little later and got good responses. I wrote stuff that could happen, but not to me. This is what made me better at this writing business. As soon as I stopped inserting my whole self into my work, instead building characters with bits and pieces of me I could portray with some verisimilitude, it all began to gel. I joined RWA. I went to critique groups. I got good responses from editors. I got two literary agents. Then shit happened and I not only stopped submitting, I stopped writing altogether.

Now, to my point: I established my voice and style long ago. I’ve been out of the writing community, that is, critique groups, for thirty years. I no longer have anything in common with new writers, or those who are HoNiNg ThEiR cRaFt, and, like my 22-year-old daughter explaining some Grave Issue™ to me Very Seriously™ as if I have never encountered this before or, worse, never actually thought about it, the endlessly repetitive questions on 𝕏 started getting to me because I don’t know what’s asked in genuine curiosity and good faith or what’s engagement farming. Maybe it doesn’t really matter.

So, instead of letting it irritate me, I’m going to use these questions as a springboard to discuss technique, da rulez, characterization, plot, tropes, genre, and any writerly thing else I find interesting.