My imaginary friend

Having had several false starts on a blog post this weekend I’ve decided to write about not getting one done. I don’t know what happens to me when the words just won’t come together, when the blank page throws down and wins. It isn’t for lack of a story to tell – there are several stories perking in my brain at any given minute. I’m just having difficulty finding a way to tell one, finding my writing voice.

The urge to write is an odd thing – I put a lot of pressure on myself to do it, for no other reason than getting it done. I don’t have a deadline. I don’t have a boss. What I have is a desire. Where this desire comes from is anyone’s guess.

I have storytelling in my blood. What storytellers need most of all is someone to tell the story to. I often find myself writing for a particular person when I start a story. I imagine them reading my words and laughing (or crying) in all the right places. I conjure my own first reader – she always loves the piece – my imaginary reader thinks everything I write is awesome. Imaginary friends are terrific this way. Unfortunately reality isn’t always so kind.

Sometimes when I share a work in progress, what I’m after is confirmation that I’m on the right track – that the story is worth telling. What I’m not after is criticism, I have very thin skin. Thankfully my imaginary first reader knows this about me. I might be very opinionated but I’m not very confident. The real first reader is often a different story.

I pretend I’m not watching as someone reads my new work, but I’m paying close attention. Did they just frown? Did that look like they had to reread a sentence – were they confused? I hold a lot of store in facial expressions. I’m holding my breath while pretending to be busy. I’m quietly waiting for approval.

My imaginary first reader thinks I am brilliant – she doesn’t understand when everything I write doesn’t generate enthusiastic applause. She has been part of my process. She understands my intent whether it’s on the page or not. She is more confused by a lackluster reception than she is by the text. I make perfect sense to her, even if that sense isn’t reflected in the work. And because of this, she can’t be trusted to offer an honest opinion.

I love my imaginary reader – she feeds my ego, she encourages me – but beyond that she doesn’t help me get my message across. I need a real live discernible eye. I need thicker skin.

So it appears that writing about not writing has produced a post that both my imaginary friend and I are confident enough in to publish. (Well she is — I’m having my usual second thoughts.)