I Wanted To Be A Writer

By Abigail Thomas

When I was sixteen, I wanted to be deep, whatever that was, but it sounded interesting and nothing about me felt the least bit interesting. One night I struggled to write a poem about the tree in Washington Square outside my bedroom window. Unfortunately, I had no deep feelings about the tree. It was familiar, like a pal, I liked looking at it, that was all, and alas, you can’t invent deep feelings, at least not at sixteen. I remember two embarrassing lines, “and then the tears come/ softly at first…”and thank god that’s all I recall.

A few years later, when I was nineteen or twenty, I really wanted to be a writer. The closest I came was bopping around my kitchen whenever Paperback Writer came on the radio. If I wanted it badly enough maybe I would turn into a writer. But how? Magic? Writers were different. They knew things I didn’t know, important things, they had deep feelings and different lives. What did I know? Nothing of value. Nothing that rhymed, no secrets. Could a poem be made out of unmatched socks? The crunch of celery? Placemats? I knew babies and grocery lists and laundry, and I knew longing. But for what? I didn’t know. I still don’t.

When I tried writing stories, I would look at the few sentences I’d put down, crumple the paper up, and toss it into the wastebasket. Who did I think I was? I would try again, from time to time, always with the same result. Who do you think you are?

And then one day, many years later, I was in the White Mountains, a young man’s head asleep in my lap. For an entire week I had been simply a blonde-headed woman in a pickup whose bumper sticker read TOO CUTE TO STAY HOME. I had no details, no four kids, no two divorces, nothing. And I had a thought. Maybe it’s like making your first pie crust. It won’t be a success, but make another, and another, and eventually, you’ll make a good one. Maybe it’s the same thing with writing, I thought. It won’t work the first time, but keep at it. Keep at it and you will get better.

When I got home, I started again. But instead of crumpling the pages up, I sat in a different chair and tried again, using different angles, different voices, different everythings. I worked hard. By the end of the day, I had written a story. It got published. I was forty-eight. Now I’m eighty-two. And I’ve been writing ever since.

The great thing about writing is that nothing is wasted. You might have to write 20 pages to find your first real line. You might have to write 200 pages. You might have to find that pickup truck. But those pages may take you where the story really starts, and then you’re off and running.
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Abigail Thomas has four children, twelve grandchildren, 2 great- grandchildren, eleven books and a high school education.