Writing about Writing

I am learning how to write and it is a serious and joyful business to me.  I have never had a voice. I talk compulsively when I am self-conscious; what comes out is only natter.  I can only talk sensibly on paper with revision.

When I was a girl a favorite great uncle gave me a set of books by Arthur Quiller Couch, On The Art of Reading and On The Art of Writing.  After I married I dipped into Gowers, Fowler, and Strunk and White.  What they all said about clear, simple writing made good reading and good sense; I didn’t think I would ever be able to exercise the things they taught.

Even with the computer’s help clear writing is not easy for me.  I am taking a fiction writing course.  I don’t think I’ll be able to write the great American novel, the ability to imagine a story is not my gift, but with the help of this teacher, I may learn to write with the clarity that those fine writers about writing espoused.

I think this odd, late, pursuit of writing skill is part of a strong wish to make sense of my life. I am grateful that I have some time left to work on it.