A writing about writing - part 1

I like writing. That is kind of a fact. When I was a little girl who thought she would become the greatest writer of all time, my parents had to either gently or violently hint at me that no, I wasn't so great, and even if I had a chance to become a great writer, it wouldn't be a very well-paid job. Writing is not a sexy career. Writers are these strangely dreamy and expectedly poor folks who often die at young ages if they are great at their job. 

So I didn't become a writer. My parents and my potential readers probably feel quite relieved. I'm on a track to become a biologist, which is not anywhere close to writing, except that 200-page dissertation and a bunch of papers I have to write with the vocabulary that sounds like Greek because it was actually derived from Greek (and Latin - I respect a language that manages to create so much troubles for users so long after its death). And I spend most of my time avoiding writing them, which means I don't necessarily enjoy that kind of writing. 

My parents were right, becoming a writer isn't easy. I read somewhere in an essay by Ann Patchett that she was annoyed when everyone just approached her and told her they had a story that she ought to write about, and that it would definitely be a great story, and the writing would just be final presentation, like putting cooked food from the stove top to the table. Except it isn't. Ann Patchett said in her essay that the story was just a very small part, the writing was the hardest part. The story is like a bag full of grocery, the writing is prepping and cooking and serving and cleaning and everything in between. And sometimes, the food isn't that good, or it isn't what your guests want for that dinner, or it is good for you but it is too salty for them, or they eat it too quickly to even appreciate it. (OK, this food analogy is mine, not Ann Patchett's, so don't quote her on that.)

I read a book written by an old friend. It was a fiction. It was okay. I mean, it wasn't one of those books that would make it into literature textbooks 100 years from now. It got out there, became popular for a little while, then probably disappeared. And that is how it goes for the majority of books. Really. Have you been to a bookstore lately? Or on Amazon? Or to the library? There are just so many books. I can't help but thinking there might be a chance that some books never even get read at all. 

And that is why I admire my friend. She had a story, she put work into writing in down, she published it, she watched it getting welcomed and forgotten by readers. She faced the fact that her book might not even get read at all, after all those days and nights she put into writing it. She faced the fact that some people, or a lot of people, might read it and hate it. She faced the fact that some people might read it and would not understand it at all. 

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This part doesn't belong to A writing about writing. I just think I drop you a note, because you happen to be among the 10% of my Facebook friends who don't mind reading long things hidden in a link. Thanks for reading. Leave a mark (a like, I guess, because that's pretty convenient), so I know you were here, and there is a bigger chance that I might keep writing. And if I choose to do so, I will write about how I write.