Why do you call yourselves the “would-be writers”? Isn’t that kind of knocking yourselves down?
To be perfectly honest, I don’t like most writers. Before you furrow your brow too much, let me take you back to 1996 to explain. I was 19 years-old, and had decided that I wanted to write children’s books for a living. I worked in a bookstore, surrounded by children’s books, and believed that I could someday look on the shelf and see my name there. I took every creative writing class offered and had great feedback from my professors.
My mom read about a writing conference in Salt Lake for CLAU, which I think stands for Children’s Literature Authors and Ukaleles, or something prestigious like that. It was about a $100 to attend and offered several guest speakers, and then a workshop where you could bring original work and have a real, honest-to-goodness, name-on-a-book-jacket author read a portion and give you feedback. Well, $100 was about $99 more than I had at the time, but my mom offered to pay because it seemed like such a great opportunity.
I already knew what I was going to take as my sample work. It was a story I had written for a children’s picture book. It was called Ants in Pants in France and told the story of Aunt Ant and Uncle Ant who decide to leave their stressful life of building anthills and take a vacation. It was written in perfect iambic pentameter.
So, I went to the conference. I sat through the lectures, furiously taking notes from the all-knowing authors presenting all the reasons why writing is the most difficult profession to break into. Of course, they happened to be brilliant enough to penetrate the sacred world of published authors, but all the schmucks out in the audience had a tough road ahead.
I sat alone. I was the youngest person in the room by at least 15 years. I tried to make eye contact and smile at anyone who would look at me. No go.
When the time finally came for the workshop, my heart was pounding. I was clutching my folder, anxious to read and share with other authors. I was placed at a table with three other middle-aged women, and our beloved, bonafide author, Paul Pitts. I had lovingly arranged his books on the store bookshelf many times, and now I had the chance to sup at his feet.
A few of the other women read first, and their stuff was good. They received positive feedback. There was friendly talk and banter. Paul was very complimentary. I couldn’t wait for my turn. Then it came, and I passed out my copies to everyone and read my story in the least-shakey voice I could come up with.
The other ladies didn’t really say much. But Paul did. Paul Pitts, children’s book author, turned to me and said, “You know, to write children’s books you have to be good, but to write them in verse, you have to be DOUBLY good.” Then he explained that picture books (as if I hadn’t read one) need to have text that can easily correlate with an illustration. Which I guess was a good point, because it’s almost impossible to imagine a picture of an ant at the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre.
The writers I met that day, people who call themselves “writers”, were among the smallest, self-proud, threatened-by-anyone-else’s-good-idea group of yahoos I’ve ever met. I had no desire after that day to call myself a writer.
I’m willing to write crap. I’m willing to ramble and punctuate incorrectly. And start sentences with “and”. I love to write, and one of the most natural highs I’ve ever known is having someone tell me they liked something I’ve written. I’ve spent the last (almost) four years with the Would-be Writers Guild writing and sharing with each other some of the silliest, ill-formed, nonsensical writings I’ve ever heard. And some of the best, gut-wrenching, tear-jerking, inspiring, hilarious, superb combination of words I’ve ever heard from people who don’t introduce themselves as writers and authors.
There is a lot of freedom in being a would-be writer. No one is threatened by a would-be writer. No one expects Shakespeare from a would-be writer. You don’t need a college degree to be a would-be writer, or a resume, or a laptop. All you need is a notebook and a pen, and if you don’t have either, I’ve got some you can borrow.
By the way, I’m including the piece of crap children’s book I took to the conference. If it ever gets published, the inscription is going to say, “Dedicated to everyone I’ve ever met except for Paul Pitts, who tried to crush my dreams.”
Ants in Pants in France
Aunt Ant and Uncle Ant
Live on the corner of Cheshire and Grant
Deep in the sidewalk crack they dwell;
It’s a modest crack and it suits them well.Aunt Ant and Uncle Ant
Are owners of a construction plant.
While anthills fill their resume,
Their goal’s to make mountains of molehills someday.Aunt Ant and Uncle Ant
Rarely know a rave or a rant.
She keeps home while he works days,
Returning at night for crumbs hollandaise.Aunt said to Uncle Ant
One day as he walked in the door from the plant,
“Dear, it’s not that I am unhappy,
But sitting all day in this crack makes me snappy.”Aunt looked at Uncle Ant,
“Life’s no picnic at the plant.
Days upon days, hills upon hills,
Darling, it’s time we enjoyed a few frills.”So, Aunt Ant and Uncle Ant
Decided to go to Director Durrant
Who headed the Bureau of Travel by Wing,
He had been everywhere and he’d done everything.He said to Aunt and Uncle Ant,
“Have you flown before?” She said, “I can’t.
We’ve an old hammock—I’ve never been on it.
The thought of my feet off the ground makes me vomit.”He frowned at Aunt and Uncle Ant.
“Then I suggest ‘Travel by Pant’!”
“Travel by pant?” asked the couple in shock,
“You mean, climb up a human shoe and a sock?”Aunt Ant and Uncle Ant
Considered their options, the should’s and the shan’t
And decided with help from Director Durrant
To depart the next day in the cuff of a pant.Aunt Ant and Uncle Ant
Stood on the corner of Cheshire and Grant
With bags in their hands, and a nervous chill
They climbed up the shoelace of Bobby Neville.Bill, Jill, and Bobby Neville
Were headed for France with their grandfather, Phil
To spend a few weeks with Phil’s sister, Sarah
Who had a small home on the French Riviera.Bill, Jill, and Bobby Neville
Boarded the plane with their grandfather, Phil
While Aunt and Uncle discussed in the dark
Where they’d end up—in a store or a park…Bill and Jill said to Bobby Neville,
“What’s wrong with you, Bobby?” “Can’t you sit still?
Maybe it’s just the excitement of France,
But you’re wiggling as though you’ve got ants in your pants!”Bill and Jill laughed with Bobby Neville
Who folded his arms and tried to sit still
Til the plane landed soundly in Paris, in France
With Gramps, Bill, Jill, Bob, and, of course, the two ants.Aunt Ant and Uncle Ant
Climbed up the cuff with a huff and a pant.
They looked all around with high hopes and bright eyes.
Uncle said, “Do you find yourself craving french fries?”Aunt looked at Uncle Ant
With her brows in that regular, pondering slant.
“Sort of,” she answered, “but what I crave most
Is a thick, crispy, syrup-drenched slice of french toast.”Aunt Ant and Uncle Ant
Sat puzzling upon the cuff of that pant
Til Aunt broke the silence and whispered, “Perchance,
French toast and french fries—have we landed in FRANCE?!”Aunt Ant’s and Uncles Ant’s
Reaction was clear—they were doing a dance!
They laughed and “hoo-hooed” as they did the french twist
Then Uncle took Aunt in his arms and they kissed.Bill, Jill, and Bobby Neville
Along with Aunt Sarah and Grandfather Phil
Went to the Tower, the Arc, and the Louvre,
And with ants on the cuff, they were ants on the move!Aunt Ant and Uncle Ant
Never returned back to Cheshire and Grant.
They found a new crack ‘neath the shade of a tree
Where they lazed all their days in ooo-lah-Pari.As for Bill, Jill, and Bobby Neville,
They returned home with their grandfather, Phil.
Leaving Sarah to settle again back in France
Never knowing their trip had included two ants.
