Hey! There’s a story for you!

I hate when people say that.

They always say it about something I have positively no interest in writing about, or about something that has no plot, or something that’s a two-minute anecdote when I write novels. Hello? A two-minute anecdote doesn’t fill a whole book. Just saying.

Why do people persist in tossing this nugget out? I mean, people who know me and know what I write don’t say this, but anyone I strike up a friendly conversation with in public social settings eventually gets around to this one.

They ask me about my life, and I explain my origins: My parents met at a carnival they were both working at for the summer, they never married, my mom was eighteen when I was born, and I didn’t meet my father until I was eleven years old.

“Hey! There’s a story for you!”

I don’t write memoirs. I don’t like memoirs. I don’t read memoirs. Yes, the basics of my life read like a lit-fic cliche, but not only do I hate that particular lit-fic cliche, to me it’s just my life. I live with those facts every day. Also, I know how the story ends: me, in front of a computer screen, writing. The beginnings of my  life haven’t coincidentally shaped me in any way, or become strangely important to my place in the world. Not exactly heart-pumping, rock-em sock-em material. If you want to write about my life, go ahead. I’m not gonna.

My husband and I bought a house a few years ago, and discovered three months after we bought it that his great great Aunt Henrietta actually built the house. Cool.

“Hey! There’s a story for you!”

Really? You think that’d make interesting reading for page after page? That’s the whole story, in one sentence.

I’m a witch. I do magic, and I talk to ghosts. Yes, I really do, and they talk back. I don’t normally brag about this, but it comes up sometimes.

“Hey! There’s a story for you!”

Uh huh. None of the ghosts I’ve ever spoken to have tried to kill me, or refused to move on, or were doing anything the slightest bit interesting besides hanging around.  Don’t get me wrong, I wrote a ghost story, but real magic and psychic phenomenon is pretty tame. I mean, amazing in a life sense, but seriously yawn worthy in fiction. I embelished the living shit out of the ghost story I wrote.

The other one I love is when people try to talk me into writing their book for them. You know, the one they secretly wish they had the guts to sit down and write for themselves. It’s always a book about something I could give a shit about. “You should write a history of this area!” a neighbor said to me. BORING!!! I live in small, small, small town USA. It’s all Germans and farmers and Catholics around here. I don’t care that much about this area. I moved here because it’s close to a bigger town and the houses here were less expensive than in town and it’s quiet. When I explained I only do fiction, the neighbor said “Historical fiction has always interested me.” But in such a way that he meant I should write historical fiction. I don’t like historical fiction. I don’t read it. Why would I write historical fiction about an area I could give a rat’s ass about? Dude, get out a pen, do it yourself.

“You should write children’s fiction!”

People often bust this one out when they see me around children. I like kids. I treat them like little people. They tell me the coolest stories and play the silliest games. But I never really read children’s fiction. (See Children’s books almost made me stop reading.) I mean, I read children’s fiction when other kids were on easy readers and books with pictures in them. I was on to adult fiction by the time I was about ten or eleven. Children’s fiction makes me angry. There’s some out there that’s worth a damn, sure, but a lot of it is pandering wishy washy shit. I can’t debase myself enough to write pandering wishy washy shit. And when I tried to write something worth a damn, I couldn’t get it right. If you want to write a children’s book, go for it.

“You should write about training animals/living in a small town/customer service gems/anything that has really happened to you!”

I have some funny stories and some really good experience and info I like sharing with people who need help, don’t get me wrong, but again we run into the super-short no-plot I-don’t-like-memoirs problems. I live in a small town. It’s different. I have a small collection of anecdotes. They aren’t enough to fill more than a few pages. I have been working with animals since I was eleven, I have a lot of good experience and knowledge about them that has helped many people in the past. A book about training might earn me money, but I don’t want to write non-fiction. I’d rather talk to people or go to their homes and help. And anyone who’s ever worked customer service has some gems. Yes, all you people who’ve never worked with the general public, these funny/scary/ridiculous stories are about YOU. Those of us who’ve been on the sales floor know better than to act like that.

I really don’t understand why when I tell people I’m a writer, they start telling me what to write about.  “I’m a writer, but I haven’t actually written much because I just don’t know what to write about.” I’ve never said that to anyone, yet that’s what many people seem to hear.

The only thing I can truly guess is that they want to write about those things, and don’t have the time/energy/willpower/faith in themselves/real desire to actually sit down and write. Why exactly that unrequited desire should translate into what I should write I’m not sure. Do people tell painters what to paint? Do they tell directors what movies to make? Do they tell dancers what sort of dances they should do? Really, I want to know. Does this happen to people in other arts, or is it just us lucky writers?

The other fun one, which I won’t get into too much here, is when people say “I always wanted to write a book.” Like anyone could do this. Like it doesn’t take time and effort and practice and lots of fucking up before you get it right to sit down and write something worthwhile. Like my life in poetic poverty is something they could choose any time for themselves, you know, once the debts are paid off. When I say, “So you should do that,” they always look at me in amused surprise. I haven’t got that one figured out yet. Are they surprised I didn’t gratefully offer to write it for them? Are they amused I would suggest that they take time out of their busy, important schedule to do something as ridiculous as write a book? I just don’t know. The only person who ever tried to give me an honest answer when I asked about the face simply said, “You have a point.”