Rachel Simon's Blog

When I was a kid, I got tired of the one question clueless adults always seemed to ask little kids: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Perhaps I’d have felt differently if I’d been born into a world where women had the range of opportunities available now. But in the mid-1960s, when I was entering elementary school, and got pelted with this question entirely too often, the options for girls appeared to be: teacher, nurse, mommy, ballerina. I knew these were the right answers, yet I couldn’t bring myself to say them.

So one day, while my mother insisted that I lie beside her on the sofa while she napped, I came up with an answer that I could live with. I would become a writer.

This response didn’t only put that irritating question to rest, it also gave me a goal. Yes, I would be a writer. From then on, I just worked toward that goal, and nothing ever since has had nearly as much appeal to me.

At the time, though, I didn’t know that writers might have choices, too. Certainly I knew about newspapers, magazines, television, and commercials, though I’m sure I knew nothing about the distinctions between reporter, commentator, advice columnist, feature writer, script writer, copy writer, editor, and all the other possibilities that interest people with writerly inclinations.

The only kind of writing that even crossed my mind was book writing. Perhaps this was because we went to the library every few days, and, in fact, my mother was studying for a Masters in Library Science. Perhaps it was because, while there were newspapers and magazines strewn about the house, they were far outnumbered by books. Or perhaps it was because something in me just knew that the long form matched something in my spirit.

Once the idea took hold, it never left.

As I grew into my teens, I did try poetry and plays, but I always returned to book writing. I wrote several novels, or, to be more accurate, novellas. Even short stories seemed more appealing when I pulled several together to make a collection. I simply preferred to settle into my ideas and stay with them for months at a time.

I’m not sure why. I just enjoyed the slow, steady pace of long works.

The years passed. I became an adult and I published several books. I also tried my hand at shorter forms, and for a while I wrote commentary for The Philadelphia Inquirer. I enjoyed the quick bursts of ideas and energy that those pieces required, and they did keep me going between books, but I couldn’t wait to get back. It was like the difference between speed dating and marriage. The novelty and rapidity of the former brought sparkle to the few hours I needed for each piece. But the contemplative comforts of the latter brought new depths to my soul.

Then came the blog.

It was a new kind of short form. It didn’t have to be commentary – or reporting, or advice, or anything in particular. The only requirement was brevity. Which is a tricky proposition for someone who favors length.

I resisted starting a blog for a long time. In fact, it was so long that by the time friends, acquaintances, and publishers had convinced me to start one, the form had almost been left in the dust by an even shorter form, Twitter. Oddly, I took to the miniature quality of Tweets more easily than the comparatively gargantuan blogs. But I needed to have a blog, people said. And, despite feeling constrained, I found that if I wrote them as if they were personal essays, I loved producing them – even if some ended up being longer than people expect for a blog.

“I really liked your last blog,” came a typical email from a relative who will go unnamed, but whose birthdays I’ve acknowledged every year I’ve been alive. “But I read it when I’m at work, and I just can’t put in that kind of time. Can’t you write shorter?”

“I’ll try,” I wrote back. And I did. But the next entry would be even longer.

“I’m just doomed to be a book writer,” I’d bemoan to my husband Hal.

“So what?”

“But there are so many people – like my [intentionally left blank] who want me to write more succinctly than I seem able to do.”

“Do it the way you want.”

“And also, to do them justice, they’re taking me hours. Well, actually days.”

“I know. I see it happening.”

“And I don’t know that I can keep taking that time.”

“So take a break,” he said. “Don’t keep up with your blog. Think of it as a writer’s vacation.”

Coincidentally, this conversation occurred right at the start of this summer. I’d just begun to sink into a new long writing project, and didn’t want to interrupt it to answer emails, much less craft a meaningful blog.

Before I knew it, a month had passed.

Two months.

I did a lot of travel. Hal and I had some unexpected adventures.

Three months.

Finally I decided that for the time being, I would shift my blog from being modeled on the personal essay to being more like a photo essay. So this entry is both a confession of my struggle to adhere to the requirements of this form – and an introduction to the next several posts, which will will take you through my summer in the form of brief photo narratives.

So Unnamed Relative and the many friends who’ve asked why I haven’t posted anything, you can consider this switch being for you.

But it is also for the little girl I was back that day when my mother was asleep and I was trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up. At the time, that little girl read lots of books. They all had words – but they also all had pictures.

And here were some of my favorites.

Tags: blog writing, book writing, favorite children's books, writing, writing life

This entry was posted on Tuesday, September 7th, 2010 at 7:55 am and is filed under Rachel - General information. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.