|
I am born.
Which came as a surprise to my parents. They thought they were done
having kids after my older sister and brother. Surprise!
I’m told my first phrase was “I do it my ownself.” I learned to read
early out of self-defense, because everyone kept secrets from me by
spelling. Once I started reading, my older sister, Cathy, would sneak
me into areas of the Helen M. Plum Memorial Library that were
considered beyond my kiddie ability and she would check out more
advanced books for me.
Charles Dickens has a lot to do with my becoming a writer. He used the
word unctuous to describe Uriah Heep. Unctuous.
Doesn’t it make you shiver? Me, too. And, boy, realizing words were so
powerful ignited my desire to sink my hands into them, pour them over
my head and let them stream all around me.
I have promised my mother that I would tell you all that the families
and childhoods and traumas of my characters are not self-portraits.
That’s true. I had a great childhood and have an even better
family. Sure, there was youthful angst, but I only ran away from
home twice. Once, Mom didn’t realize I’d gone, so maybe that shouldn’t
count. The other time, I took the two girls who lived next door along
with, and it was a righteous cause. Tuna fish – my sister was trying to
feed me tuna fish! The two neighbor girls and I were striking out for
Hollywood, having packed dolls, doll clothes and one pair of underwear
each in my red wagon. Alas, the Dairy Queen came before the train
station and our capital was seriously depleted before we were found.
Otherwise I surely would have been the only Oscar-winning screenplay
writer under ten.
Instead, I followed the normal education track through high school in
my hometown. Then I went to Northwestern University, where I got a BA
in three years in English Composition and added a Masters in Journalism
in the fourth year. (If you’re wondering why the masters, check out the
want ads and see exactly how many jobs ask for someone with a degree in
English Composition.)
I wanted to write novels, but practicality demanded something a little
steadier. Especially because, while I wanted to write novels, I didn’t
actually write any.
I became a sports writer. It’s great training for a writer – dialogue,
character, motivation, conflict, goals – they’re all there several
times over in each event. Plus, I didn’t have to get up early.
After being a sports writer for the Rockford (Ill.) Register Star and
assistant sports editor at the Charlotte (N.C.) Observer, I moved to
the Washington Post. That’s when I really started writing. And it all
has to do with dried wallpaper paste.
I’d bought a house with 50 years of
wallpaper-paint-wallpaper-paint-wallpaper-paint layers. Sometimes four,
five layers of wallpaper, always topped with paint. On every wall
surface in the entire house. The only way to get it off was to chip at
it with a wide-bladed putty knife. Chip after chip after chip.
Under the influence of the chipping and the desiccated wallpaper paste,
I started having a story idea. I’d type until I didn’t know what to say
next, and then I’d chip. Pretty soon I’d have more ideas and I’d go
back to typing. I thought it would be a short story, but it kept
growing. There was something very inspiring about that dried wallpaper
paste.
From a kind librarian I heard about a talk by a writer who introduced
me to the Washington,
D.C., chapter of the Romance Writers of America, and I started to
truly learn about writing.
The wallpaper dust story is still in the closet, but the first romance
I wrote came out in 1990 as a Silhouette Special Edition, HOOPS.
After serving as an assignment editor and copy chief for the Post’s
sports department, I went part-time to write novels. Several years ago,
I switched to editing for the Post’s news service.
There is no more wallpaper dust in my house (though plenty of other
projects if anyone’s volunteering), but the story ideas keep coming
without it. Lots and lots of ideas. Way more ideas than there is
time.
So maybe the ideas didn’t come from dried wallpaper dust. Maybe they
came from dog hair. There’s lots of that around here, too.
Yup, that’s got to be the answer.
Now, how do I end this thing? It’s an ongoing story. I’m hoping for a
happy ending eventually, but I’ve got plenty of pages left to turn …
ah, so there’s only one more thing to say:
I am writing.
Read interviews
with Patricia McLinn:
Some
of you know that I’ve been sending books and other packages to our
troops serving in the war in Iraq and Afghanistan. Lt. MaryAlicia
Verdecchia is one of “my” soldiers, who has become a
friend. Click here to read an
address by Lt. MaryAlicia Verdecchia, U.S. Army, at the May 2005 Women Veterans’ Week in Branson,
Missouri.
|
