Why I'll Never Be J.K. Rowling

The obvious comparison is that I'm not British; I'm Texan. That means her accent is way cooler than mine. Then there's the fact that I lead a happy, healthy, tragedy-free life. So really I am incapable of being a great writer. When you think about writers who work their way in to literary canons, they usually have survived some near death or hopeless struggle. Or they are around others who are near death or hopeless, and these things become the fuel behind their creative fires.

I don't struggle. I'm not near death (although I do teach high school English so it might equate on some level). Growing up was a good experience for me: no split parents, no tragic events, no abuse, etc. Is this such a terrible thing? I am loved. I like that:).

None of the above changes the fact that I'd like to write a least one novel. I would like to write something someone can relate to or be moved by. When my graduate program offered a class on writing the short story, I jumped right on it. It could be my chance to find something to substitute for the lack of "dark times" in my life.

Here's what I've learned so far:

1. Audiences are not only vital but so contradictorily subjective. See, we have to critique short stories from everyone in class. Not that I think everyone should love my writing like I do, but all the comments I received did not help much. There were a few that made sense like, "You could probably delete this because you make your point well elsewhere" or "It might help to clarify this idea for people not familiar with this concept." But overall it was just frustrating. One person would like my "dark" humor and another was appalled that one of her son's teachers might be thinking such things (my story concerned a comedic encounter between an English teacher and Cliffs Notes that ends in arson). What am I supposed to do with that? To whom do I listen? I figure that the latter type of people would not be the ones inclined to read my novel (should one ever be written), and I'm okay with that until I realize...
2. I'm slightly smarter than the average American, and that's apparently a problem. There are about four or five people in my class who I think are in the same boat. Actually, I'm sure of it because they are the same four or five who gave me useful information with regards to editing my piece. Plus, they tended to understand more of the subtleties in my writing. However, if I ever intended to reach mass market status, I fear I will have to cater to those less adept with higher order thinking skills. Am I willing to do that? Probably not.
3. In the end, no one can truly teach about writing. I know books have been written and workshops are given, but none of it matters. I will either write something worth reading or I won't. An editor will tell me how to fix it, not an eclectic collection of night school college students. 

I'm not trying to sound hateful or ungrateful because I have met some fascinating people in this class. And some of them have far superior writing skills. I just realize that my life is good and as a result I will not be able to label myself a "suffering artist" exploding my masterpiece onto the page (my entertainingly inane thoughts on this blog will have to do for now).

My husband might be a little disappointed at this revelation because he is really counting on the movie deal for my first novel. But he'll get over it.