A Case of Writer’s Laryngitis

So, reading is awesome. So is writing. So, naturally, reading about writing is also, well, awesome.

I’ve been perusing some of my favourite YA authors’ blogs lately, and know what? I’m jealous of them. I get completely, unquestionably, as green as the land of leprechauns and Guinness when I read what these authors write. And it has nothing to do with the fact that they’re amazing storytellers and pretty cool women.

It’s something far less exciting than my fangirling over their skills and finding similarities between my zaniness and theirs, convinced that we’d be great friends if the fates (or writers’ conventions) align.

It’s that they can swear.

Yep. They can throw in the occasional expletive and not have to worry that it’ll come back to haunt them.

I can’t do that. I mean, I could, but having the ghosts of blogs past hang over me in the form of disciplinary action at work isn’t something that’s high on my list of things to achieve.

And I’m not even joking.

The standards for teachers in BC dictate that I must be a role model. Though I’m fairly confident that dropping an f-bomb or saying that something is “ship” doesn’t fundamentally change who I am as a person, I can’t guarantee that there wouldn’t be complaints. And complaints mean discipline. And I don’t deal well with being disciplined.

So, no swearing for me.

Which is too bad. Not because I can’t get through a day without swearing – a school day, at least – but because I’m not a saint. I’m a human, an individual. I can’t fit easily into a mold labeled “teacher,” and I don’t know anyone who truly could.

I’m just me. It’s what helps me tell stories, to interpret the world and share it with others. But I’m forced to pretend to be something that I’m not, all while being entrusted to encourage youth to be who they are.

It’s hypocritical. And it’s interfering with my writing.

Ideally, this blog gives the reader an idea of the person behind the voice, but my voice is me. By being stunted in the vocabulary that I can freely use, a part of me is missing from these pages. An irreverent, sarcastic, two-minutes for unsportsmanlike conduct part.

I just hope that it’s not missing from the pages of my novels, that my quirkiness and je ne sais quoi come through as they would if you actually knew me. That I can say through my characters what I can’t say as myself.

They better. Otherwise none of these awesome authors that I’m blog stalking will want to be my friend. And that’s clearly destined to happen.

One day.