INTERVIEW WITH JILLI


THE BEGINNING

I am a writer.

I have told myself that many times in the past year.   Not to convince myself that I am,   but to help it stay firmly planted in the forefront of my consciousness so that the many thoughts that constantly tumble through my mind of characters and storylines are justified.   I am a writer.   No matter whether I am published or not,  whether I ever am or not,   I am a writer.

It's the summer of 1996.   For the past month I have been making arrangements to enter a new phase of my life.   One that will provide an atmosphere for a writer to thrive in.   Self-imposed isolation.   Peace.   Time to write anytime I want.   No more rushing in to work on a crowded interstate for sixty miles each morning,   coming home in the same bumper-to-bumper traffic at dusk each evening,   tired,   watching the clock as my vehicle crawls slowly toward home,   hoping there will be a few minutes of daylight left so that I can enjoy a glimpse of trees and sky before I lock myself in for the night. I had managed to quit the rat-race while I was still young enough to enjoy life,   which to me meant time to study and write.

A new phase in my life. It held promise. I was excited. Exhilarated.   I could get up at three o'clock in the morning and write if I wanted to, sleep a few hours, then write again. No more scheldules to keep or clocks to watch. I could walk outside any time of day and be inspired by blue skies and white clouds, giant oaks hung with wispy moss, and wooded pathways to bubbling streams just a short walk away. Ahhh! Paradise.

I had my first novel almost completed. I had been working on it for five years and now it was ready to be ended, edited and submitted. My first novel to submit!   I was on a high just thinking about someone else reading it, even if it was an agent or an editor that rejected it. I thought it was probaly the best story anyone had ever written, and a smile crossed my face when I thought of others thinking the same thing. It was like a close friend to me. I had begun it when my father was ill. Writing had helped a lot. I had come home from his furneral and written in it for ten straight hours, pushing back memories and thoughts of everything except the characters in my story, becoming a part of them and their life because mine was too painful at the moment.

I had named the novel 'RUSHES'.   It was about a dysfunctional family and their effect on one another and the people they came into contact with. A book full of neurosis,   addictions,   humor and life.

Shortly into the 'new phase' of my life I realized I was lonely. I craved to talk to other writers about writing, to share viewpoints and thoughts and be a part of this world I wished to be involved in. I searched for local writing clubs and went to several workshops and seminars. That wasn't really what I was looking for though, I wanted one on one conversations and in-depth viewpoints. I was hungry for these.   I wanted to share.

A friend of mine had been telling me about IRC, a chat program she had and how she 'chatted' with people from all over the world. One day she told me of a writer she had met there.

"A writer?" I asked. "There are writers there?"

There was one problem with me going to IRC. I had never been on the Internet. I could maneuver through any word processor program there was, but the Internet!?!

I arrived on IRC a stranger in a strange land and began seeking writers. I was on Efnet, which I was automatically logged on to, not yet knowing there was a choice in IRC servers.

I finally found a writers channel after several weeks of stumbling around on Efnet and I entered the channel smiling, happy at last to be among other writers. They wern't very talkative, in fact, they ignored me completely. Well okay, I would just sit and listen and let them see me until they wanted to talk. Conversation was scarce, but after one long period of silence someone asked me what I did, and I responded with 'I am a writer.'

What followed was a rude, arrogant and cruel display of fun at my expense. They asked me questions, wanted to read something I had written. I showed them a poem, told them about my book. During all this they made fun of me for calling myself a writer because I wasn't published, laughed and cruelly critiqued my poetry, and chided me as if I were a demented child for the subject I had chosen as a novel. "You really aren't a writer and shouldn't tell people you are until you're published" one said. I didn't bother to tell them I'd had articles of viewpoint on local economy and politics published, as I didn't think this either made me a published writer.

They put me on ignore and acted like I wasn't on the channel. They all left the channel time and time again .. hoping I'd be gone when they returned I assume. When I did leave, they banned me. I sent messages to the channel op's asking what I had done that was offensive and why I was banned. No one ever responded.

I didn't try another writer's channel for about three weeks, but then timidly went to one hoping things would go better. There were three writers there, all published. Though they were not as cruel, they were very rude, telling me their channel was usually 'invite only', and one saying to the other, "we need to watch closer who comes here when we take off the invite." They made it plain they didn't want me there. I left. The next several times I checked, the channel was 'invite only'. I never sought another writers channel on Efnet.

I began to doubt my ability as a writer. I had been fooling myself I thought. It was only a wishful illusion. I would log on to IRC, open a channel under one name or another, sit in front of the monitor and try to write. One or two people would stop in occasionally, but never stayed long. I made a few friends eventually.

I stopped working on 'RUSHES' and sent it to the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet. Soon after, in a dark mood of depression and anger at my incompetence at writing I destroyed it along with six notebooks of poetry I had saved since school. I told myself I would never try to call myself a writer again. It had all been a waste of time.

*********************

One day after several months on Efnet, when I logged on to IRC I received a message that I had been rerouted to DALnet,   whatever that meant.   Whooaa,  kick in the butt,  .. even Efnet didn't want me there.   I had made a few non-writer friends on Efnet,   I knew no one on DALnet.   I tried in vain to return to Efnet but got the same message every time.

Finally I set about to learn where I was.   I found anyone could   'own'   their nick on DAL,   and could even   'own'   their chat channel.   I asked myself what kind of channel I wanted and immediately knew the answer.

I would have a channel for everyone,   especially writers.   One where you were made to feel welcome even if you wasn't a writer or you had written only one thing,   whether you were published or un-published,   young or old,  an amateur or a professional.   No discriminations of any kind.   It would be a place of encouragement and inspiration to other writers.   Everyone would be treated with respect,   the chat room would encourage dignity and self-esteem.

There was no doubt in my mind that this kind of channel was needed and sought,   for I had needed and sought one myself.   If I couldn't write, I could help those that could maybe.

I visualized a chat room where people with like interests could meet,   find supportive conversation in their daily lives,   respect for their creative endeavors,   enthusiastic responses for their successes,   and even just to wile away an hour or so being with others,   enjoying the company of people from all over the world.

With sorrow deep, depression dark
they made a mark upon my heart

through laughter and unkinds words
my mind and spirit were distrubed

I hang my head not in shame!
for all you took I can reclaim.

continued in   THE CHANNEL