On Writing

In my life, writing has been a funny thing. Since the age of twelve, I've wanted to be two things: a helicopter pilot and a writer. I've succeeded with the former (although that might be disputed in some quarters), but as for the latter . . .

Well, let's just say that I'm hesitant to call myself a writer. No, I think of myself as a guy who writes occasionally. Largely, that's because I'm simply not prolific enough to feel deserving of the tag a writer. I want to be as faithful a contributor to my own blog as Bob or David; the idea that I could be a writer doesn't necessarily rest with getting paid for it. Despite my aspirations, or because of them, I've usually found it frustrating to try to dip into my own creative well unless I was solidly in The Mood. Without The Mood, I'd sometimes engage in a stare-out contest with a sheet of paper, and the paper would almost always win. There were many things I could do without benefit of The Mood, including eating, drinking beer, riding the Harley, and engaging in certain horizontal activities. With writing, though, it was usually The Mood or nothin'.

But when the The Mood was there, it was so fulfilling. Better than eating. Better than drinking beer. Better than riding the Harley. (Better than sex? Hell no. Are you kidding?)

Part of the problem, as a younger man, rested with writing long-hand. My handwriting speed is . . . Well, let's just say that a trained chimpanzee under the influence of narcotics could probably long-hand legible copy faster than ol' Hal. But then, back in the early eighties, I bought a Barron's learn to type book, borrowed my sister's old electric typewriter, and learned to type. I don't burn up the keyboard, but writing on the keyboard is one heck of a lot faster, for me, than writing longhand. So much for that excuse.

Again, I've long been interested in the craft of writing, and even edited our high school literary magazine my senior year, although I was dragged into it kicking and screaming. (There's a future blog post there, involving a guy named Kerry Kelly. I'd pigeonholed him as a dumb jock until I saw his poetry.) Then, I went into a twenty-year plus choke. I started a few journals over the years, but never stayed up with them. (I grieve over that failure now.) When I got married in '94, it opened the spigot of my creative juices a bit, but when my son was born in 2000, I began to feel especially in touch with the creative well inside. I think much of it had to do with getting in touch with feelings, especially sentimentality. Heck, I cried more during the first two years of my son's life than during my entire previous (allegedly) adult life.

I do want to become more consistent with my output, and I have, although it's a two-steps forward, one-step back kinda process. The thing is, when I'm in the right frame of mind, writing can be a joyful escape. When I'm not, the creative muse can feel as wedged as a spiked bracelet up a duck's ass. And that, to me, illustrates the difference between A Writer and One Who Writes Occasionally: A writer writes regularly, not satisfied to wait for the muse to find him or her. That's been my failing, ya see. I tend to wait for the muse to find me, instead of doggedly pursuing the muse.

I'm going to work on that.