At Large

“Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money.”
– Molière

The doggies need fresh water. Was that a hummingbird? It was a hummingbird! Time to check the mail. Time to check the email. The dishes need washing. The dehumidifier in the basement could stand to be emptied. Why is it so windy? One/both of the doggies need (more) attention. Better check the weather again. Am I out of coffee? What was that weird noise I heard out on the road? Why is that deer staring at me through the window? Maybe I should fold the clothes that are hanging out in the dryer.

Okay, ready, set, carcass in chair, grey matter engaged, anddddd action!

Or not. Hmmmmm. Chances are, I didn’t do it right. Let’s see. Barometric pressure under control? Will smoke from some much-removed wildfire infiltrate my abode today? I know – let’s go check the icebox to ensure all’s well inside there, a process with which at least one, if not both, doggies will join in to verify there are no boo-boos in the all-important refrigeration department. There are times I find myself circling the work like a hunter zeroing in on its prey, and this would surely be one of those occasions.

The most important part…

Yes, it does happen occasionally that I arrive at the computer with an entire story nearly fully formed and firmly held in place by a vise inside my head, but that’s far from an everyday occurrence, although it is not an unwelcome phenomena provided I can reach my keyboard before it all just as suddenly evaporates. More often, however, the issue is made far murkier by too many ideas/half-formed ideas/things-that-think-they’re-ideas simultaneously attempting to squeeze into the marketplace, all of which require relatively instant triaging, otherwise, we’d be stuck here all day. At times, particularly those times when two or three separate stories feel the need to get themselves going at one time, the sticky note farm proliferates beyond all boundaries.

There is no question in my mind that there are those for whom words spill out onto the page/screen with the greatest of ease. Bully for them. But then there are the rest of us. In 99.44% of the cases, it’s all about the first sentence/first paragraph, which has a nasty habit of appearing in the middle of the night, or in the shower, or in whatever other inconvenient bit of time and space one can dream up.

Last I knew, it was Plato who observed, “The beginning is the most important part of the work.” I’d imagine that applies equally to bricklaying and lawn mowing as it does to dropping words onto a page.

Here’s where you start… 

Whatever is going to happen, it all flows from the specter of a deadline, from which, in turn, all adrenaline springs. A looming line of death is critical to my operation, a condition I discovered early on in this life. I mean, c’mon, let’s introduce some element of sport into this operation. Focus! Sadly, at least sadly for those of who’ve been at this a few minutes, to hear a young-un (one that’s not caved to the bizarre lazy ridiculousness of artificial intelligence) kvetching over such things as a word limit, which I’m told destroys their spirit, or a deadline, clearly a fascistic tool, when the truth is these are freeing obstacles, much in the way the haiku form frees.

If anyone came here seeking advice, aka about the last thing I’ve ever been interested in doing, this is the best I can do: Don’t. But should you insist, first, run right out and pick up the latest edition of Strunk & White’s The Elements of Style. I know, I know, it’s stodgy, based on fundamentals, not built for social media sparkle, but it is handy when one of your goals might be to prefer not sounding like a royal jerk when committing characters to paper. This is all part of a personal philosophy to learn the rules so you can enjoy breaking them. 

Second, read, read, read, and read some more. Next, apply that same method to writing, even if you have to sequester yourself in the attic in the middle of the night to do it. As noted jazz drummer Ed Blackwell once said, “Neglect your art for one day and it will neglect you for two.” Truer words have never been spoken. The lesson here? Write something every day, even if it seems vapid beyond belief, and gradually that drivel may well give way to something worth reading. (Want to have some real fun? If you’re lucky/unlucky, you’ll stumble across a journal you kept during your 16th year on this planet, and the resultant astonishment that someone that lame made it to 17. Good thing we don’t remain 16 forever.)

Or else!

Eventually, when some bit of competency has been achieved, put yourself in a position where you have to write or else, as in, or else the paychecks cease. Personally, my newsroom days taught me that no, I don’t have all day and all night to pop out a bunch of words, but instead to write fast and lean and get on with it. This would specifically include after you’ve been glued to your seat through a sluggish three-hour school board meeting the night before Thanksgiving and then need to hotfoot it back to the office in a snowstorm to pump out some kind of story. Meanwhile, to not get married to a sentence you’ve written that you’re convinced is simply the best thing to see print since Shakespeare was Shakespearing is a solid policy, and one quickly learned in a newsroom setting.

Just do it – writer’s edition

It doesn’t matter via which medium you choose to communicate your thoughts. I repeat: it does not matter. Just do it. For instance, early on, a manual typewriter approximately the weight of a midsize Buick was my companion, followed by the day my dad fetched home a manual electric, an act of mercy that nearly sent me doing cartwheels down the street. It saw me through my college years, including my final semester, when my history professor lost my term paper and I wound up needing to return that fall for the three credits required to graduate because that jerk fine, fine man wouldn’t give me an overnight to redo what he’d lost.

That machine sufficed until the need to have two young boys fall asleep at a decent hour also involved a modicum of quiet, at which point springing for a laptop became the best solution. Since, I’ve shied far away from any voice-to-text schemes for the simple reason that, if prompted, I could babble all day without giving a single second’s worth of thought to what it was I was composing, ergo, nothing less than shredder-worthy babble is likely to appear. The Infinite Monkey Theorem, which holds that an infinite number of monkeys typing on an infinite number of typewriters could reproduce the works of Shakespeare, has as much chance of success.

In the early days of this personal adventure, some loud music and perhaps an adult beverage at my elbow helped lubricate the process. Then came the move into a newsroom, with the constant hubbub of clickety-clacking word processors (remember those?), telephones ringing and being answered, reporters coming and going, advertising folks traipsing through, and a police scanner squawking in the corner, all of which was fantastic training in later years to do this at home at the vortex of two busy, young lads. These days, music with words is verboten, leaving me with jazz fusion, a style I truly enjoy, or classical, which ain’t so bad, that is, unless it threatens to induce sleep. While we’re at it, here’s a far-flung illusion for you: That the outside world doesn’t somehow manage to intrude after you’d thought you had managed to hermetically seal yourself against such an eventuality, but it’s going to happen, so there.

Find the groove

A major key is recognizing that, after all the foolishness and thrashing about, you’ve suddenly arrived in the groove and as such, you’d best grab onto its tail and ride it until you’re plumb outta gas. The best works work when it feels as though I’ve grabbed ‘hold of something floating by and committed it to the page or screen. The dumbest thing possible, and I will readily throw myself in here, comes when you’re cruising and decide, no, wait, this would work even better with an extremely large, black coffee, and get up, drive downtown, fetch your java, and return home with all the majesty of a returning hero, only to discover that magic groove you’d been riding remained back at the coffee shop and now you’re plumb out of luck, or whatever it was that led you to that dream spot in the first place. 

And then, there’s the percolation factor. When the story is done, it’s not done. I bet you guessed that already. Ideally, it needs to spend the night in the oven, thinking about what’s it done and begin to make amends. Or, it, and you, will awake the next day with something that’s reasonably decent and ready to be fired off to The Boss.

When all else fails? Take solace in Dilbert cartoonist Scott Adams’ observation that “there are very few personal problems that cannot be solved through a suitable application of high explosives.” In this case, there’s no harm in tossing your latest work into the fireplace, refreshing the dogs’ water, and starting over. •