The Written Word

What is it about writing?

I’m always thinking about it but never doing much of it. Honestly, I can’t figure out why it seems so hard to just sit down and talk about the things that are on my mind. Do you ever stop for a moment and consider all the thoughts that go through your head in a single day? There are just so many things that seem innocuous at first glance but really do have merit and would benefit from the light of your own insight.

Just the other day I was having lunch with a co-worker and he told me this story of how he made his first potato gun. The company that we work for had sent him to a weeklong school where he was to train on a subject that he’d already been taught. In fact, everyone in the class had already received the same training. The instructor, realizing the pointlessness of rehashing the material, suggested they make a trip to the hardware store and buy stuff to make the spud launchers. Using the liquid from glow sticks so they could see the potato fly across the interstate at night was a good scene. When I got home that night, I found hundreds of videos on the internet about folks and their experiences with the things. Apparently it’s a tired subject, but not that tired. It got me to thinking about primitive weapons and I ended up spending an inordinate amount of time reading about slings. You know the kind that David used to slay Goliath. It was really quite fascinating. The length and type of materials to projectiles and their physical makeup to the history of their use for the last several thousand years. I suppose it may have been some deep seated, primeval instinct for survival that drove me there and held my attention. I can see how something like that could lead to a whole world in one’s imagination. That “Clan of the Cave Bear” sort of thing. The woman that wrote those stories seemed to have a special interest in herbal remedies which basically gave her the heroine of the books. I read them all and enjoyed them immensely. I’m sure there’s a lot more to it than that. Character and plot development seems to be something that eludes me. Just how far into the story must you imagine before you can begin? There is a line in the latest Indiana Jones movie where Marion says to their son Mutt that Indy just makes the stuff up as he goes. Writing should be like that, letting the story pour out of your mind onto the page like water from a pitcher into a glass.

Maybe my problem has always been one of expectations. I’ve worked at one job, or another, my whole life and to be honest, I’m tired of working. I am thankful for the employment that I have. It does provide for all of my needs and I feel blessed that I have it, especially in this time on earth. I just believe that I’m ready to do something else. Of course, writing seems like the best way to go. Though there is work involved, it can be done from your home. There is no daily commute. No requirement to wear the uniform of one’s employer. My mind is not fettered by the clothes I wear, the vehicle that I drive or corporate objectives. The question though still boils down to one of financial needs. I’ve read so many things that told me how difficult it is to make a living with the written word. How most writers do it their whole lives and never make any money with it. Is it possible that my typical American upbringing which encourages hard work at a job that has substance discourages, in a quiet and subliminal way, the notion that I can make a living at something cerebral? There are other objections to a life of writing. “You have no formal training”. “You don’t know anyone in the industry that can help you”. “You don’t have a clue what some publisher might be looking for”. Ask yourself the question, “Are you willing to commit the time and energy to learn a new craft”? What about all the stuff that’s in you right now that wants to be said that very well may be lost in the process of learning what some other person says is the right way? Shouldn’t it be spontaneous and free flowing? Aren’t my ideas about what is the right way just as valid?

I read somewhere that everything has been written about. There are no new subjects. Even if that is true cannot the old ones benefit from my internal light? In Chicken Soup for the Writers Soul there is a story where one person says to another, “If you wanted to be a writer, you would write”. Looking at it all from a glass half full perspective you can tell yourself “do what you love and the money will come”. I suppose one just has to believe in himself. When I was younger I thought that my special interest in woodworking, my passion for the craft, would allow me to make a living at it. After trying my own business for a while, I soon realized that I’m not cut out for all things I’m passionate about. Though I’m not an exceptional woodworker, I am adequate and have built a few really nice pieces. I realized after a while that my love of wood and creating something beautiful with it didn’t have to be defined by a price tag. The riches came from the personal knowledge that I had expressed myself in that medium and that there was some lasting thing of my own creativity. I suppose writing is like that as well. It may be possible that my children will read some of my musings one day and get a different perspective on their dad. That there was more to me than the guy that provided stuff for them. The guy that disciplined them at times. The guy that supposedly did the best he could while he was there but still failed miserably at times. I suppose that’s a reward in itself, isn’t it?

I don’t know what it takes to be a good writer. I’ve never tried really other than here at this blog and in a few other places where very few people ever read what I had to say. I will say this though, I like to write. It feels good to my soul to express what is in my heart and mind. I just need to get over the notion that it needs to provide something back to me other than the self satisfaction that someday, somewhere, somebody may take what I have written to heart and that it might give them insight into their own lives.

There’s always that one hope.