Yesterday
as I was coming out of my apartment, an elderly neighbor of mine said he had a question for me .
(Actually I should watch how I use that word elderly because someone might confuse it with me. I keep telling
people there is nothing old about me except my birth certificate.)
Oh,
well, on with the story. Joe asked me as he hobbled on his walker in my
direction, “Have you ever written a novel?”
“Yes,
I have,” I answered sprightly.
“I’ve
got a story for you that’ll make us a million dollars. It’s a great story. It’s
about World War II.”
I
quickly swung into my usual song and dance about my schedule being too full to
take on any new projects. Thank goodness his wife Trudy came out of their
apartment and dragged him back in.
You
see, everywhere I go when people find out that I’m a writer, I get the squeeze
put on me. The barber, the waiter,
the doctor and anyone else whose path I cross in any one day. You see, it goes
like this: They want me to write the book (no minor undertaking, mind you) and
then they want all the profits or will give you a few bucks to tide you over
between gigs—IF their fabulous story miraculously ever were to run into a paycheck. I always tell these people
they should write the book themselves. They without a doubt look at me as though
I just said the most ridiculous thing imaginable. I’m the one who is supposed
to pave their way to fame and fortune. Oh well, I just get myself steeled for
the next one to pop the question.
I
got to thinking after Joe tried to interest me in that great WW II idea nesting
in his brain: Why am I a writer?
In
one way, it’s an easy answer. My heritage is the South where telling tall tales
is just naturally the way of life and so many people transfer their anecdotes
on paper and manage to sell them. I had several writers in my family so it
seemed pretty usual for people to apply words to paper. A cousin of mine who
published many short stories said, “Just talk to the paper like you would an
interested pair of ears.” So, that’s what I did. I was quite good it seemed in
recounting my fellowman’s foibles, which incidentally I call “serious circus”.
When
my brother and I were small (even though he was older) our mother always made
me go to the store to pick up things. Why? Because when I returned, not only could
I pass along all the town gossip I’d overheard, but I could tell her what
people were wearing and if they looked happy or sad. My brother did not get the tittle-tattle Southern gene so he
was a washout in those departments.
See,
that’s how writers come about. You actually dictate gossip and the like to
yourself. If you’re good at hearsay and tittle-tattle, you’ll probably make a
good writer. I (I don’t know why
Joe can’t write his own book because he and his wife run a pretty good gossip
machine where I live.)
After
a fertile childhood of listening to scandal and other types of talk, you go to
school where you learn attitudes.
This is a word which basically means likes
and dislikes. Many people have no
outlet for their attitudes except via the telephone or most recently emails, texting and iPad Scrabble, so since they
don’t write, they end up becoming a Mean Melanie or a Spiteful Sam. What they fail to realize is IF they
wrote, they could take all that rage out on a piece of paper.
So
I think you kind of get the idea of why I am a writer. It kind of keeps me a
person’s person and helps me keep my eye on the doughnut instead of the
hole. It’s a really healthy hobby,
not to mention a wonderful profession if you can persevere through all the
rejection and actually see a few paychecks roll in.
I
heartedly recommend it as opposed to paying a therapist wads of money for
telling you what you want to hear. “But I’ve got issues,” you tell yourself.
That’s great. Slug them out on a piece of paper and create a career.
Sorry
it was so long between blogs. I am writing another novel at the moment and that
takes a lot of my time putting all that blathering down on paper.
See
you next blog—which I’m hoping will be soon.
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