Tough Day To Be a Writer
Today is one of those days I dreaded when
I made the decision to write, every day, for thirty days. I knew
this was going to happen. I detest days like this.
I woke up, engaged in all my morning
constitutionals and ablutions and sat down in front of the t.v. to
"zone out" yet think about what I was going to write, at
the same time.
I realize that we all have strengths and
weaknesses in all that we do. I believe that my strength is in
social-political commentary. I just had to suppress a little mental
laugh and a smile crossed my lips as I thought: "maybe I'm just
a little worse at that than I am at everything else?"
I don't want to be a "one-trick-pony".
Part of the point in this exercise is to expand my writing. I've
never told this story, here (obviously, as this is a new effort), but
there was a time (about seventeen years) when I was semi-actively
writing a novel that was semi-autobiographical.
Obviously, I only worked at it,
sporadically and there was a ton of creative license taken with my
own biographical facts, but the emotions and aspirations were
definitely mine.
I was about half way through with the
effort (twelve chapters or so) after seventeen years of work and my
youngest son and I were at a local movie theater, waiting for the
beginning of the newest Star Trek (The Next Generation) movie.
I make it a rule to get to the theater
early. I hate missing the beginning of a movie and I like to get a
decent seat. In these days of "stadium seating" it's
important to not be too low in the theater or you'll wind up with a
crick in your neck.
There's another story, here, that I'll
have to tell at some point, but today isn't the day. I want to have a
nice, positive day and that story would fall back into my
social-political commentary. One of you will have to remind me about
this, some day.
So, we're in the building. The snacks and
drinks are purchased. We're in our well-chosen seats and the lights
come down for the previews. As the previews are running there comes
one about a kid, playing in a tribute band and the lead singer in his
favorite band quits and he gets "called up to the majors".
My son - who couldn't have been more than
eleven or twelve years old at the time - leans over and quietly
whispers: "I guess you can stop worrying about writing your
book, Pop."
Yeah, that was a bit demoralizing and it's
not like I was breaking the space-time continuum, getting my novel
done to begin with. For all intents and purposes, I stopped writing
it, that day.
When it comes to writing, I wasn't blessed
with this great ability to imagine great stories. I never thought J.K
Rowling was a great writer, but she had a great story to tell and I
have always envied that.
So, to make a long story short: my desire
to not pigeon hole my craft, here and my inability to be as creative
as others, has led me to my own, personal, "writers' block
hell".
I am bound and determined to reach the
goal I've set for myself and yet today, dear reader, I have no real
message for you. I have no words of wisdom or positive experiences. I
have no uplifting story with a hard-and-fast moral. I don't even have
a flight of fancy upon which to drag you along.
I guess, at the end of the day, all I have
is my honest effort to express myself and to entertain you in some
small way and I hope I've at least made the past few minutes of
reading pleasurable for you.
- Michael
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