A Friend for Life


“To know an author well is to have a friend for life”. I closed the cover, turned back to my author friend and nodded sharing a brief smile. I thought about the inscription as I walked down the ramp outside of the door. I had never been to a book signing before only coming to his because of the support and encouragement he had given me throughout the years. I hoped that in twenty years I’d be the one sitting behind the old table with stacks of numerous books of my own doing surrounding me. “To know an author well is to have a friend for life”. It seemed so familiar to me yet I couldn’t place it. The sentiment of it I agreed with. In my teens I’d read a popular mystery author who at the time I thought was a genius of suspense. I recently tried to read a new book by the same author only to realize that this new book was new by title only. The back story and mystery theme were the same as his other 20 plus books, only the names had changed. This realization left me dumbstruck, how could this millionaire author ah, never mind.
Driving up to my house I saw that my wife wasn’t home. After tossing my keys on the table I sorted through the mail separating what were mine and hers into two piles to be looked at later. The phrase was still bouncing in my head as I sat down at my computer. Surrounding my computer were years of reference books. A thesaurus, a dictionary, quotation books and other style and guides to writing. These were all intended to help me become the writer I’ve always dreamed of being. The trouble was I always had an excuse. In my teens it was if only I had an electric typewriter. In my twenties it was if only I had a word processor, a computer a laptop computer all the way back to maybe if I had a sharp pencil and a fresh pad of paper. Now in my thirties I find myself still looking for the magic wand to success. I have a subscription to the Writer a year or two old copy of the Writer’s Market and as I’ve said every accessory a “writer” needs. What I didn’t have was any writing credits. I still have in a file a writing award from grade school from the American Legion or V.F.W. I don’t remember which. I also have a certificate from a local poetry contest but no real credits to speak about. I once thought that success meant payment. In college I took a creative writing class where I marveled at how the instructor could mine at least one golden sentence from an otherwise poorly written story. I asked him one day that if he had to write for money what venue would it be in; fiction, poetry or non-fiction? He said he would rather die or something to that effect. When my piece was used as an example for the class I thought ah ha, maybe I do have what it takes. Five years of entering short story contests followed without success. The hell with it, I’ll write for myself.
I went to my author friend with a couple of stories and had them edited. He liked some, pitched one and wondered why the hell I had written a children’s story. Sitting at the computer these thoughts lead me back to present time. Why was this inscription haunting? To my right a different book by my friend lay mixed in with the reference books. I picked it up, opened the cover and there was the same inscription. “To know a writer is to have a friend for life”. How many times and to how many people had he written this to I wondered? In twenty years would I write something similar? I smiled at the thought. I’d be sitting there, my Converse All-Stars peaking out from under the frayed ends of my favorite blue jeans my hair gray, my eyes bloodshot from late night inspiration. Up will walk an aspiring writer, buying my twelfth or thirteenth book, he’ll hand it to me with eagerness for my wisdom. I’ll open it up and I’ll write with confidence what I know is truly the secret to the mysterious universe of writing, “To _____, Just Write”. Next to me my author friend will cackle as he writes to a young man buying his latest book, “To know an author well…..”

 

 

Learning to write


This article could have been called learning to fly, learning to levitate because in reality that’s how hard writing can be. I’m a newspaper columnist and short story writer. It’s the newspaper gig that helps the most. Having the opportunity to write a column has been a blessing for two reasons. First it was a goal of mine to be published in a widely read publication; which my local newspapers readership is over 10,000. Secondly the column forces me to write on a consistent basis, which for the most part is good. Being a procrastinator since birth; the deadline imposed by the paper forces me to create. For those who have read my column; they should be able to spot the work that was up against the deadline verses the columns that I thought out. I know the critics are going to say being forced to write can’t possibly be what makes you a writer. We all go to work every day because we need a paycheck, that’s forcing. Which brings me to the reason for this Off the Cuff column; I receive feedback from readers most of whom I bump in to in the street, who ask, where did you learn to write? The smart-aleck in me wants to say first or second grade, but here’s the truth.
As a young child I wrote stories about aliens and comic book heroes. As a middle school child I entered contests like the Voice of America, which I placed, not sure how high and I still have that certificate. In Junior High School I had a history teacher that didn’t use textbooks, students copied the notes he wrote on the board. It was then that I realized I liked the smell of erasers and the feel of a number 2 pencil in my hand. In High School I wrote essays that brought tears to teacher’s eyes because my empathetic soul related to the emotions of the subjects I wrote about. I took Creative writing, short story reading and research paper writing, an elective, just to write. All these experiences taught me that I liked to write, but they didn’t teach me how, that’s next.
I read. I started with Dick and Jane, moved on to Archie comics, which I still read occasionally. I have loved words since that first Dick and Jane book. See Dick run. See Jane run. Simple words that teach that if you read those sentences, and then close your eyes you can truly see them run; it’s pure magic. I read novels in and out of school, newspapers, and flyers and basically anything I could get my hands on. By reading you hear the voice of the writer; you can sense their mood when they wrote. By reading you find out what you like and dislike. There’s a writing exercise in which you copy a paragraph word for word of a writer you admire just so you can get a feeling for their flow, there vibe. Reading still isn’t what taught me to write, writing did.
There’s a mantra for writers, just write. That is the single most important thing a writer must do, but there’s still more. In my college Creative Writing class we used a book called The Art of Fiction-Notes on Craft for Young Writers by John Gardner. If by “young writers” he meant writers that are at least twenty-five then I can believe the title. The book is difficult and merciless on the craft of writing. From editing to style this book made you think about what writing is. Writing is art and writers are artists. This book was the jumping off point for me. Through the exercises in this book I realized that if I worked at my art it would improve. Other important books are The Elements of Style, The Elements of Grammar and The Elements of Editing. These three books are like freshman English all over again. Magazines that focus on the art of writing like The Writer and magazines that set the bar high for short fiction such as the New Yorker; these resources feed the hunger.
No, I wasn’t an English or Journalism major in college, but I did take over thirty credits in English and Literature, which in retrospect, never take more then one Literature class in any given semester. I took three literature classes, reading thirteen novels plus short stories and poems, yikes! Writers are their own harshest critics which prevents a lot of writers from succeeding. We are snobs sometimes and want what’s perfect but we must try to remember that we must fail before we succeed.
Those books, writing, reading and life is what taught me to write. The smell of a new pad of paper, the smell of ink and every error I find in what I read, that keeps me writing.

 

“Happiness is a warm puppy”


This is one of my favorite quotes from Charles Shultz. I’ve overheard people talking about how he makes me happy or she makes me happy and I just shake my head and chuckle to myself. Why? No one makes you happy just as no one makes you angry; it’s how you react to situations that cause both effects. I know this is just a bunch of preachy gibberish to most but think about it. Easy example; a person may trap an animal that is eating their garden and then release it elsewhere. Another person may kill that same animal to keep it out of their garden. Each of these choices makes them express happiness but the one who traps and released their critter would be angry at the one who didn’t. Get it? This got me wondering what things that bring me happiness are. First off though what are things that cause me to be angry.
A non-handicapped person parking in a handicapped space causes me slight anger. People who yell at or hit their children in public and people who hit their children at any time cause me to be angry. Disrespect for elders, lack of care for animals, lack of pride etc, I think I could go on and on with what brings out anger in me. What makes me feel happiness? Here’s just a short list.
The easy ones are wife and children, so let’s dig deeper. I love the smell of coco butter, mostly relating to suntan lotion. I like the smell of baby shampoo and of Lux bar soap. When really blue I eat peanut butter cups and drink Mountain Dew, not healthy but a blues buster. I like a good game of Scrabble with my mother. I like taking my lunch and sitting by the lake and listening to the water lap on the shore. I like a movie or television show that makes me cry. I know that last one isn’t one you’d think would be a happy moment but to me it is. There are many more things that bring me happiness unfortunately they don’t happen enough.
Happiness can’t be bought and can’t be expected. Anger isn’t anyone’s fault and isn’t uncontrollable. Kindness is a choice. To me all three of these can be choices to improve your life and those around you. The next time someone cuts you off while you’re driving, be thankful you didn’t get hit. The next time you find money in your pants pocket after doing laundry, spend it on someone else. The next time you see a person struggling to carry their bags from the store, stop and help. To often I think the “what about me” thoughts take over our lives. If someone is crabby try to ease their crabbiness by helping, not by digging into what made them crabby. If someone is beaming ear to ear, ask them why. If someone looks like they might need help, ask them if they do. Life is about choices, good choices, bad choices and not blaming everyone and everything around you for how you feel.