You would think the fact that I turned sixty-seven several months ago would encourage me to write more often. As I am fond of saying, “God ain’t never promised me no tomorrow.” So why don’t I? One reason is I’m not sure what to write about. I’m not sure what would interest people other than myself. I truly need to remember two things I was told during my writing workshop days by two of my professors: “I find it is not a matter of what to write about, but a matter of what NOT to write about.” And, “All of the good stories have been told, over and over again. It is up to us, as writers, to find a fresh way to tell them.” (Purportedly written by an ancient Egyptian writer.)
Good advice on both counts. I must endeavor to not forget those two things, and one other – Q: “What do writers do?” A: “They write.” If I am not actively writing on a regular basis, I have no basis upon which to call myself a writer. Yes, I have written, and some of what I have written is pretty good stuff I believe. Other writers told me it was good, and they were very good writers, so I should accept their judgment and forge onward, but I just can’t make myself believe that I am good enough to ever be at their level, so I don’t try. If you don’t try, you cannot achieve. If you don’t practice, you cannot improve. And if you do not hone your tools, you cannot cut to the quick.
Once upon a time, in other lives, I did write. During my “formative years” in my writing classes and workshops I wrote a lot, partly because I liked to, and partly because I had an audience of peers to critique me and tell me what they liked, and what they didn’t. I did the same for them, and it was going along famously. Then another life started. I won’t go into the details, but: no classes, no workshops, no peers, no support from my co-habitating fellow writer… No writing for twelve long years, or at least none I can remember or put my hands on. As time went by I found that particular life was “too much with me” to write. I then found I had lost the drive and the desire to write about that life, about me, about the world, about anything. There wasn’t much I cared to remember, nor upon which I cared, or now care, to expound. Then that life abruptly ended…
There was an interlude, a brief life lasting less than a year, in which I found my pen in my hand again. I became “a regular.” I would haul ass out of work at 5:00 PM sharp and head for The Jungle, to bolt through the antique, frosted glass double doors, with my “Junk Bag” and my satchel sized laptop case, my Sherlockian pipe in my mouth, past the tables and the diners, who would glance up as I went by, and the first floor bar patrons, who also glanced into the full dining-room-length mirror behind the bar, and with nods to all customers and staff as I passed, I headed to, and down, the exquisitely ornate wrought iron staircase with brass handrails and inlaid mosaic tile treads. Down, down, down, into the darker confines of Fat Cats Cigar Bar, where the smoke curled, the music played, and the faces I had come to know well all turned to me with bright smiles. Sometimes it truly is good to be “where everybody knows your name…”
I made my way past the bar, on my left, and three of the four booths, on my right, chatting with each of my friends as I went by, maybe a dozen or so, to the secluded back corner fourth booth, deep in the shadowy bowels of the bar, from which I could see the staircase, the entire length of the room, and into the billiards lounge behind. There I sat my bag and laptop satchel on the table, turned and said to my nephew behind the bar, “The usual Gregger. What are we gonna listen to tonight?”
As he poured my double Jameson he replied with a grin, “Same as always: Whatever you want.”
“So be it!” I said, and unzipped the satchel. As I pulled out my laptop, satellite drive, power supplies and leather folio, he brought me my double whisky and a tall glass of ice water. I took a quick sip of the Jameson, rolled it over my palate, sucked it through my teeth, and let out a sigh (no chaser required for that first sip). “Are you in the mood for anything in particular?”
“Nope. Well… Yes. Something to help me hold my temper,” he said with a grin. “I’ve already had a couple of Friday night nut jobs in this evening. They must have started in around noon.”
“Well let’s just see what we have here for that,” I replied, and I started removing the twist ties from my coiled power cords. The fourth booth, my booth, mine and Joe Brown’s, was special: there was a power outlet located on the front of the bench seat that faced the room, smack in the middle by my shin. It was perfect. I plugged in and connected the laptop and satellite drive, booted up the computer, then opened my folio and started to write about the first thing that came to mind. I continued on that line for the few moments it took for the computer to load, and then I laid down my pen, accessed the satellite drive, and I started looking for songs.
Typically I had a “concept” for the discs I burned to play at the bar, sometimes based on a type of music, sometimes a theme, sometimes maybe just a color. My “Black Disc” is, I think, particularly good, as are, “Old Guitar,” and “Just More Old Guitar.” The “Red Disc” is not bad either, and I really like the “Pink Disc,” but some “explicit lyrics” made it onto that one, so I have to judge my audience carefully before putting that on. I also had discs themed on the day of the week, and some on particular artists or groups of artists.” I rolled up my sleeves,” figuratively speaking, and took another longer, deeper sip of Jameson. This one was followed by a tiny sip of ice water: a teensy, tiny sip of ice water. Then I started looking at folder names, sorted by artist… I had a pretty good idea of who Greg liked, so what had they done, and what had similar groups done, that could help him “hold his temper?” This, I had determined, would be best achieved by keeping him amused. Who do we need here, and which tracks off of what albums? I had been handed a challenge, and I intended to complete it successfully. I did. I handed him the completed disc, he inserted it, and he immediately started to smile.
I picked up my pen and started to write in my journal about whatever it was that had caught my attention that day. That’s what I did almost every night for six months. Later I would go back to read those daily entries, and frequently would find segments that lended themselves well to poems. Some were even structured enough that all it took was some editing and rephrasing. One afternoon while sitting on Sean’s couch I wrote the first drafts of five poems based on things from my journal in just under three hours. I was extremely pleased. I ended up reading all five of them at the monthly poetry readings upstairs on the second floor of The Jungle. Once again I had an audience so I got reactions. All were reasonably well accepted, as were most of the others I wrote during that six month period. Unfortunately the monthly poetry readings ended. The gentleman who had organized them for years got involved in other projects and no longer had the time to devote to the readings, so my audience feedback was no more. Since that time I have pretty much stuck to prose, and very little of that. Most of it is currently here, on Harold’s Room, though there are a few poems I started but never finished that I really should work on. As is obvious I have not gotten back into the habit of writing something daily. At least I have managed to finally get this bit of whining and crying “Poor me! Poor me!” to the point I feel it is ready to post, and hopefully I will sit my sorry butt down and write something again soon. Until then, think kind thoughts for me, send me feedback if you’ve a mind to, and adieu!