Saturday, October 23, 2010

I Write, Therefore, Am I?


I’m not a writer.  That’s not to say I haven’t written anything.  I have.  Lots.  Memos, technical documentation, email messages – some of them quite good.  But when was the last time you read a collection of someone’s memos or emails?
No, I write, but I’m not a writer.  Writers are people who write to live and live to write.  Some even make a living at it.  They’re fascinated with people, thoughts, and words – the kind of people who can do the New York Times crossword puzzle while on the john – in ink!  They’re the ones who collect reams of notes of ideas and details to punch up their prose; and write pithy, insightful character sketches, even if these never see the light of day.  Real writers get up at 4 A.M., brew a pot of coffee and sit down at their computers, typewriters, legal pads – whatever – and become so engrossed in their work they forget the coffee.  Writers are natural storytellers; able to weave a story around the most mundane events and, adding just a few ‘embellishments,’ make us laugh out loud, weep, sigh or gasp in surprise.  Writers have an eye for details and they have really good memories, able to summon evocative details at precisely the right moments.  They have perfect pitch, able to reproduce dialogue and accents convincingly.  They remember punch lines to jokes.  They have a rich vocabulary and the good sense not to flout it.  Writers are people who know that, as Mark Twain famously said, “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is like the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.”
I’m not one of those people.  Crossword puzzles frustrate me.  I forget jokes even if I remember the punch line.  Following a daily routine has never been one of my strength.  I’m not a natural storyteller or raconteur.  My education, as far as it goes, was more intent on getting the right answer than exploring a plethora of possibilities.  Like most Americans, school succeeded in stunting my curiosity.  Conformity was the goal.  I’ve had to make a conscious effort to reverse this conditioning.  My favorite quote is from George Bernard Shaw, who said, “The only time my education was interrupted was when I was in school.”  That almost describes my condition, except, in my case, I didn’t learn all that much when I was absent either. 
Is it possible to become a writer; one who appreciates words and never confuses “affect” with “effect”? Or “castigate” with that other word…?  Where would one start?
My own thoughts and experiences are all I have.  That’s all any of us have.  But, at sixty-five, I worry that my imagination has atrophied.  Perhaps, if I work at it, my curiosity can be rekindled, my imagination inspired.  Then, just maybe, stories will flow forth.  With luck, when inspiration strikes, it will be more lightening than lightening bug!
Why do I write at all?  This is what I ask myself.  The answer is that it’s the only way I’ve ever been able to order my thoughts.  I want to better understand who I am and what I believe; to better align my actions and beliefs; to feel the solid ground of certainty – not that my opinions are necessarily correct, but that my thoughts are my own, arrived at honestly; and that they form a solid foundation on which to build new insights.
The object of all of this?  To live the remaining years of my life fully.  Yes, I know.  Sounds hollow, like a New Year's resolution made after too much wine or, as a cynic might put it, “like a crock.”  We’ll see.  The difference between an accomplishment and a resolution is like the difference between a crock of jam and that other kind. - PS