The Writing Life
Or so I’ve been told
You don’t
often hear phrases like "the law life" or "the
electricians life". It
seems the "writing life" is a particular fascination with some
people. It actually constitutes a search on the search engines online.
Plug in "writing life" and watch the list that pops up.
It is almost as though people are shocked and amazed writers have lives.
We do.
Kind of.
In an odd sort
of way.
Our lives are
just a bit different from many folks and their professions. We live and
have our being in words. We use everyday words as fodder. We use family
and friends and foibles as fodder. (say that one five times quickly!)
Other
professions may bring work home. They may spend much of their off time
thinking about or doing more work, but for writers, our work is
something we cannot get away from. We cannot close our briefcases or
turn off our computers and announce to our families "we’re
done". They won’t
believe us anyway, so why bother. Besides, we aren’t done. We may
clarify that statement and say -we’re done the article/novel/review/
acceptance speech, but we’re never really done.
We don’t
write as work. We wear
words like underwear after laundry day. Fresh smelling and comfy, our
words are squirreled away for that day when we just might need them.
Under this sweater, I have a perky pair o’ phrases that are
just waiting for the right article or fiction to call home. We’re
word-packrats. We have more internal trunks than you have images of the
aforementioned pair o’ phrases.
We tuck away
the most (to others) nonsensical things. Bits of paper litter our lives
and work spaces, things jotted down in moving vehicles that we have to
ask our loved ones to translate. If we’re very lucky, they may have an
inkling of what our scribbles mean, but it’s doubtful and they’re
tired of being asked. Another heartbreaking loss to the literary world.
How many
notebooks lie around with one or maybe two pages of scribbles? How many
stacks of jots and bits can you count from where you’re sitting right
now? If there are more than two but less than a million, you’re either
a writer or you live with one.
Like any
profession, we have tools of our trade. Generally, these are a computer
or pencil and a dictionary. The bare bones. We can make something here.
We can create. If our memories would just hang in there for a full
lifetime, we wouldn’t even need those things. We could run naked
through our lives and still produce fine work. Unfortunately, at about
the time most writers are actually making progress, our memories are
going to seed. The gods didn’t plan this too well.
You will know
when a writer is truly comfortable in his/her surroundings. You’ll
never throw scraps of paper away again in fear for your life. You know
better than to file anything. File being a dirty word to many
wordmeisters, our lives consist of an ILLUSION of filing. We imagine
ourselves as neat and orderly. We understand this is a fantasy, but like
all things in life, we keep it up there in the hope that one day our
brains really catch on.
And we can
remember why we walked into the room.
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Copyright 2002 - Satiric Quill |
