“Exercise the writing muscle every day, even if it is only a letter, notes, a title list, a character sketch, a journal entry. Writers are like dancers, like athletes. Without that exercise, the muscles seize up.” ― Jane Yolen
Writing is cathartic for me. It allows me to express my connection to the world in a deeply personal way. It is writing that allows me to plumb the depths of this connection and to better understand those things that contribute to our relationship. I also know that depression and melancholy contribute to my creativity. Without them, I am not sure I could write these words. Here’s to crazy, or at least a controlled crazy, and a big thank you to my therapist and Wellbutrin. There is sometimes a fine line between sanity and crazy.
I have never been much of an artist, at least in the traditional sense. I probably reached my peak in kindergarten, using crayons and construction paper. I’m not even very good at drawing a stick figure. I did develop a knack for stringing words together in high school when my writing was normally completed around midnight, which was then turned in a few hours later, for better or worse. Things haven’t really changed that much in forty-plus years: it’s after 11:00 p.m. as I write these words.
After high school, I eventually wandered off to Indiana University, somehow believing that I was quite the writer. Then I ran headlong into Western European Politics and Professor Diamant. I now had to state a thesis and then defend it. Hell, I never had to do that before, at least not in a coherent fashion. Let me say that Professor Diamant was not only a great person but also a great teacher. The best thing he did was to encourage me to go to the IU English Department’s writing workshop to seek help. Did it help me? I left that building on Kirkwood feeling like the Apostle Paul on the road to Damascus. Although he wasn’t Jesus, that grad student was my Ananias. The scales fell from my eyes as I discovered I had to make sense, to be able to string thoughts together in a meaningful way. Imagine that!
After college, serious writing took a backseat for many years. There were business memos and letters, pamphlets and human resources propaganda, stuff that in the whole scheme of things didn’t really matter that much. But, I guess it did affirm that I could still string words together in a meaningful way.
Someone once asked me when I learned to write. That’s not something that happened overnight and I didn’t walk out of Writing 101 and then Abracadabra!—I was a writer. I believe that the ability to write is one part inherited and nine parts learned. First, you have to have the smarts-that’s a gift from God and your parents. ut then you have to be able to put them to use-that’s the learning comes in..You have to be able to string words together to make complete sentences, then string those sentences together to make paragraphs, and finally string those paragraphs together to make a story – and it has to make sense – not only to you but to the reader. Learning to do that requires practice, practice, and more practice. It is like a foreign language: Unless you speak it, write, live it, you will never learn it. And read books, read books, and then read more books-good books, the classics-be they fiction or nonfiction.
My writing lay buried for years, but over time it has developed and matured, and I am still maturing. I will constantly strive to be good at what I do, paying attention to the craft and trying not to do it an injustice. I will offend politely, push gently, make a point without a sharp jab. It’s certain there will be references to the hypocrisy in my life and the world around me, the hunger for profit, and what I feel is the repudiation of nature. Some may discover themselves within my comments—regrettably or hopefully. But I have now arrived at my Damascus, I can now see.
A last thought: I will often use the first person, as I do in this writing, for as Thoreau said, there is no one I know quite as well. A thousand pardons to my readers. This is not done in arrogance. I will not preach—I simply want to reflect on life through my own eyes. I will always strive to paint pictures with my words and perhaps draw others into my world: a life immersed in nature and just a little bit of crazy. Whether a trail through the woods, a memory, an awakening, or an epiphany within, this my earthly existence. It may resonate or fall flat. In either case, I will keep on writing, trying to paint the perfect masterpiece.
“You should write because you love the shape of stories and sentences and the creation of different words on a page. Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write.” ― Annie Proulx