IT WASN’T UNTIL page 93 of “For Writers Only,” Chapter “Letting Go,” that Sophy Burnham convinced me. I might muscle something longer than the narratives I post, maybe – it is hoped – a book, whenever and wherever my Muse takes me, no matter how long she does. I admit the idea of a book is tentative, because very brave. A plot is furthest from my rambling and, singularly, handling characters (especially one who decides to speak to himself) has never been my strong suit.
And the self-avowed challenge further daunts with reminders that I’m already 72, the lanai where I’ve isolated myself is not noise free and my ring finger can only type so many letters into words on my ipad (an improvement over Agatha Christie’s three fingers on her typewriter!). Notwithstanding, Jack Kerouac reassures that walking on water wasn’t built in a day, not that I intend to break Peter’s infamous record.
I cannot even finish a short story. The only piece I attempted that got published was the one I showed to a published writer-friend who thought it was a finished work and proceeded to submit it to his publisher. Clout got it off the press but my sense of pride was pulled back by an incomplete, unfinished sense of accomplishment. Worse, it didn’t push the impetus to a heightened enthusiasm or higher literary level. I returned to my occasional, loyal poetry, which never went overdrive, and ended up comforted by inspirations that happily visited, albeit intermittently. They were a tremendous source of solace even when they took a break. For they never broke a promise to recur, only surprised when they did. Yet, now more than ever, I cannot not write. Because, if I didn’t, it’ll refute William Hazlitt’s prod: “The more a man writes, the more he can write.”
I’m tempted to venture on an autobiographical sketch since mine has been a checkered life that does not rest amid the mishaps. My conscience thinks not. How assuming, it mumbles, that I’d make a good read. Besides, if I do arrive alive at that assumption, I already feel the guilt of exposure, which is not only mine, and that makes the exercise a crime. My prospect ought to be rather noble, none of the dirty-linen washing attention-grabbing rubbish no amount of apologies will raise to the revelation’s purpose, however earnest. I, therefore, reconsider.
My prayers are rife with heart, why don’t I write about them. The responsibility is not shared, the intention pure, yet the fruition not only finite but also keeps up with my mind, moods and moments. And I can write at leisure, the preoccupation being constant and self-imposed, and almost always of a sunny disposition. Unless the inevitable, unavoidable writer’s block pays a visit. For example, I will pause every now and then to allow the visitor to wait outside, as I pick up my addiction (Words with Friends), read back a book, nap, edit, fix a drink or snack, watch a good youtube movie or singing audition, sing a few bars of songs from memory, talk to God (at my severest standstill) until I’m back on track. My Muse and I have never had interminable divorces, anyway. I’m also gratefully reassured that a writer’s block, levelled up, is Creator’s rest. It humbles me no end that we can be entitled to that spiritual respite. It is necessary to pause lest writing (about the sacredness of all life) becomes forced and loses reverence for the craft. Burnham has an amazing advice for writers blocked. Go smaller. Maybe the ideas wreaking havoc on your brain are too huge to handle. Leave the big chunks, she counsels, go for small bites.
Besides, I agree with Gabriel Garcia Marquez that, in the end, all your writings (he actually referred to his books) are written for your friends. All the more reason I should proceed. Amen
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