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 Are we carpenters because we swing a hammer, mechanics once we change a car's oil, artists after applying paint to canvas? I think not.I write, but I am not a writer. I am a dilettante, an amateur, a failed romantic. Saying this feels less embarrassing than telling people I'm a scribe. One statement expresses fact, the other a hopeful deception. Some years ago I doomed myself to disappointment when I began lying to people by telling them I was a writer. I knew not my arse from a depression in the soil when I said this, but becoming an author seemed an honorable occupation. I own a good mind. I'm articulate. I talk incessantly. Writing felt more sane than conversing with my pillow, so I became an overnight artist. "So what do you do, oh grey-haired wonder, when you're not talking, that is?" "I am a writer." And he turns his head to the side, eyes averting the questioner's grin. He just told a lie and he knows it. During this period I carried the requisite notepad, wandered through chic coffee shops, wore lots of black and stared ruefully into the sky. I submitted poor stories to decent magazines, and they sent them back home to me. I told myself that payment and recognition mattered not a whit. Aht for aht's sake, dahling. Please pass me my handmade fountain pen. Of course, I needed crutches and excuses to bolster my new-found, false philosophy. I searched the bookstore shelves, but I became lost amongst the cookbooks, so I asked for assistance. The teenaged clerk led me to the self-help section and pointed out the expensive ones for writers manque who work for a salary and resent not owning an inheritance, marrying a monied spouse, or earning a scholarship to a college in the hills of Vermont. I read the easy ones, the Natalie Goldbergs, the split-brained crew, the free writers and the workshop charlatans. I dabbled in Zen on Sunday afternoon, then punched the Aristotelian clock on Monday morning. I stopped shaving and polished my rueful stare. On the drive in to work I listened to synthetic music, while chanting a homemade mantra and shedding my inhibitions. I forced knowing smiles whenever someone said "Have a nice day." I kept the faith, and eventually I discovered my truth which is that which is true, say ooohhhhmmm. On a rainy Saturday morning in December I located my inner-writing-child, and he had blood on his hands. So I stopped lying, and although I'm frustrated with my lack of writing talent, still I'm relieved. I look people in the eye now when I answer them. "So what do you do, oh grey-haired wonder, when you're not lying, that is?" "I work for a living. I eat. I talk. I work for a living. I grow old. I talk. I work for a living. I fiddle with writing when people tell me I talk too much." *** Thanks for stopping by to visit us here at SpilledBeans.com. If you'd like to be notified whenever something new is posted to SpilledBeans.com, then please join the Spilled Beans notification list. -- Con affetto, Anthony V. Toscano, Editor SpilledBeans.com  |
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