To Write, or Not To Write

I wanted to write as soon as I knew my ABC's (jury's still out on that).  It's a hobby gone horribly wrong due to a real job getting in the way; which, by the way, wouldn’t be necessary if I didn’t like to eat.  I've often said, "someday I shall speak and people will listen with both ears, and someday I shall write and people will hear my beating heart." Any chance you hear the thumping?  Please don’t confuse it with your own, and make sure the washer and dryer are off.  If someone asked me what my writing style was, I would have to confess it's an Erma Bombeck (may her pen rest in ink) wannabe, with an Elizabethan lisp (thank goodness for Isaac Asimov's Guide to Shakespeare.)  I must also confess that English was not my major, thus; my concepts of speech may often be off-kilter and sometimes offensively impaired; that's where you the viewer prove most worthy; and I, your most humblest of inksters reap the rewards.

And, just like Shakespeare, I have a tendency to make up words and not follow proper protocol.  My question to you is, “why not?”  I know I know…there’s that infamous English language that is fading faster than a summer tan, and we will lose it all to the likes of the “Rebels of Word-dum” (pun intended) like me.  I’m still trying to find myself, at least that is what I keep telling the voices from within, which by the way there are many (but that’s a whole other story.)

An art instructor once told me that anyone can paint; it’s being different that will set you apart from the plethora of palettes out there.  I challenged him on that and decided that since I couldn’t paint faces very well, that I’d take a piece of Plexiglas and press it against my Grandchildren’s faces and paint what I saw from this distorted perspective.  I must make mention that their mom wasn’t impressed with my “impressionalistic art.”  OK, so I moved on from the paint brush experience.

The college professor of my only creative writing class ever taken, said that it was best to write about something you knew.  Thus, most of my scribbled dribblings pertain to family, personal experience, and my love for cycling (another hobby gone horribly wrong, but that’s a whole other story too).  My preference always being that of lightheartedness and never being too serious; then it dawned on me…how could anyone ever take me seriously?  Then, the wee bit of Irish in me invaded and took over me head (their only conquest) and said “ah Lass, never let the truth get in the way of a good story,” so I figured I was destined for fiction.

I’ve actually started writing three books although there have been some tragic events in my life that have caused me to change gears and postpone their completion.  I may continue to use this excuse for many more years which can only mean one of two things: 1. Laziness or 2. Adult Attention Span Deficit.  I prefer to plead the latter and will wallow willingly within its parameters until I figure it all out. This poses the questions, do I really wish to make writing a career and do I even possess what it takes to make it a viable career?  There’s that safety net of always referring to it as a “hobby” to eliminate that bandit we all know and despise – STRESS.  If it’s only a hobby I can sit on my behind (which by the way doesn’t look like its starving) and do nothing but play with words.  I can roll the words around on my tongue like a treat.  If it’s a true career, the fear of starvation can rob the ink from the well and I’m pretty certain an empty wallet is hard to swallow.

I once read somewhere that the difference between a good writer and a bad one, is that a good writer will write even on a bad day; it made sense to me.  Honestly, I really do try to exercise my writes regularly. Although, it’s rather like the use of a heart rate monitor; my pace is typically stuck on a “beginner’s mode” and rarely at the pace of fat burning.  I suppose if I exercised my pen more and kept the pace at fat burning I could get used to starvation a little more, and maybe, just maybe, run a little leaner.  Then possibly you’d hear my heart beat a little stronger.  For now, I’ll say it’s a just a hobby gone horribly wrong and let the jury be the judge.  Any chance you hear anything yet?