The Writing Life

I write a lot. It is both my vocation and avocation. I'm not sure how many words I've put to paper, but I'd guess it is well into the millions. I've written everything from newspaper articles to button labels on websites. I've written instructions that could have meant death if not properly understood. I've written words into the mouths of powerful people. Mrs. Poobah and I met through writing - we were pen pals before we were a man and wife. And, of course, I write this blog - every word of it.

I first became aware of my talent for writing in the third grade. As a class assignment, I wrote a science fiction story about astronauts traveling to Mars. As the teacher handed our papers back, she told the class that one story stood out in particular. I drowsily half-listened to her ask the writer to come read the story in front of the class. As a mediocre student at best, I knew it couldn't be me. I was never recognized for anything. I was so convinced it couldn't be me, the teacher called three times before I heard her.

A career was born.

How Embarrassing

When people compliment my writing I feel exactly the way I felt in that classroom 43 years ago. Who, me? I'm still astonished when people are moved by what I write. I've swayed opinions and evoked powerful emotions with my writing, yet I feel a little guilty when people tell me about it. I think about how easy it was for me to write the piece. I often feel I've cheated the person in some way. Isn't power like that supposed to come from dead-hard toil where every word sweats out like perspiration in a sauna? How could I have so cheaply changed a mind or evoked an image? It's quite baffling really.

I don't see my writing as world class. There are millions better than me. I know, because I've read many of them. At the same time, I recognize I'm serviceably good at it. Nothing flashy. Solid. Yeoman-like. I just write down what I think and leave it at that. I have a tenuous connection to my work. I never save clips or articles. That seems conceited to me - like the Happy Painter saving his happy little tress and happy little mountains to remind himself how good his mediocre work is. I don't fight my editors or clients tooth and nail over every changed word. When my thoughts reach paper, I figure they no longer belong to me so readers have every right to change them or take them however they want.

A woman once told me I was her favorite author - right behind Stephen King. I didn't know if I was complimented or insulted. King and I both have our shtick. His is books. Mine are anonymous pieces that are invisible and so seamless the reader doesn't recognize it as writing. I succeed when a tiny voice leads them were they want to go. We are both commercially successful in our own ways, but that doesn't mean either of us are in line for a Pulitzer of Nobel.

The Attention Span of a Gnat

Many people have told me to write a book. I answer that my attention span is that of a gnat. I could never muster the requisite discipline and patience that writing a book would entail. But there is another truth I don't usually discuss - there simply isn't anything that interests me enough to sustain a book.

Discipline of mind is not one of my stronger points.

Unlike those who consume my words, I often find what I write embarrassing. When people tell me my words have touched them, I generally see my words as overwrought. If a compliment says I write clearly, I see all the edits I know could make it better. I don't often read what I write, but when I do at arms-length, I become a little less critical of myself. But, I'm never heartily pleased with my production. That idea of perfection is about as close as I come to being an artist rather than a word grinder - someone whose biggest asset is the ability to uncover things readers already know or feel.

It's Not a Bad Life

So, I've written enough for this morning. I must leave for my day job, where I'll write a few hundred new words. It pays well and I find it creative within the bounds of its structure. I'll attend meetings and pull facts from my teammates. I'll face an occupational hazard - people who tell me how to write based solely on their ability to operate a keyboard. Forty-three years of writing experience boiled down by someone who can't see the difference between their writing and John Steinbeck's. I'll write more when I return home. You might see it. You might not. I am the editor of my own work when I write for pleasure, and hopefully yours.

All in all it's not a bad life.

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Labels: memoir, writing

Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Friday, May 11, 2007

The Stories I Tell

I think I was born with a genetic predisposition to tell stories. From a young age I imagined many a fictional story and used imagination to frame my physical world as well. Even though you "hear" me through writing, I speak many more stories in everyday life. Despite a poor memory, I somehow make thousands of connections each day between what I observe in the present and what I remember from the past. The grout in between is a vast panoply of trivial facts, emotions, and other stuff. These connections form the frame of my stories.

Whatever the reference - personal, work, current events, music, art, etc. - I automatically consult the overstuffed memory notes I keep in my head. And these are no Cliff's Note memories either. They frequently come with an astonishing texture. I can vividly recall not only sights, sounds, and snippets of conversation - I also experience smells, tastes, and subtle feelings on my skin. Sometimes, my memory of a particular event is more "real" than the reality of writing this post or drinking my morning coffee.

When I remember childhood stories they aren't through the eyes of a child, but a curious composite me who is simultaneously adult and child. The kid fills in the sensory details recorded in the moment and the adult brings voice to thoughts I lacked the language to speak at the time.

Before I birth my stories, I experience them as nothing more than random thoughts. Sometimes I begin with the thinnest shred of an idea - possibly no more than a catch phrase or sentence that spontaneously pops into my head and beckons. I start with no real beginning or map to the end. I find the story only when I arrive. It's a splintered trail of false alleys and edits that I sometimes wish I could form into a different story. But, the true story always seems to push the other ideas to the side so it can emerge. The final period at the end of my stories is like the buzzer at the end of a game. When it's over, it's over and I suddenly realize it's time to hit the showers.

The facts of every story I tell you are true, but the secret of a good story is pacing and length, memorable turns of phrase, and a logic that isn't always there in a spontaneous and unedited event. So even though the facts are true, I sometimes edit them slightly by trimming away fatty details or slightly changing the order or importance of the facts. Because I have a vast library of stories, they all evolve based on new experiences and new stories. Each story illuminates another so that each retelling ages all the stories as a whole, like a fine wine. What you read here is the result of years of polishing that will continue until the last time I tell a story. The job won't end until I do, and that's a fitting enough end I reckon.

Besides, I could do no more.

Note: By way of example, today's post came from a comment that Dr. Zaius left for The Last True Moment of Silence. As I said to him in my reply (excusing my ham-fisted typing skills), I find myself incredibly lucky to have readers who take the time to read unreasonably long posts. I suppose I make you work awfully hard for it, but I can't tell the stories any other way - that's the true significance of omnipotence. Thanks to the Doc for the inspiration and to you for your patience as an audience. In the business, you're what we call an easy room.

Labels: memoir, writing

Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Friday, February 16, 2007