I am engrossed with writing a poem and have no idea about where it is heading. It has evolved from ‘Why Am I So Mad at God’ to ‘Am I Mad At God?’ Hmmm. I am enjoying the writing but it is work. I have to approach it like a job, of all things. Ha. A creative job? A job that requires me to get up in the morning, have breakfast, have a schedule? A job with planning? One problem I have with creative endeavor is planning. I often start with a vague idea or a vague sound or a vague direction that evolves as the words appear on paper (well, not paper – a back-lit screen). I am not truly aware if other folks do that. Do they? I should research the question and quiet my mind.
I remain uncertain of my value as a writer. Until I sell my first million copies, it is just a hobby. Until Margaret Atwood calls and asks me to dinner, wanting to pick my brain over a tough-to-produce story line, writing is a thing I waste time with. I have good friends who tell me otherwise. It has even been my good fortune to have a creative writing instructor and a paid/published/experienced writer tell me, “Hey, I think you should get this stuff published.” Whether I am good, whether I am not, the truth is somewhere in between and has something to do with educated opinion. I don’t trust my friends, they love me and don’t want me hurt. I don’t trust the professsionals because I assume they were being encouraging and kind. I guess opinion doesn’t count to me, unless it is a negative opinion. It’s best when I hear, “This is crap.” I always say that. Then I get lost in “Why bother to do this, you don’t know what you are doing? You idiot!” Then, I stop for a while. Sometimes, I burn the pages or delete the files to free up space on the computer for important things, like recipes or horoscope charts or little stories for my journal about the neighbours and squirrels.
There have been long years between bursts of creative ambitions. Once, fifty years ago, I burned every last page of the writing I had done over 10 years. At least, I thought I had burned them. Turns out that a family friend had kept a couple pages of my very first writing. Something I had written at age ten or so, was held safe. The family friend wasn’t particularly close and I will never understand why they had the pages or why they kept them? Weird. My first impulse is to believe that the pages were kept as a sort of ransom. “Ha, this crap will embarrass him badly some day. If he gets lucky and gets rich, we can extort some money. Good idea!” Then, they got bored with waiting for a miracle. Understanding the lack of opportunity, they simply called my brother to come and get the crappy one-page, two act play called, ‘Go easy on the Elderberry, Nero!’ “Get this out of here,” they said.
I am frustrated by my miserable efforts, in part because I have so many good friends who really shine. My gosh! I have a music friend that moved to North Bay who has played drums and guitar for folks like Jeff Healey, for goodness’ sake! He is a great jazz guitarist and I am sure an even better drummer since he tends to apologize that the guitar isn’t his primary instrument. I have a woman friend who isn’t classically trained but who has a natural talent, a real gift! Her abilities are completely amazing and she learns quickly, to accompany herself on the ukelele. Jazz Uke? Oh, yeah. She writes deep and soulful songs. I also have friends with amazing resume’s. One couple have been very high up the musical ladder and yet choose to live here and be my friends. They are wonderful musicians and keep us all thrilled with their work. I know a guy who uses the microphone stand as a bottleneck slide when he plays guitar! Good looking fella, too! All these folks let me hang out with them and sometimes tolerate my guitar or piano ‘stylings’ ha.
What strikes me is that I don’t have writer friends in person. The friends I have who write are mainly ‘facebook friends’. I know two who have published several works – well written things. They do care what I think but are distant, as FB is. My guess is that I haven’t taken my writing seriously enough to bring it out on stage or show it to anyone other than Facebook. While I can sing and play (knowing that no one is taking it seriously helps) I can’t bring myself to stand up in front of others and make literary noise yet. As a result, I haven’t dared ingratiate myself with a ‘writing’ crowd. Ha. Me so silly.
It sure is chilly today. Right to the bone
Robert On The Air 