In Every Sense of the Word

I haven't been feeling very creative lately.

Rather, some of the creative thoughts I've had in my head haven't led to anything worthy of actually writing down.

Last weekend, I bought a book called "The Writing Life". It's a collection of essays from popular authors such as James Michener, Scott Turow, Patricia Cornwell, David McCullough, Edmund Morris, to name a few.

It's separated into six parts and covers the various steps that produce the written word - finding inspiration to become a writer, gathering ideas, putting those ideas to paper (or monitor), writing with a historical perspective, researching facts, then finally, learning when to finish editing and call your work complete.

The best thing about this compilation is that it doesn't have to be read linearly. I can jump back and forth as much as my disheveled mind demands.

When I was younger, writing used to be a chore; it was all done with pen and paper or a typewriter. My handwriting has always been semi-illegible and I edit on the fly too much for a typewriter. My inspiration never found wind to fly.

True, computers and the Internet have flooded the marketplace of ideas into a gluttonous hodgepodge of syntax, most of it misinformation, rumor, or pornography. However, the outlet has opened the possibility for immeasurable useful information and creativity to be spread around the world in a matter of seconds. In that respect, it is a medium not unlike tv or radio - neither inherently good nor bad, but often misused.

So, I make my humble and meager contribution.

Back the book:

I bought it because I've been taking my writing a little more seriously lately. Not myself, just how I present my thoughts in general. But moreso, I am interested in how others approach their craft - from athletes, to politicians, to writers. Most of the essays I've read describe rather ordinary people of average intelligence who take a small idea and let that idea capture their imagination until there is a final draft to read.

And most with complete disregard to timeline or purpose.

Robert James Waller wrote his novel in eleven days and was originally meant for only family and close friends; at the urging of a friend to publish, it ended up a New York Time's best seller for over three years.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, Frances FitGerald took nine years to complete her project. Hers is not a household name. It wasn't until I looked up her name on Amazon did I realize I already own the book in question; now I understand why it took almost a decade to finish. It's a veritable doorstop.

It helped me further realize that each collection of published words - from poetry to small essays to epic novels - has two stories. One from the side of the reader and another from the perspective of the author.

All of the tales related to my books have usually been one-sided. While I can recall the circumstances around the purchase and subsequent reading of most of my books, rarely do I know the full background story leading to their creation.

FitzGerald's (you just thought that was a typo three paragraphs ago, didn't you?) book is "Way Out There in the Blue: Reagan, Star Wars, and the End of the Cold War". The title itself probably consumed six months of that nine years.

When it hit the bookshelves, I was on a week-long vacation from work. I played golf in the morning and watched the Masters for the rest of the day. One afternoon, I went to the Barnes and Noble closest to my apartment to get the book the day it came out. As I approached the front doors, I noticed a very long line forming. I deduced there was some sort of reading and signing going on but I wasn't too curious to stop and ask. As I walked around the store, I found where the line ended. President Carter was holding a book-signing of his recently-published book of poetry.

I wondered how cruel it would be to ask the former Leader of the Free World to sign the book about the man that kicked him out of office. I decided the hour long wait wasn't worth it.

But reading about the travails that led to my purchase made the book all that more personal.

Which is the reason I read; and now write. To alchemize those small and ordinary ideas into something tangible - and hopefully permanent. To complete the link between author and reader, no matter which role is temporarily mine.

And on this day of national gluttony, to add linguistical excess to epicurean over-indulgence.