Artistry With Words

Sixty-five degrees today.

I was thinking about writers’ block as I fed and watered the chickens today.  I was thinking about it as Maggie and I took our walk down the country lane, birds joyously declaring to anyone willing to listen that life is for the living, to be embraced, smothered with kisses, and held so dearly until that last exhale.  I was thinking about it as deer broke from the forest, saw us approaching, and darted back into the shade, now you see them, now you don’t, a magic act performed especially for us.

I was thinking about it as I began cleaning the back yard, the old muscles protesting, shaking off the winter rust, the first positive actions of Spring, capital “S,” thank you very much, protesting and yet rejoicing in the fact that there’s still some miles to go on this old body, and ain’t that the cat’s meow?

I was thinking about it as I looked at the countryside, six shades of green, emerald and Kelly, sage and absinthe, a touch of jade for good measure, nature’s paintbrush mixing and matching, always in search of the perfect hue, and again with the woods, browns never drab, coffee and dun, tawny and umber, such subtle differences by the Master Artist, should he exist.

And I thought about it at day’s end, a time for relaxation, for contemplation, a tally of the day, good acts and harmful, blessings and negativity, how did I score, what to improve, what to eradicate, and I thought about it as I reflected on lives gone, loved ones, lessons learned sitting at their feet, a continual classroom of love, free for the taking, the only requirement being to practice what was preached, do all things with love, never let a friend down, cherish the small and insignificant, all part of life, all to be valued.

My final thought, as I laid me down to sleep . . . how is writer’s block possible?

Wishing you peace and love, today and forever!

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

Tags: writing tips

I remember way back to a time I was ten, eleven, in that neighborhood, at least.

My dad had a manual labor job for twenty years.  He left the house every morning by six, so I rarely saw him as he headed out to work.  For some reason though, one morning, I staggered into the kitchen at some ungodly hour and Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of him, and he was holding a Louis L’amour paperback.  It was an odd scene for me. I couldn’t remember ever seeing my dad read a book.  Dad had dropped out of high school as a sophomore, during the depths of the Great Depression, and never did return.  He signed up to fight in World War 2, got married in 1945, and started the next chapter of his life as breadwinner and family pillar.  To see him reading was inconsistent with everything I had seen before.

I mumbled “good morning, Dad,” and sat down at the table.  “Whatcha reading?”

“Just an old beat-up copy of a western, Bill.  I like to read in the mornings.  It’s a good way to start my day, take my mind off things, that kind of stuff.  I like the quiet of the early mornings, a good cup of coffee, and some entertainment before I head to work.  There’s never any time for reading once my day begins.”

I’ve never forgotten those words.  Even for a man like my father, a person who would never be labeled an intellectual, reading provided entertainment and gave him some peace of mind before his day began. I try to remember that when I write an article or a novel.  What I do matters. What all of us writers do matters.  We entertain.  We provide an escape from the mundane, and we provide an exit strategy from the worries of the day.

Don’t ever think what you are doing is not important. I don’t care if you write novels or you write blogs only, what you do matters.  In this day and age of instant sound bites, purported fake news, and unsupported hearsay, what we do is damned important.

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

Tags: writing tips

I was talking to my best friend yesterday.  Frank came up from Oregon for a visit, so he and I spent yesterday just hanging out and reminiscing, as old men have a habit of doing.

Frank has been my best friend since high school. We were college roommates.  We think alike, look alike, and act alike.  It’s a bit freaky, truth be told, but it’s also very cool, that kind of deep bond with another human being.

So we were talking about our childhoods, and we were marveling at just how normal our childhoods were. Our parents may not have been perfect, but by God they knew how to raise children.  There was dysfunction in our families, for sure, but our overriding memories of those years are good memories, and you better believe we are both very grateful.

I bring that up, on a writing site, because it is part of the marvel that is creative writing.  I have no dark memories from childhood. I was not molested, I did not suffer emotional abuse . . . there was nothing of the sort.   I played ball, I had friends, I goofed around, I got average grades, and I was loved.  Yes, I experienced darkness during my adult years, because of alcoholism, but the years prior to that were sunshine and chocolate chip cookies.

And yet I am able to find empathy for those who have suffered. I have found compassion for those who have led much harder lives than I have. I am able to understand what they feel, and my characters reflect that understanding.

I have never been in the military, but I have an understanding of the experience. I have never been in a truly violent situation, but I can imagine what it must be like.  I have never owned a gun, never will, but I write about them all the time and I’ve been told my writing is believable.

I guess, what I’m saying, is you do not have to experience that which you write about.  Human emotions are transferable for those who simply observe and are accepting.  Pain is pain is pain, no matter the source.  Elation is elation is elation, and loss is loss is loss.  I was watching an interview with an actress, and she was explaining how she is able to cry during some scenes and emit such believable angst. She said she simply remembers moments in her life which were especially traumatic, for her, and transfers those feelings into her acting. I can relate to that easily having held my dying father, a man I loved greatly, when I was twenty.

Tap into it all when you are writing. Somewhere you will find inspiration if you welcome it with open arms!

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

Tags: writing tips