Front porch writing. No book, no Facebook, no music, no television. Just me and coffee and the fresh fragrance of a new morning. This is the time of day when thoughts can steep and release true meaning. The heat is building and in a few minutes it will be uncomfortably warm even in the overhang of porch shades. Meanwhile, I ponder the day’s agenda: Writing, editing, a trip to UPS, submitting, and blogging.
In thinking about writing, I wonder if the authors I have read ever had in-fighting the way the new wanna-be types fight.
It is not difficult for me to imagine writers making fun of Hemingway. “Hey, him? Pfft…what does it take to write a news piece on catching a fish?”
Or, of Flannery, “If it wasn’t for those darn peacocks, she wouldn’t have had anything funny to write about.”
Then, of Mitchell, “What was she trying to do, rewrite War and Peace?” “Maybe she should have called it “Gagged with the Wind.”
In fact, it is quite easy to find fault with others instead of examining oneself. There’s always time to make fun of, to slur about someone’s work, or to tweet some cruel or amusing comment. The cyber world is so filled with this noise that the pure sounds are less frequently heard.
People seem to flock to the joke de jour which is the easiest way to forget that they have nothing viable about which to write. Even so, their talents would not win them any Hollywood movies or Pulitzers. Instead, they trade their tease of possible brilliance for the masturbatory art of social media-crity, bullying, and temporarily feeling pretty damn special.
I wonder how many will go on to do anything for which they will be remembered. I will not be remembered. But, I will continue to write. I do not ask for permission. I do not seek approval. I will not accept condescension.
Now, I will write.