Writing Life
*An excerpt from the e-book, "Hey! You Wanna Be A Writer?"
By E. P. Ned Burke
I think God made writers on the seventh day.
He wanted to rest but His feet were dirty. “I must clean this clay from my toes and soles,” He said. So, The Almighty grabbed a piece of paper and scraped off the mess, the same stuff from which Adam was created, and flung it down to earth.
Ever since that moment, we writers have been cursed with itchy feet and a sinful compulsion to soil white paper with black type.
Perhaps, writing is “a vocation of unhappiness” as writer Georges Simenon once said. It is true that we are a restless lot. We are never content to stay in one place or do one particular thing for very long. We have this craving to move on, to explore the next horizon, to seek out and find new experiences, fresh challenges. Carpe diem is our motto. We must seize each day and savor the taste of it, the smell of it, the look of it. After we have consumed every hour, every minute, every second, then, and only then, is our appetite for life satiated and our thirst for knowledge quenched. Sadly, however, the same gnawing hunger returns with the dawn of the next day.
All this may suggest that writers are a somber and masochistic group. But, as my column title points out, the joy of writing -- the raw ecstasy of putting black type on white paper -- far outweighs the occasional agony and frustration that all writers must endure. Later, I hope to demonstrate ways in which you can tap into this inner joy and become a better writer because of it. For now, I would like to tell you a little about my long journey in this most rewarding profession.
The Awakening
Gertrude Stein once noted that she wrote for herself and strangers. “The strangers, dear readers, are an afterthought,” she said. When I was very young, I also wrote for my own enjoyment, mostly bad poetry and silly songs. In fourth grade, I remember writing a Mother’s Day verse that brought tears to my mother’s eyes and praise from my father. This was my awakening to the power of the written word. I suddenly had a tool at my disposal that could bring joy to the world. It was only much later that I learned that printed words could also evoke other emotions. But, back then, I felt like Mozart of the pen. I was surely a genius for the words flowed so effortlessly from my body. When I finished a page, I would step back and admire it, much like Michelangelo probably had done when he finished David or the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. I was caught up in the rapture of my own words. And when my local radio station played a jingle I had sent them, I was in awe of myself. A little later, a greeting card company accepted a few of my verses and I was certain that my life as a “professional writer” was all but assured.
Of course, I was wrong.
I was young. I was lucky for a short period of time ... and I was very naive to think my lowly words would be forever etched in granite. I still envisioned myself as an “artist,” a misunderstood writer of dreams. However, in my more lucid moments, I wanted to be accepted, to be recognized, and, yes, to be paid for my efforts. As an “artist,” I thought such thoughts were crass and materialistic. Luckily, I matured and moved away from this utopian fixation and came to my senses years later when my first editor told me: “You can call yourself a ‘professional writer’ only when editors pay you hard cash for your words on a regular basis.” That was truly the best description and the best advice I ever received.
*For more information, CLICK HERE.