Portrait of the Humble Artist As A Young Man
My first story was Snow White and the Seven Pygmy Pole Dancers. With hindsight, I realize that perhaps my fourth grade Show and Tell audience wasn't ready yet for such a work. This lack of readiness was demonstrated by the relentless teasing I underwent at recess for the next week, something that did not end until I hit upon the strategy of telling individual tormentors that the character of Stumpy was based on them. At that point, the taunting turned into beatings. Severe beatings. And not the good kind - I was on the receiving end of these beatings. This was pretty much the template for my life through grade school and high school.
Is it any wonder I ran away to New York City, where I was sure my literary skills would be recognized and appreciated?
Lurking in the Shadows
They lurk, unseen, waiting for you.
They can be anywhere. You can be sitting on the couch when one strikes. You can be walking down the street, at the store, in the shower, even in your own bed.
Then, they strike.
How writing is like knitting – and why that matters
I'm a writer, obviously, and I read blogs about the writing process. I'm also a knitter, and I read knitting blogs. Sometimes the two merge. For example, which one is this (telltale words omitted)?
I love the starting process just as much as finishing the project – and for me, with too many projects started and not enough finishing taking place, I would not get the joy of the full experience of being a ... . I would only experience the starting part, the finishing remaining a mystery.
The Spark That Lit Up a Universe
One of the (many) weird things I've discovered about being a writer is the way something sparks an idea in my mind and it grows in ways I could never have expected. Even the things I know will touch me don't always have a predictable effect. Take the musical Les Miserables, for example, and the Dream'verse.
Some twenty years ago I saw a touring production of Les Mis. It blew me away. I spent the rest of the weekend in a music-filled haze, playing over and over my Original Broadway Cast Recording Double-Length Cassette that I'd begged/borrowed money to buy.
Before that fateful weekend I'd poked at writing. Like many beginners, I had story starts in many sizes and genres, begun on a surge of inspiration and abandoned when the glow faded. Maybe the ideas weren't fully-formed, the characters flat, the spark not strong enough...who knows. All I knew was that I had a lot of failed stories that I'd cared about once, that I wanted to care about again. The last thing I needed was another false start, but Les Mis took hold of me and wouldn't let go. I had to do something with it, even if it turned to cold cinders like the others. Resistance, as the Borg will have it, was futile. I had to try. (Though Yoda and my character Eve Marcori would remind me there is no try.)
