More jottings from my husband who still writes although he has slipped into stage 6: How to Write Creatively, that is. Anybody can write a grocery list, but it takes special skills to write an epic like Paradise Lost or Fools and Tools: 1. Gear: You cannot write without special equipment. A pencil is a good start, if it has lead in it. Or a pen, when inky. Plus lots of unfortunately named foolscap. Today it is commonly believed that you can’t write without a computer. This is a myth. It is entirely possible- as Shakespeare indicated- that you can turn out quite creditable stuff with no more than a lipstick. (Editors are easily seduced.) The point is that there is no substitute for handwriting. For writing more than the grocery list, that is. Hitting computer keys is staccato construction of a sentence. It is like making love with gloves on, attacking one erogenous zone at a time, rather than with a smooth transition from syllable to syllable. If Milton had written Paradise Lost on the computer it would have been Paradise Deleted. Further, a quality pencil should have an eraser on one end. Any computer can provide script, but only the old-fashioned pencil has the rubber that the writer can chew without jeopardizing the incisors… The writer should also have an independent eraser in case he needs to word test without getting spit on it. Next, where is the best place to write. It is said that a truly dedicated writer can write anywhere. If stranded on a desert island, he will write on the beach sand. HELP being a good start. In my opinion, it is very difficult to be an effective writer if one has sociable tendencies. I was lucky enough to have severe eczema, blotching my face and limbs, and providing me with the privacy of a leper. (Without, of course, being in a colony I could call my own.) When I was a younger writer, full of spit and vinegar, I resented interruption. I have got over that. I don’t quibble about the size of the distraction from work. In earlier times my creative impulse was so strong that I would leave my phone off the hook, to avoid disturbances. I can’t do that anymore, because a telephone recorded harpy caws at me about dereliction of duty. I don’t have a cell phone. Owning one must be, I think, a source of deep depression to the owner if it never rings, or whatever a cell phone does when sexually excited. My lack of cell phone makes it easier for me to live with the apprehension that no one would phone me if I had one. This absence may not make the heart grow fonder, but it can be easier on the self-esteem. Therefore my advice to the beginning writer is: 1.Leave your cell phone in your car, so that you will be distracted only while driving. In traffic, if you are really desperate for verbal intercourse. 2.Adjust to the reality that your response to many verbal situations (“Eh?”) may diminish your image as a master of repartee. I hope that this lucid program aids you in your attempt to become an author. (Note: I can also offer you a nice price for a second-hand dictionary. I don’t need any more words to be at a loss for.
I should have clarified: I've been saving his work for the past year in a cardboard box and typing it up when I can. This piece could have been written anytime in the past year.
Bulletins From the Old Farts Home Today, a haircut. I am appalled (again) to see in the mirror that my hair has turned a shocking shade of white. The curly brown waves are now a blanket of snow. I am ready to die while rescuing a fair maiden from a raging inferno. She doesn’t even need to be a maiden. Everyone makes mistakes, such as her playing with matches. But rescue an old hog? Hell, why should I take work from the fire department? Anyhow, the old folks home I’m in has a fire alarm bell situated right outside my bedroom door. Thus a false alarm projects me out of bed to climax a bad dream. But I stay in my room, inferno or no inferno. Standing in the hall with a bunch of other old farts in their jammies, waiting for the fire department that never arrives, boots Morpheus right out of contention. So, what about heroics in the event of a flood? Dicey, since I can’t swim. My having to be rescued by some elderly female resident with aquatic talent would be a news item I’d sooner not read. I prefer to make a fool of myself rather than pay other people to do it.
I have a university student helping me to type these up. Here's another one: General Truths We humans are aware that we are mortal, but of course nobody believes it. Lying in bed is lambent prevarication, not nice. Meaningless sexual intercourse is better than having no social life at all. There is no accounting for testes. Just pay and shut up. For peace of mind: long-term bonds and short-term memory. The wandering eye is apt to come home black. I notice that I have become broody. Only a matter of time before I lay an egg. The only species apparently aware of their mortality: humans and bloodhounds. I might engage in something uplifting, but my body hates calisthenics. The truth is not elusive. People just prefer not to find it. If we ask for trouble, we may expect trouble to accept the invitation. It is to sheathe the irritant grain of sand in its shell that the oyster creates the pearl. A blithe oyster is good only for clam chowder. Soup, anyone?
Observations From Below (continued) I have a personal demon that gets me into a certain amount of sin. But, nothing cardinal, because my demon has a forked tail that could be painful up ass. If a gorgeous, curvaceous woman came into my room wearing nothing but spike heels and a fetching smile, would I call the police? Lets just say that it wouldn’t be my first impulse. In fact it would have to queue behind other impulses. None of them benign. So, my character is not so much strong as nimble, in avoiding test. I try to avoid temptation, but I’m not as nimble as I used to be. And that was no bench-mark for the benign. I suspect that most of us, if given a choice of exits from existence, would opt for a surprise demise. A fatal heart attack while engaged in sexual intercourse is, naturally, the first choice of most guys. It may not create a death scene competitive with Shakespeare’s, but no tickets have been sold to the public. My main fear is that of being caught in a tidal wave, despite my distancing myself from sea water. So I tape the bottom of my door. If it comes in my window, well, I join the team of flotsam and jetsam.