“Begin.” There it is again. If you
want to write – write about something. If you don’t have anything to do. Just
do something. Nonsense.
I used to look forward to writing.
But that was before I realized that it is work and requires a talent that I
guess I don’t have. Talent…that’s it. Talent. People with talent telling people
like me, with no talent, how to do something by simply doing something when I
cannot think of something to do.
I wonder how someone really
discovers his or her talents. Some think that temperament plays a role. Others
talk about how each person has his or her own way of learning. I’ve read a few
books. I’ve thought thoughts about writing. I seem to learn best if someone
will talk with me about it. But when I try, the conversation ends. So, here I
sit with nothing to write about, and wasting my time talking to myself and my
computer.
Of course, there is a lot of advice
telling me to listen to significant friends. Indeed, several have urged me to
write. Most of them don’t write. I did have a high school teacher who seemed to
think I could. He actually helped give me an enjoyment of putting words on
paper. We almost got off to a rocky start when I forgot to bring my copy of the
assigned book to class one day. Thankfully, I had been arrested by a statement
on page thirty-nine (I still remember it.) So, at the end of his class lecture,
Mr. Ziemski asked me if I had any questions. The fact that I had a question (I
discovered later) spared me from becoming the target of a reprimand designed to
make the whole class promise themselves never to forget their book. He was a
very interesting man and helped me a lot with written expression. I wonder what
advise he would give me. Or, maybe I don’t. He liked Robert Frost, and would
probably have told me Frost’s secret to writing, namely to put the seat of your
pants in the seat of a chair and write. But here I am sitting in my swivel
chair with nothing to write about.
I’m not sure it’s encouraging to
remember that my mother, when she would slip into a schizophrenic episode,
would write page after page of rambling incoherence: maybe like I’m doing here.
Perhaps I should see a psychiatrist. But, no, there was a difference. Mom’s
writing was a jumbled effort to connect invisible dots of worldwide
significance in her confused mind. I’m just sitting here expressing my
annoyance at not being able to think of anything to write about.
Ha, that’s funny. I just took time
to check out a Thesaurus and replace “incoherent” with “jumbled” and
“frustration” with “annoyance.” Thanks, again, to Mr. Ziemski, I developed a
good friendship with synonyms and antonyms. I still have my very first
hard-cover thesaurus which I bought back in 1961, when I was in eleventh grade.
Next to it is another one of more recent vintage. Today, I used the one
supplied in my Word program, but I still crack those other volumes for better
options. Notwithstanding, I have to have something to write about before I use
them; and here I sit, brain-dead, staring at a screen full of words.
“Notwithstanding.” The word takes more letters than “However,” but I like the
sound of it. So, I used it just now. I love words. This, I guess, is not to be
confused with an ability to write. Some call me a word-smith. I like that, but
I think it’s a bit over-the-top. With me, I guess words are just fascinating.
But they’re of little worth when I can’t think of anything about which to
write.
Maybe another cup of coffee will help.
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