WRITER LIFE CHRISTMAS WHEN IT’S NOT ABOUT WRITING OR LIFE

Does ‘writer life’ mean writing about life, or the experience of someone who writes?

Answer silently while you write about a life of writing.

Writer’s Life?

Mine began as a small child at my Grandma’s house.

She handed me a book.

It was a large format edition of The Wizard of Oz.

Keep in mind this was so long ago that most people still had black and white television sets, or none at all.

The Wizard of Oz came on once a year back then. Our black and white TV didn’t capture all of the magic when Dorothy stepped out of the house.

Grandma’s book sure did with color templates from the movie that shocked and stunned my black and white brain.

I wanted that book. I needed that book. My sweet, sweet, Grandma saw how attached I was and would give it to me on my birthday/Christmas?

Books, yes. That book? No.

I got Zane Grey books for presents until there were no more Zane Grey books. I never read one out of spite, but kept them forever.

Where was my large format Wizard of Oz?

One year she sent a large format edition of Jonathan Swift’s ‘Gulliver’s Travels.’ Never read it, but still have it.

Then it was a large format of Robert Louis Stevenson’s ‘Kidnapped.’ Never read it but still have it.

I’ve never read Wizard of Oz, but that book still taunts me.

Is this more of a ‘book life’ deal, not writer life?

Writer Life, Reader Life

I got over my Grandma’s book hoarding when I didn’t buy the same book when I had the chance.

I wanted her book, that book, the book that lived on her shelf.

As a young man in Portland I saw it in Powell’s and had to laugh at the kid who first saw it.

Don’t think I’m heading for glowing nostalgia here, but seeing the color plates and those ruby slippers jumping off the page was special.

So was the memory of the little kid with a Grandma grudge.

Since then I’ve become reasonable well-read. I was an English major for two years before finishing with a history degree. Lots of reading, which was the plan.

Since I read a lot anyway, why not use higher education to read more and better? (Better more?)

Good readers turn into writers. The difference is most don’t want to talk about it.

They’ll talk about books they’ve read, books their book club is reading, but ask them if they are writers? They look at you like you asked them if they walked on water.

My secret power is knowing about secret writers who don’t feel their stuff is good enough to show, or talk about, or even admit to.

2

I met a nice London couple on a Belgium tour. They were outgoing, interested, loud, obnoxious.

You know, my kind of people. I joined the trash talk and we hit it off.

Turned out they lived in the same neighborhood we were headed to in London. Cockfosters?

No, South Kensington.

We got together for dinner in their neighborhood and they invited my wife and I up to see their apartment.

An interior designer would have had a ball in their place. Instead of a posh bird’s nest in the penthouse apartment, their design was a studio-vibe for working artists.

They were art kooks who collected and painted and lived the life. Except none of their work was on their walls, and there was lots of wall space.

They deemed their work unworthy of their own walls, but they were painters, artists looking for patterns and designs.

And a little sad, but that’s art for you.

Jackson Browne said it with:

Doctor, my eyes have seen the years
And the slow parade of fears without crying
Now I want to understand

I have done all that I could
To see the evil and the good without hiding
You must help me if you can

Doctor, my eyes
Tell me what is wrong
Was I unwise to leave them open for so long?

‘Cause I have wandered through this world
And as each moment has unfurled
I’ve been waiting to awaken from these dreams

People go just where they will
I never noticed them until I got this feeling
That it’s later than it seems

Doctor, my eyes
Tell me what you see
I hear their cries
Just say if it’s too late for me

Doctor, my eyes
They cannot see the sky
Is this the prize
For having learned how not to cry

Telling Your Story In Writer Life

All stories don’t start with Once Upon A Time. Just the good ones.

Not all stories have to have conflict. Just the good ones.

Hemingway said write about what hurts. Let’s break it down:

What’s the difference between what hurts you personally and what hurts society in general?

For instance, you believe covid could make you deathly ill based on over 800,000 covid deaths and counting. So you get vaccinated twice and boosted.

And you wear a mask because why not do the minimal, you hero.

Your conflict is internal, but your fear universal, external.

Why can’t everyone recognize basic science and public health and do the right thing to get over this nasty shit?

Here you are ‘doing your research’ because trusting medical opinions based on lifetimes of education and experience in others isn’t good enough for you.

And you come to the conclusions that getting vaccinated and wearing a mask is the right thing to do. You, my scholar, are a genius.

But you’re still troubled by a world unconvinced of the need for vaccines and masks because, just because, and my freedoms.

Those freedoms infringe on your freedoms with lock-downs, states of emergency, packed intensive care units, the ICU where they see you.

Does it hurt enough?

2

My step dad had a stroke and died two years ago. As sweet and kind a man as there ever was.

Because of covid and forest fires and smoke, his memorial was a year later.

He joined my Mom’s ashes at Sunset Beach. It was a tender moment on all counts, a turning of the page, end of an era sort of day.

It was also the day I felt my heart break.

Since then I’ve learned more about stress and trauma and anger and all the things we stuff down to live in civil society. But enough about the nurses.

This Christmas there will be something missing. A loved one’s kind words, friend’s faces and voices, not as many bells on bob-tails ringing.

But we will always have Zane Grey, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Mark Twain.

Maybe you’ll be a Christmas blessing to someone in writer life.

Merry Christmas, Grandma.