It’s an old axiom that ‘writers write’. And, since I am indeed a writer, it would follow that I should devote a large portion of my waking hours writing. Not so.
Writers are notorious procrastinators. And I am a choice example.
When it comes to writing, discipline is everything. Having attended Catholic grade school in the fifties, you’d think I would be fairly disciplined; again, alas, not so. There is a vast difference between having discipline and having been disciplined. Yes, all of those stories about Catholic school killer nuns are unfortunately true. The reports from those of us who suffered through eight years of straight backed wooden desks, (nine years in my case, I liked fifth grade so much I did it twice) are anything but exaggerated. I once owned a T shirt which unabashedly proclaimed: I survived marriage, Viet Nam and Catholic grade school… what else you got? As for me, discipline, as dealt out by the order of Sacred Heart Sisters, had quite the opposite of its intention.
But something of value did emerge from knuckles battered by yardsticks, faces reddened by palms and self esteem squashed by ridicule: I am working on a wonderful memoir of my growing up and coming of age during the Kennedy era, which just happened to fall at the end of my Catholic school experience.
So, I have my memoir; my two collection of short stories; my auto biography of 35 years as a radio DJ, and the sequel to my first novel Elysian Dreams, which my publisher is clamoring for me to complete. If ever discipline were needed…
As a result, today, after a protracted coffee and Sunday Funnies session at the local bean brewery; a leisurely stroll through the local farmers market, and a prolonged visit to my favorite record seller, I determined that I needed to get back to the pen and pad (a lot of my writing is actually writing).
And hear I sit, watching the NASCAR boys circle at 200 MPH, while Timi Yuro circles at 33 1/3 RPM, writing this blog.