Ok, so I’m a writer, so I guess I’m suppose to know what
to write here. Got no clue. Not like writing a novel or short story… no
inspiration here. Jenna my publicist says write about writing, why I became a
writer. Does anyone really become a
writer? Seems to me, in my case anyway, it’s something that just kinda happened.
What does come to mind is the first day of tenth grade, Creative Writing 101.
Write what you
know.
Those cautionary words were emblazoned across the
blackboard. They remained there throughout most of the semester. I read them
over till they were burned onto the insides of my eyelids. It made sense to me.
When you are a small, shy kid you learn a lot from your
friends, the invisible ones. It’s remarkable how much wisdom and knowledge a
peaceable green dragon, or a long, lumpy cat, or a talking Dodge can impart.
I’m sure my friends, my real friends, carried a sort of wisdom of their own.
But what nine year old stops to ask a buddy’s opinion on death or music or
killer nuns during a frantic game of tag or a hot round of pepper? Who thinks
of life’s mysteries when Willie Mays’ future hangs on the next flip of a
baseball card?
There were times, sleeping under the stars, with clover
for a mattress and a blanket of dreams when my pals and I talked. We talked of
important things: whose bike was faster; will Maris top Ruth; could Godzilla
beat King Kong? But the real wisdom of my youth came from within; from the
friends I contrived out of a fecund imagination. Friends who walked me to
school on lonely December mornings; played with me during boring family visits;
made me laugh on long thunderstruck nights.
The wisdom my make believe buddies bestowed, factual or
fantasy, formed a very large part of the child I was, the man I became, the
stories I would eventually write. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I
discovered a friend and ally in the muse, a muse who lunched on irony and
danced with the fantastic.
And I listened.
And I wrote.
I wrote in one form or another for what has seemed like
all of my life. I wrote about things I knew; things I wanted to know about;
things I pretended to know about. When I was seven, the launch of Sputnik
launched an interest in space, planets, astronauts, the Mercury Seven, and all
things not of this earth. I dreamt of traveling to Mars, exploring Titan, even
meeting a shapely alien on Venus. My musings materialized on paper as my first
short story: an affecting, confusing tale of a boy from Mars, a girl from Venus
and feuding space gangs: a sort of galactic Romeo and Juliet.
Escaping from a boring, sometimes brutal grade school I
often ditched, spending hours wandering through junk yards. The serene,
cemetery like atmosphere appealed to me. I forged an inexplicable bond with the
forlorn vehicles. Their once proud chrome and sadly decaying bodies spoke in
the dry, dusty air. Each told a story, a unique, intriguing tale to tell, some
funny, some tragic. I listened and understood. And I wrote about what I heard,
often to the bewilderment of my teachers. They seldom knew what to make of my
emerging talents.
It wasn’t long before the fairer sex caught my eye. The
objects of my daydreams and fantasies found themselves as strong, highly
visible characters in my tales. Girls were more interesting than boys and
smelled a lot better. A hopeless romantic was born.
Moving through junior and senior high I continued to
write, expanding to include songs, music and poetry. Writing became an outlet
for me, a way to order my thoughts and deal with life in general. On paper it
all made sense, a sense that otherwise escaped me. I could handle the stress
and pressure of being a ‘60’s teen. I loved the times in which I grew up. It
was just that I found irony all around, an irony that eluded most of my peers
and every adult I knew.
And so I wrote.
I was writing what I knew, what I saw, what I felt. An
author was born… or hatched… or created… or whatever or wherever or however
authors emerge.
Peace
BJ
