Why I Write

            Since Elysian Dreams was released in E book form on May 28 it’s been an exciting and frustrating four months. Last quarter sales, the first quarter (actually only one month) the book was available, sales were fairly good. My publisher Brighton Publishing was extremely pleased with the numbers. I guess I was expecting (hoping?) for more. But then again there was really no promotion as such, just some internet chatter and the launching of Elysian Dreams Facebook page. In any event I do want to thank everyone who has purchased the E book. We have gotten nothing but positive comments and response. And speaking of which, if you do (or have) purchased the E book, your response is essential to both myself and the publisher. You can post your personal review at Amazon or Barnes and Nobel or wherever you downloaded your copy.

            And so now, even as I sit and write this blog, I am awaiting the sales figures for July, August and September. Judging from the hits on Facebook and the E mail I have received I am sure the numbers won’t disappoint. Again, thanks. The print version should be here very soon.

            Enough sales pitch. Writing isn’t and shouldn’t be about $$$. There is a wise old saying: How do you become a writer? You write, plain and simple. A painter paints, a sculptor sculpts, a writer writes. Too often the lines between writer and author become a bit blurred. If you love to write, and you do write, then guess what? You’re a writer! It doesn’t matter if you are published or have an agent or if anybody besides yourself ever reads your words. Don’t ever let anyone tell you any differently, you are a writer.

            I think it might have been Steven King who, when asked why he writes replied, “Because not to is suicide.” Those words speak volumes. Did you ever get an idea into your head and it just kept nagging and nagging at you? That’s the same idea. Most writers (note: writers) as well as authors report that writing is as natural an act as breathing or eating. And we all know what happens when one stops breathing or eating.

            As I mentioned last time, I began writing at a very early age. It helped me to order my thoughts and sort things out. I too, got ideas and thoughts stuck into my head that just wouldn’t let go. That is until I put them down on paper, released them so to speak. And only when I had, could I then relax and sleep and function normally; until the next thought or idea came along. Of course I now recognize these ideas and thoughts for what they were and are: inspiration.

            So, how about it? Is there a thought or idea or something rattling around somewhere inside you that just won’t let go? Who knows, maybe there’s a writer inside of you trying to get out.

                                                                                                                        Peace

                                                                                                                        BJ

How I Got Into Writing

            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