A Writer's Life for Me...
A Writer's Life for Me… 4:50 A.M. and I was startled out of my sleep with an idea for the conclusion of a story I've been working on, ‘Branches and Leaves.’ The television is droning on, left on by my nineteen year-old daughter. For some reason, QVC is on, selling products by a company called ‘Adam and Eve.’ The products being sold caused my eyebrows to raise, and I quickly found the remote control to change the channel. I found my glasses and the world came into view. ‘Forensic Files' highlighted the darker aspects of humanity, and my cynicism caused me to ponder why every murderer thinks they can get away with it. I needed a cigarette. I dressed and left our hotel room, my mind whirring with activity. In the predawn Mississippi air, I smoked a cigarette and checked emails. My edits for a story are due, as well as a bio, and I figured I'd get to that stuff at some point this weekend. Halfway through my cigarette, I was joined outside by an older White gentleman.
“I have to get coffee and a cigarette every morning, otherwise I feel slightly off,” he said as a greeting. I understood and our conversation began. Travel was our first topic, as we both lamented having to go back “Up North" to continue the battle against winter. He and his wife were meandering home after an idyllic month in Naples, Florida. I talked of my recent trip to West Palm Beach, and he told me about a day trip he'd taken to Key West. I listened as he gave me tips on parking on the island, restaurants, and his face was beatific as he described the sunset he'd viewed from the southernmost point of the United States. I understood, and with our cigarettes having been finished, I thought of my laptop and the stories I needed to finish. The conversation took a turn. “I wanted to see Hemingway's house while we were there, but the line was too long,” he said.
“You like Hemingway?” I asked.
He nodded, then proceeded to tell me he was a retired college professor of English literature. The plot thickened.
“For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn,” I said. “A six word story by Hemingway. I always reference it when I think I'm being way too descriptive in my writing. Are you writing now that you're retired?”
The gentleman told me of how when he was still teaching, there had been pressure from academia to be published, so he'd been published for scholarly literature and essays. I asked how many times he's had a piece published, to which he replied “28 or so. It gives me something to do.” “Nice,” I replied. “I've kind of lost track, with the different anthologies and magazines, plus my own books.”
“You're a writer?” he asked, probably feeling the surrealistic aspects of our conversation.
“Yes. Fiction and poetry mostly, essays only when I'm on an assigned subject,” I replied. “I can't write fiction,” he said. “Where do your ideas come from?” “Everywhere,” I said. It's the truth. Next thing I knew, I was telling him about ‘Saddlebag Dispatches’ and my story, ‘Outhouses and Taters' which was inspired by drinking too much beer, and not wanting to leave the poker table to go to the bathroom. I talked of Charleston and my story ‘For Jebediah’ which resulted from that trip. We both lit an another cigarette, as I talked about Oghma Publishing, Garden Spices magazine, Zombie Pirates Publishing, and The Inner Circle Writer's Group, all of whom I'm affiliated. I had him captivated, talking of pig roasts, and all of the crazy turns my journey as a writer have taken.
We finished our cigarettes, and I fished out a business card to give the gentleman, in case he ever wanted to drop me a line, or follow me. He offered his hand, and I shook it. We wished each other safe travels, and the best of luck, before going our separate ways, two writers acknowledging the magic of our craft. Once back in the hotel room, I opened my laptop and stared at the screen, my mind marveling at the rollercoaster ride of my writing career. I remembered being a closet writer with battered notebooks full of poetry and ideas. I thought about the first short story, the first book, the first writing contract, the first review, the first paycheck received as a writer, and the first time someone told me they'd read something by me which changed their lives. I started smiling, then I started typing, a different version of the song from ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ playing in my head, substituting only one word. Yup.
"Yo ho, a writer's life for me..."
