Fighting Tony

I can't believe that it's been so long since I've last posted. I have to put my priorities in better order and make a decision about this writing venture once and for all!

Since my last post, I've written a few things here and there but nothing that I'm ready to publish. Honestly, there is something inside me of me that's keeping me from hearing my voice. There's this overwhelming feeling that every single word I put on a page requires meaning and should provoke my readers. The vanity in the preceding statement is a bit ridiculous considering I only have 10 readers.

I've promised myself so many times that I would pursue the title of novelist again with fervency but the immediate gratification that I depend on doesn't accompany writing. Writing is a process and so is developing a readership. The quickest way for me to lose interest in a writer is for her to gives up on her craft and attempt to "write for me" the reader. The presumption that a writer knows what I want as reader insults me considering I have no idea myself.

I enjoy the selfish and provocative writings of Ellison, Angelou, and even Shakespeare. Writers who don't care if you read or not because it's not about you. Their writings are therapy for their souls that they willingly share for your gratitude not your approval. But who am I to have that level of audacity? Who am I to demand that you accept my words and provide me the validation I seek to call myself a writer? It would be just as ridiculous for Ernie Barnes to force you to frame his paintings in your home or Miles Davis to insist that his records provide the soundtrack to your emotional life. Preposterous!!

Yet we have made icons of these artist. We have created a larger than life persona for them, whether they wanted it or not. I want to believe that I possess the ability to write with absolutely no thought about the end result. I want to believe that by simply putting the words on the page, the writer in me wins the battle for my mind with the pragmatic Tony who pays bills, spends time with his children, loves his wife, and goes to work. To even suggest a peace treaty between these two powerful entities seems to be a fruitless endeavor. Regardless, I'm not ready to call myself anything less than a writer and I'm far from allowing your interest (or lack of interest) in my words to determine my worth. So if you are one of the fortunate few who look forward to these chronicles, brace yourself - I'm about to show you how incredibly selfish and grateful I can be!!

India Rivers

The other day I walked into a coffee shop nestled on the infamous Pacific Coast Highway in Southern California and spotted. a writer. Having traveled abroad, discovering another writer invokes the same familiarity as bumping into an American while navigating through a sea of an unfamiliar culture. I recognized her as a writer though she presented herself in what is now a very peculiar manner. She was the diamond in the rough that is recognized by a similarly unpolished gem. The environment and setting was perfect, she sat on the patio at a small metal table with a cup of coffee steaming in front of her. What gave her an uncharacteristic appearance were the spiral notebooks and leather-bound journals that surrounded her. In her mouth was a ballpoint pen tapping gently on her teeth as plots, characters, storylines, and the perfect ending swirled around in her mind.

In this day and age of "now" I was shocked to meet someone who approached the creative process the old-fashioned way. Understand I am not judging nor belittling the modern day laptop user. I am that writer. I am the writer that just had to go out and purchase the sleekest, shiniest and most innovative laptop I could afford before I could even dream of starting a blog. How am I to write without the perfect word processor and blogging software? Gone were the days of the inviting prod of a black and white, brand new composition notebook filled with fresh, white, untouched pages. The comfort of a favorite pen that made the words just spill on to the pages has been replaced with the gentle hum and peck of a powerful machine.

This traditionalist author faced writing in the most self imposing method possible. She had no delete key to erase the ridiculous storyline she had been chasing for the past twenty-five pages. She had no CMD-up arrow keys to search through pages and pages to remember if the backdrop of her novel was the beach or the river.

No, she had to do this the old-fashioned way; she had to face her writing failures head on. If she made a mistake then she is forced to either one-line or scribble out her erroneous thoughts. The constant reminder
remains until she relents and tears away the page. This is raw, unadulterated writing.

I dared not disturbed her but just had to comment on how inspiring she was. Her zeal for writing and recognition as a writer were apparent in the brief encounter we shared. Her eyes seemed to occupy the conversation as the flickered about as she spoke of her passion. She was a writer. she was afraid, self-conscious, unsure, and flattered all at the same time. She was candid and relieved when I told her I too had found myself writing three separate novels at the same time unsure if I'd finish one of them. We shared a kinship in the span of ten minutes when we confessed that we wanted the world to read our words but wanted none of the judgment that was sure to follow.

Thank you, renaissance writer. Thank you, proprietor of the pad and ink pen for reminding me of all the reasons I began writing the stories that played out so vividly in my mind as a child. I want to believe that this encounter was God's way of telling me to keep writing. I want to believe that He puts little mirrors in all of us so that we can see ourselves in the ambition of others.

Hello world, India Rivers and I are writers.