592 words

I looked up from my journal and gave my default response, "In the toilet." I was rewarded with a knowing smile and nod that provoked me into turning to a fresh page and knocking out this column. It was written: "A prophet is not without honor except in his own land and among his own people." This holds true for both the published and unpublished alike. Therefore, friends and family try not to encourage such anti-social behavior. Besides, who wants to be written about?

The moment I sneak to my keyboard, I’m on borrowed time. At any moment femininity may order cease and desist. "You in there again? The moment I turn my back, you head for that stupid computer! Can’t you spend time with me?"

"But honey, you were sleeping."

"I don’t care, I woke up and you were gone! I need to find you here in bed."

Can’t you just imagine the conversations:

"How’s your Steve doing?"

"Oh, he and his buddies bowl, you know. Then they go out drinking… isn’t that just like a man. How’s Frank?"

"Golfing – idiot left at 6 am. Mike still shooting hoops three times a week?"

"A huh, at least when he isn’t fishing. By the way, I heard Betty caught Earl with some little cutie the other afternoon."

"No!"

"Yes! What about your Wil, Helen?"

"Oh God, he wants to be a writer!"

"No!"

"Yes! Every chance he gets, it’s straight for that stupid Mac; he’s like an addict. Doesn’t suck beer in front of the Telly like a real man!"

"No!"

"Yes! Why, the other day? Caught him trying to talk ‘on line.’ Told me it was some writers’ club… imagine!"

"Oh, you poor thing! You ever need support, just give a call." Bro – ther!

So, if she’s on the phone, in the powder room, watching Judge Judy, sleeping, whatever I’m gone with the Muse. Writers are weird; we look forward to being kept awake at night. "But, honey, you were snoring. I couldn’t sleep."

Occasionally, though, it all comes together. My fingers are free to fly - a symphony of words. Dialog explodes around me, as I sit and take dictation. Then, when spent, I can fool myself into fantasizing "The Dream." I have created something worthwhile - the next Hemingway. I fall back to sleep, yet to read the unedited drivel my copy contains.

Most of us are creative enough to write. The true test of the "writer" lies in overcoming the demands of life (what with plowing the fields, hunting for grub, chopping firewood, and all those annoying Indians to deal with). The added lure of sleep and companionship is just too much for most to over come. And, don’t forget, there’s still all that rewriting to do… Oy! Only a sociopath is sufficiently driven to create time where none seems available.

So, I’ve hit upon a system. I "think" my writing into five minute bites of time, leap at my keyboard, pound it out ("In a moment, dear, just tying my shoes - be right down.") at the first spare moment, hit ‘print,’ and spend lots of time in the toilet with my copy. (I have one off in a distant corner of the lower catacombs; every man needs his fortress of solitude)

There begins the refining process of… opps, sorry, I’ll leave you to imagine all the metaphorical cra… So, go ahead. Ask if this technique has produced anything of note?