Real Writers

I was so happy today to discover that I’m not really a writer. Despite having sold four novels (and written five others) and more than twenty five short stories, I am not a ‘real writer.’ Never mind the half dozen plays I’ve had produced — I definitely do not fall into the category of ‘true author.’

For one thing I don’t let real life get in my way. I like real life. I enjoy my day job. I like hanging around with friends. I look forward to grocery shopping and even a clean house. I often find real inspiration for stories in the mundane tasks and ordinary people I meet.

However, I don’t really worry about inspiration. Most of my stories don’t come from those ‘out of the blue ideas’ or thoughts at all hours of the day and night. Generally my stories are generated through a fairly organized process of brainstorming. I create inspiration by actively playing with ideas.

And it invariably happens during daylight hours. I have lost sleep over problems at work or worries about money or the health of those I love. But lie awake all night thinking about writing? Can’t say I can remember it ever happening.

I have been known to stare into space and get lost in thought — but it is as often caused by thinking about politics as story — which occasionally interferes with my people watching activities. In fact, I can’t tell you how often my wife has said to me — did you see that guy juggling knives and I’ve replied: no, when was that? Still, I have been known to find pleasure sitting in a cafe or bar and watching the people walk by — anything as an excuse not to write.

Concentration? I can barely focus long enough to get down a few hundred words. Why do you think I spend my time writing these ten-minute blurbs?

Oh, it is true I have in the past been known to sit and write for hours — I did once win the 3-day novel writing contest, which required me to produce 33K words in three short days — but even that weekend I took one night off to eat dinner and drink my face off with friends. Nowadays, the smallest little thing — a stiff neck, the need to pee, a desire for chocolate — can haul me out of my chair and away from my work-in-progress.

And self-doubt, crippling or otherwise, is not in my nature. Ask anyone who has suffered under the glare of my self-esteem.

So, whew, I’m not a real writer. Though I do write from time to time. But that’s okay. I still manage to put a couple hundred thousand words a year into various projects. And still have a real life.

And that’s ten minutes.