In His Own Words

In His Own Words

I talk to myself occasionally. Generally not long conversations, but I do ask myself questions once in a while. Who, what, where and when are the usual culprits and the answers to those questions are usually close at hand. It's the whys that really cause you to think. And a “why” question came up recently that I've been thinking about ever since.

Why do I write?

Why do I put pen to paper (or electrons to computer storage as this would properly be described)? Why do I sit down and write stories or reminiscences or just thoughts and post them on the blog in front of the critical gaze of friends and strangers alike? Why do I take the time to organize my thoughts and then place them in a coherent fashion in a piece of writing? And yes, this really is a legitimate question that a lot of people who write, even a little bit as I do, are wont to ask themselves from time to time. I mean, I could be doing something else. I could be reading, which I do a lot of anyway but I could be doing a lot more of. I could be working and making extra money in the time I spend pounding on a computer keyboard. I could even be sleeping, or goofing off or doing any one of a million other things with these hours that I put into doing what you're reading now.

I could be. But I'm not.

I've thought about it a lot recently and have possibly come up with a few reasons that feel like they might be close to the truth.

Are you at least a tiny bit curious? If so, read on...

First and most simply, I do it because I like to. I enjoy putting words together that make sense and convey a thought. I like the way the words look when they're all strung together into sentences and paragraphs. And I marvel that they originated in some dusty recess of my cluttered mind – some dark corner only lit by an aged 40-watt bulb, hiding under a box covered in cobwebs.

I also like the order, may I even say the art, of a well-crafted sentence or paragraph or story.

It pleases me.

Next I do it to chronicle memories that might well be lost. I'm not getting any younger, or at least that's what I've been told, and a lot of the things I write down I may not remember tomorrow or the next day. Not that they are of any import, but it might be nice in later years to pull up these scribblings and refresh my possibly failing memory at that time with them. And it's certainly a way to gather together pieces of my life into one place where they can be accessed. Perhaps I'll win the lottery next week or be called upon to do some valiant deed whereby someone might then be interested in how this lottery winner or this hero lived his life. It's not very likely but it is in the realm of possibility.

I do it to pass on to my son some things that we may never talk about. Or, in some cases, to reiterate stories or thoughts that I've related to him in the past which I wanted to revisit. My son and I have never had a comfortable relationship and, by doing this, I feel I might be able to communicate to him some memories that might allow him to see things in himself he might otherwise not recognize. He might not think he takes after his old man so much, but one day he might read or remember these words in relation to some circumstance he might be in and he might say, “Damn. Dad used to do/say that!”

It happens to me all the time.

I write for the sheer love of the mechanics of placing letters together to make the words – the correct words – and to place those words together in the precise way as to convey the message and the spirit of the message. It's difficult to describe the mental acrobatics necessary to achieve this but the result, when it's done correctly, sings a song to you when you read it. Metaphorically sing, that is. I couldn't hold a tune to save my soul. Perhaps that's another reason why I write?

To let my fingers sing from the keyboard.

Maybe I do it because I have to. Now don't laugh. Habits are laid down by repetition – good and bad. And once a habit has been initiated and has been repeated many, many times, stopping that habit is difficult. Write a bunch of stories yourself, receive some positive feedback and encouragement and you might have trouble not writing also. Or if this compulsion isn't actually a habit, then maybe it's some other itch that's begging to be scratched – some psychological addiction that manifests itself in the urge to write. Perhaps my psychologist friend might describe, in full Latin no less, the exact compulsion that drives it. She's always been helpful that way.

Hell, maybe it's just that I like to type, I'm good at it and I hate typing THE QUICK RED FOX JUMPED OVER THE LAZY BROWN DOG over and over. I kind of doubt that, actually. Typing on a keyboard, when you are competent, becomes just a vehicle that you use to place your thoughts on the computer screen. You generally don't even think about the mechanics of striking keys. You just think AND SHE SAID and the words “and she said” appear on the screen. Simple, eh?

But maybe, deep down, it's a genetic thing where an individual tries to leave something that will go on after he is no more. A legacy, if you will. Even a tiny effort such as these blogs. Someone, down the line a hundred or a thousand years from now might see these words and say, “That dude was right on. That's exactly how I feel too.”

It isn't Hemmingway and it isn't Steinbeck but that'd be so cool!

Or an ancestor 5 or 6 generations removed might stumble on these words and marvel at the antique notions of his great-great to the umpteenth generation grandpa/uncle/cousin.

As an infant in the fraternity of writers, I am constantly amazed at the gift a lot of them have and how prolific they are. For example, I recently became reacquainted with an old friend from my days in the Air Force. He has undertaken the task of writing a column/newsletter on line, he's done it for the past two years and he does it weekly! And the columns he creates are quite readable and always interesting. But the operative word I want to stress here is WEEKLY! I have not reached the point where I'm comfortable enough with my skills or my fortitude to guarantee some words on paper on a schedule. I am still only writing when the muse, as they say, strikes. She sometimes bites a couple times a week. But more likely it's a couple times a month.

I suppose if I were a journalist and had to write every day it would become commonplace and mundane. A job. A chore. But I'm glad it isn't yet. Every time I sit down to a blank piece of “paper” it's an adventure, a fascinating challenge to see if I can, again, come up with something I'm not too disappointed in and which I am not too squeamish about placing in this blog.

And so I approach the end of this communication and I look at the words above this line. Are they readable? Are they clear and do they make sense? Are they interesting, even if they're on a subject that might not be everyone's “cup of tea?” Are they acceptable to me?

Do they sing? Even a little?

I think so. I hope so.