I bathe in the sun of the morning,
lemon circles swim in the tea
Fishing for time with a wishing line
and throwing it back in the sea.
See.
And here I sit, the retired writer in the sun
The retired writer in the sun, and I’m
Blue, the retired writer in the sun
— Donovan Leitch from “Retired Writer in the Sun”
Mr. Writer, why don’t you tell it like it is?
Why don’t you tell it like it really is?
Before you go on home
Mr. Writer, why don’t you tell it like it really is?
Why don’t you tell it like it always is?
– The Stereophonics from “Mr. Writer”
REMUS 11-30-22. One of the things I’m grateful for in this time of Thanksgiving and festivity, is that I’m blessed to be allowed to share my thoughts and my life’s adventures with my tens of readers. Heh. I’ve been retired from my high-stress corporate-sell-out-day-job since 2015 and I stopped subbing at the local high school two years ago when COVID hit so these days, sitting with my laptop banging out my little screeds is my only weekly obligation. It’s a privilege being a quasi-journalist.
Let’s continue with last week’s theme about how to be a writer. We’ll call it “Zen and the Art of Column-Writing.” Despite its title, it should in no way be associated with that great body of information relating to Zen Buddhism.. It may not be all that factual on writing, either (with apologies to the great Robert Pirsig).
Throughout most of my life, my primary skill, besides being a good conversationalist at my parents’ parties, was graphic arts. From the time I was three, I’d picked up crayon and pencil and spent untold hours drawing. By the time I was 12, I’d assembled scores of WW1 and WW2 model planes, intricately painted with every detail, including nearly microscopic goggles on the tiny pilots along with hair-width parachute straps.
When I was in the 8th grade, I contributed several illustrations to an historical tome on the construction of the Erie Canal (“How the Irish Built the Erie,” Chalmers II, 1964). I made soda money drawing headshots of the Beatles which I sold to my female schoolmates.
In high school, my sketches won several ribbons in the Lansing State Journal’s annual Youth Talent competition. In my 30’s, I contributed a full-page comic strip in “Street Bike” magazine.
Why am I blathering about my artistic accomplishments when this was supposed to be about writing? Because I can’t draw anymore. My right hand is so gnarled with arthritis that I can no longer twist the throttle on a motorcycle or grasp a fly rod. I’m not looking for sympathy, such are the vicissitudes of advanced age and with what I’ve subjected my body to over the last 50 years, it’s a wonder I can still draw a breath let alone a Beatles portrait.
I had to become a writer. To tell you the truth, my typing skills are a bit dodgy but I manage to get by, pecking away with my left hand. Prior to 20 years ago, my only serious writing consisted of one short story I published in a California Gold Country literary journal and college essay exams.
Every writer has influences, other writers whose work they admire and strive to emulate. Mine are Mark Twain (Samuel Clemmons, Father of American Humor, whose 187th birthday it is today), gonzo genius, Hunter S. Thompson, the brilliant, often heart-wrenching Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. and Norman Mclean who penned my beloved “A River Runs Through It.”
In addition to these literary giants, I also learned a great deal from my father, Don Negus, Sr. and his lifelong friend, Harvey Chalmers II. My father ran an outdoor column in a couple Syracuse area weeklies, “Random Trails.” I stole the handle for my first column.
Harvey was the scion of a wealthy 19th century industrial family in Amsterdam, New York. His button factory was among the world’s largest. The plant originally used clamshells from the Mississippi River for raw material. Harvey authored a great many books, “Drums Along Frontenac,” “Birth of the Erie Canal and “The Last Stand of the Nez Perce,” to name just a few.
Next week: Harvey’s advice on writing.
And so it went.
Credit: Source link
