Sunsets, talking snowmen and the rest of the universe
When I was a boy, we would spend summers at my grandmother’s house in Maryland. She lived on a river that fed the Chesapeake Bay. There were hidden coves and winding inlets that I could explore in a motorboat, and I spent hours on the river pretending I was a pirate or a commando or an explorer.
But some afternoons I preferred to sit at my grandmother’s typewriter and work on a story that I had thought up: it was about Super Pupil, a grade school superhero whose sidekick was a dog. I sent them on humorous adventures and enjoyed tapping out little stories painstakingly on the typewriter.
My grandmother was perplexed that a 10-year-old boy would want to sit inside writing instead of being outside playing. The best explanation that I could offer was that I liked to write. My early attempts at literature featured talking snowmen and goofy storylines, so it wasn’t as if I was motivated by a need to enlighten an audience. I just liked to write.
My family didn’t view my unusual hobby as the first steps toward a literary future. When my grandmother read the typewritten pages that I proudly but shyly offered her (my first reader!), she chuckled. Success! But then her comment revealed the source of her amusement.
“These typos are precious!” she laughed.
Rejection, misunderstanding and valid criticism are inevitable components of a writer’s life. Even as a journalist I was offended by the heavy-handed and arbitrary (I thought) edits of a news director. And those were just news stories: factual and straightforward. Sure, I tried to make them interesting. But the subject of those stories came from crime scenes, political conflicts or natural disasters–not my own head, and my own heart.
These days, although I can still agree with the 10-year-old and say that I like to write, there is something else that motivates me. This is true with most writers. They have to write. It is as if there is something taking place in the universe that needs to be revealed. Usually the revelation is a small one: just a glimpse of life that other people can relate to. Sometimes it’s an insight. Only occasionally is it a profound truth. We risk disapproval, disappointment and disdain in order to publish the slimmest of stories.
But even mediocre writing (been there, done that) is a reflection of a story that is constantly unfolding and needs to be told. How many sunset pictures does the world need? There’s another one every day. Some are gorgeous; most are just “nice”. But we watch the sunset and take photos, too. We participate in the event. If the sunset is particularly memorable, we share the photos with friends.
Do we have to take pictures of a sunset? Do we have to share a moment or an insight or a small reflection of the wonder and turbulence of the universe? Yes, we do.
petermaize 