I have corresponded vehemently with former Al Gore speechwriter Bob Lehrman over the last few years on a subject that makes both of us touchy: The importance, for Writers Who Make a Living, of maintaining at least a semblance of one's original writing dreams.
Vehemently, because Bob and I are both still trying to do it—I, by writing feature stories and he by writing novels and the occasional kick-ass piece like this, on the state of imaginative writing and the Iowa Writers Workshop.
How do you exercise that young poet, novelist, reporter who once owned your body and who rents a room in there still?
Bob and I would like to know.
David, I think our vehemence may be at an end — and not just because you suggested people read my Monitor piece. I agree with you that speechwriters shouldn’t abandon the idea of writing things that have their names on them. It’s satisfying in a way that speeches — which can be pretty satisfying — aren’t. And features — which the Iowa story is — are fun!
Bob, I’ll miss our vehemence. Let’s at least retain our vigor.
Wow. Superb piece, Bob, and thanks for sharing it, David.
I turned to barbecue as a creative outlet. But I also structured my communication career to give me opportunities to work on projects that make use of my artistic side – although there seem to be fewer of them these days.
As far as the ability to “exercise that young poet, novelist or reporter,” I have found that vodka is Pilates for the soul.
Now that this post is old enough that nobody but those of us who are interested will read, I will tell you what this Alaskan thinks. You wrote later about laziness, David, and how we should avoid that word, and gave your examples of how that doesn’t (or shouldn’t) apply. But I disagree. I know in my heart that I have the ability to write, and write well. But I am lazy, and self-indulgent, and I cop out every day. I could be better than I am. I lack self-discipline. I lack self-honesty. I lack self-esteem. I’ve taken enough writing classes to know that only the fear of being judged, in the form of a grade and a professor I respect (in this instance), will motivate me. I’m a sorry excuse for what might have been. And I have no one to blame but me. Roots, poverty, crappy parents–these have nothing to do with success. Failure is failure. My own responsibility. For me, what I have are people who see beyond who I am to what I might be, and love me no matter what, undeservedly. You included. I am grateful for love beyond what I’ve earned. But I still have no excuses. I exercise my weak attempts at writing by responding to you, who had the courage to truly pursue your passion. And I love you for it. And thank you for it. You revive my dreams.
Joan, your self-assessment is distasteful to me and no way to talk about one’s self.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” Bill S. screams at himself when he misses a putt.
“Don’t say that, Bill,” I say. “Your inner child might hear you!”
What I really MEAN, however, is this: Who is this imperious, know-it-all King or Queen INSIDE YOU who gets to tell … who–some separate hapless bum, ALSO INSIDE YOU what a piece of shit she is?
No. You’ve got to integrate those two people. Because, as you almost say yourself, other people see you as one person. I don’t like you ANY MORE because of “what you might be,” than I already do.
You are also incorrect in saying that I give you more love than you deserve.
I give you exactly as much love as I’m inspired to give you, and you receive it gratefully and without asking for more. (And vice versa.)
That’s what human beings are supposed to do.
That’s what we do.
In the end, we do what we are and were supposed to do.
Wasted potential? That’s a tag only others can put on us.
And fuck them for doing it, too.
I love you, David Murray. Thank you for correcting me. Let me say again: I love you.
Even if I DO put two spaces between my sentences.
And I am secretly in love with Bill S. I think he’s the male version of me. Who could resist? LOL
BTW, I am going to have the nicest house in Knik once we’re done with this. You, Bill, Steve and all your sweet spouses have a standing invitation. The sweet spouses can plan their own trip and leave you boys home, if they like. It’s real pretty out here in the woods. But I think you’d like it, too. Come see me. I’ve been to Chicago; it’s your turn. I promise not to take you to look at Sarah Palin’s house (mostly because I have no idea, beyond the vague description of “on Lake Lucille,” where it is, but if you insisted, I’d find out).