I haven't done 126 of anything else,
that I can think of during the same period of time, except, of
course, functional things like eating (though not much) and going to
the bathroom (though not too much of that either, a fact I hope
doesn't qualify as too much information). Well, sure, I've watched
over 126 television shows and read over 126 books, but those are
pretty passive acts when all is said and done.
I don't know why I've bristled at being
called a writer. After all, I walked into a newspaper office and got
my first job there in the fall of 1972 and worked in newspapers off
and on until my illness forced me to retire in 2013. But, especially
in the days when I worked for newspapers in New York, I really
considered myself more of an editor than a writer.
My main job was to get out, initially,
my one newspaper a week, If I did NO writing, I still had to do the
editor's job of getting the paper to readers. Yes, I wrote something
every week, but that usually seemed like “something else” that
had to be done. First and foremost was the editor's work. So how
could I call myself a writer? I had a hard enough time referring to
myself as a journalist, though that is surely what I was.
Now it occurs to me, that most people
probably couldn't care less if I think of myself as a writer or not,
and I think that is actually the appropriate view to take. But here's
the thing... An increasing number of people are coming up to me and
saying variations on the following: “I've always had an interest in
writing. Do you think you could help me get started?” Or, “My
relative/friend does a lot of writing and really wants to do it more
and get better at it. Could you look at his work and offer him/her
tips?”
And the answer is “No.” I can't
help. I really can't offer tips. I HAVE NO IDEA what I am doing! I
don't want to say “No.” So many people want to be writers, even
if it's just because their life story would make excellent reading.
But “No” is the only truthful answer I have. I sit down, I think
a lot, put a bunch of words together in a row, and out comes a
column. I don't think there's much in that process that could help
anyone.
I think, too, on the face of it, writing probably doesn't seem like itcould be all that hard. We all use words, and we all have to write things out, mostly every day. Notes to friends, personal notes on greeting cards, keeping diaries or journals. How much harder could it be to write in some kind of professional capacity? Well, it seems, a lot harder.
Of course I would like to help, and I
sometimes try, although most people, I think, quickly realize that I
don't have much to offer them; no magic bullet that will make the
work easier.
All I can tell anyone is what happened
to me. When I was a child, I was sent to my room a lot. Not
necessarily for misbehaving, but because, I think, my parents wanted
peace and quiet. There was no television in Scotland through much of
the early 1950s, and even when it did become more accessible, most of
it wasn't very good. So, I didn't have that distraction to deal with.
I went to my room and wrote. After a while I also listened to
records, but that was it for distractions.
You'd think another source of my
writing development would have been in school. My academic history
should be littered with a plethora of “brilliant,” “well
written,” “highly regarded” papers in virtually every subject.
Hah. You'd be wrong. B's were a triumph, and A's were few and very
far between... very far between.
The result was that I never thought
much of my ability to write because I genuinely believed anyone could
do it. When I became the executive editor of a group of 15
newspapers, responsible for hiring journalists and writers to staff
them, I realized I was wrong. Not everyone can do it. Far from it.
I won awards from the New York Press
Association and the Syracuse Press Club in the last couple of years I
worked in New York. I was also given a Lifetime Achievement Award by
the press club, all of which must have meant my writing was certainly
OK.
But, in truth, it is only since I
started writing about my illness and sharing it with you, that I have
begun to feel like a writer. For one thing, I take every column
seriously and work it and rework it until it's as good as I can get
it. I didn't always do that before. That comes down to you as readers
and the expectations you have told me you have.
As part of my journey through cancer, I
have, and continue to, look closely at just about every aspect of my
life. I've picked up a lot of rocks and turned them over. By looking
at this whole writing thing at least partially through your eyes,
I've come to be okay with being considered a writer, even if I still
don't fully understand how it works.
On a completely different topic, I
wanted to update you on my serious stomach issues. It looks like
stopping the bone densifier may have been the solution we've been
searching for for over a year! Since we canceled the last infusion,
I've had quite a few nights (in a row!) where I have not succumbed to
nausea during the course of the evening. We are cautiously optimistic
about this and ask that you continue to pray for us as we thank you
for what you've done already.
There are a variety of versions of
the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in
all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a
young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of
manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to
the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man.
With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere
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