Water Closeted

When questioned about my writing, I often answer, "It’s in the toilet." The knowing smile and nod ensues, my comment confirming preconception. It is written: "A prophet is not without honor except in his own Hood." This hold true for writers as well; therefore, as I am sure you have all discovered, friends and family try not to encourage… "us."

The moment I sneak to my keyboard, It’s borrowed time -- "You in there again?! The moment I turn my back…"
"But honey, you were sleeping."
"I don’t care, I woke up and you were gone! I need to find you here with me."

Can’t you just imagine those conversations?
"How’s your Steve doing?"
"Oh, he and his buddies bowl, you know. Then they go out drinking… isn’t that just like a man. How’s Frank?"
"Idiot golfs every morning at 6 am. Mike still shooting hoops three times a week?"
"A huh, at least when he’s not off fishing. By the way, I heard Betty caught Earl with some little cutie the other afternoon."
"No!"
"Yes! What about your Bill, Helen?"
"Oh God, he wants to be a writer!"
"No!"
"Yes! Every chance he gets, straight for the everlovin' Mac; he’s like an addict. Doesn’t guzzle beer in front of the T.V. like a real man!"
"No!"
"Yes! Why, the other day? Caught him trying to talk ‘on line.’ Told me it was some writers’ club… imagine!"
"Oh, you poor thing! You ever need support, just call." Bro----ther!

So, if she’s on the phone, in the powder room, watching Reality TV, I’m gone with the Muse. Writers are weird; we look forward to being kept awake at night. "But, honey, you were snoring. I couldn’t sleep."
Occasionally, though, it all comes together: fingers free to fly - a symphony of words. Dialog explodes around me, as I sit and take dictation. Then, when spent, I can fool myself fantasizing "The Dream:" The next Hemingway. I fall back to sleep, yet to read the unedited drivel my copy contains.

Most of us have the skills. The true test lies in overcoming the demands of life (what with plowing the fields, hunting for grub, chopping firewood, and all those annoying Indians to deal with). The added lure of sleep and companionship is just too much for most. And, don’t forget, there’s still all that rewriting! Only a sociopath is sufficiently driven to create time where none seems available.

So, I’ve hit upon a system. I "think" my writing into five minute bites of time, leap at my keyboard, "In a moment, dear, just tying my shoes - be right down," hit ‘print.’ Later, I spend lots of time off in the lower catacombs with those toilet papers. Every writer need his fortress of solitude

There begins the refining process of...opps, sorry, I’ll leave you to imagine all the metaphorical cra… So, go ahead. Ask me if this technique has produced anything of note.

"Sure, hemorrhoids!"