Cellar Door
“Writers Write.” I was told that by an accomplished author many years ago. His point was that the human mind needs to create. If a person is to remain in balance they must feed that creative need. The outlet can come in a multitude of ways. Music, art, cooking, building, theatrics and so on to the ends of imagination. For writers, they need to write so they write.
I always wanted to “be” a writer, but each time I started to take it seriously, a dark part of me escaped into the writing and then into my life. Plus, it was hard work. The stories came easily, but each story required rewriting, rewriting and more rewriting to get every word “working”. Then the inevitable realization that your best was not yet good enough. OUCH!! Now I see another truth. I might want to write, but I didn’t need to write.
All my creative needs were being met in other ways. Teaching was a gigantic outlet, until I went to C Fred. As a teacher, I was loud, messy and often kept a dull subject interesting by outlandish presentations. If jumping on a table and doing a dance livened up verb formation, so much the better. Since much of History is about insanity, it requires insane action to make it live. My classes “claimed” the New World by planting a flag and claiming a part of the classroom. When several claims to the exact same set of desks became evident, we solved the problem. Given the fact that Governments have the same patience and tolerance of fifth graders, the solution was pretty evident. Who hits who the hardest has the most legitimate claim to the desks {land} .
Want to get kids attention? Rip a dollar bill into quarters, another into tenths and a third into twentieths and have a discussion about fractions and money. You’ve just invested three dollar, and yes, some of the kids remember the destruction of money and miss the point, but a lot more have a sudden interest in learning.
At any rate, my need for creativity was expressed through teaching until we were all moved to C. Fred. The lack of walls made my methods annoying to everyone else.
Which made me miserable.
Which made me crave writing.
Which made me a serious writer for about a year. My rejection slips went from preprinted “ You’ve got to be kidding!!” to handwritten “ Sorry we can’t use this piece of writing, but please send us more.” But by that time, I had found the shop a C Fred and basketball at C Fred and a way to get back to my old methods and I no longer needed to write.
When I retired, I assumed part of my time would be spent writing. Instead, I tried insanity for several years. The cure for that, rather than a bottle of pills, was to spend a long time with Dr. Hall learning why I was nuts in the first place. Remarkably, ( or not surprisingly) it also sent my lifetime dark companion someplace far away. One of the few old friends I do not miss.
At present, when I am in the middle of doing boring, mundane chore type jobs, my creative needs are met by writing. Part of that writing is this -- whatever this is--. But often creative needs are met in building projects that capture my interest. This summer it was an entertainment center, a set of shelves, a cage for the zoo and my cellar door. I know the title of this is cellar door and it’s what this started to be about, but sometimes things don’t turn out the way we planned. The cellar door story will come later. So, if a period of time passes without a new entry, rejoice because it just means the balance of life is being met in another fashion.
And I cannot claim to be a writer because “Writer’s write.”