Since turning seventy, I have spent a lot of time reflecting on the past twenty five thousand days of my life. As the decades pile up and fewer decades are on the horizon is it a normal older person activity to ponder the past ? At any rate, I would be less than honest if I didn't admit some errors and regrets in my many years. Most of the errors and regrets will remain my own damn business, however in my final lap there is one haunting item I will share.
Since my boyhood times I have loved to read and attempt the magic of placing words into coherent messages and stories. As a little kid after lights out, I enjoyed reading encyclopedias with a flashlight underneath the blanket in bed. This curosity was heightened when my grandmother introduced me to stamp collecting. So much history and geography on tiny bit s of paper. I marveled at how words revealed the story of faraway places, famous people, and history. As a schoolboy, I found the downtown Portsmouth Public Library a palace brimming with thousands of books of words and pictures. I considered all libraries gold mines of information and knowledge. As I got older, my dream envisioned me as a coming great American writer. I was confident that I would someday amaze the world with volumes of meaningful literature.
Unfortunately, despite many sparks of imagination and a decent vocabulary, I was a very poor student. My interest in the mechanics of writing always lagged behind my excitement to plunge into writing projects. My working knowledge and execution of grammar, punctuation, and sentence structure was terrible. My mailbox overflowed with rejection notes for my crappy work. My enthusiasm and dreams waned as I got older. The basic needs of life and a boomer's scramble to get lots of things pushed my literary aspirations into the sunset. Eventually, my writing fizzled to self centered poetry and political letters to the editor. At mid life, I participated in a number of university literature and writing courses, but never quite got the knack of framing my stories into readable things.
I still admire and read a wide spectrum of writing from the likes of Chaucer, Shakespeare to E.E. Cumming and Hemingway. However, I realize my opportunity at writing success and recognition have passed. While I continue to write, it is increasingly difficult since I am easily distracted. Haunting is the realization that my shortcomings are my own damn fault. I sometimes imagine the scene from "On The Waterfront" when Marlon Brando pleads with his brother, "... I could've been somebody .. I could've been a champion...". I'm that Brando, but my pleading isn't to a brother in the backseat, it's to a mirror with me looking back.
While I did pen a book, Humble Hero (Amazon 2018) and participate in daily twitter and blog forums, I could've been a much better wordsmith. So, if I had a life redo, it would've been being a more serious student of writing mechanics when my young mind was most receptive to learning. While I enjoy the art of music, sculpture, and painting my greatest admiration will always be for the effective writer. Those capable of successfully communicating ideas, emotions, and stories will always be my artistic champions.
Since my boyhood times I have loved to read and attempt the magic of placing words into coherent messages and stories. As a little kid after lights out, I enjoyed reading encyclopedias with a flashlight underneath the blanket in bed. This curosity was heightened when my grandmother introduced me to stamp collecting. So much history and geography on tiny bit s of paper. I marveled at how words revealed the story of faraway places, famous people, and history. As a schoolboy, I found the downtown Portsmouth Public Library a palace brimming with thousands of books of words and pictures. I considered all libraries gold mines of information and knowledge. As I got older, my dream envisioned me as a coming great American writer. I was confident that I would someday amaze the world with volumes of meaningful literature.
Unfortunately, despite many sparks of imagination and a decent vocabulary, I was a very poor student. My interest in the mechanics of writing always lagged behind my excitement to plunge into writing projects. My working knowledge and execution of grammar, punctuation, and sentence structure was terrible. My mailbox overflowed with rejection notes for my crappy work. My enthusiasm and dreams waned as I got older. The basic needs of life and a boomer's scramble to get lots of things pushed my literary aspirations into the sunset. Eventually, my writing fizzled to self centered poetry and political letters to the editor. At mid life, I participated in a number of university literature and writing courses, but never quite got the knack of framing my stories into readable things.
I still admire and read a wide spectrum of writing from the likes of Chaucer, Shakespeare to E.E. Cumming and Hemingway. However, I realize my opportunity at writing success and recognition have passed. While I continue to write, it is increasingly difficult since I am easily distracted. Haunting is the realization that my shortcomings are my own damn fault. I sometimes imagine the scene from "On The Waterfront" when Marlon Brando pleads with his brother, "... I could've been somebody .. I could've been a champion...". I'm that Brando, but my pleading isn't to a brother in the backseat, it's to a mirror with me looking back.
While I did pen a book, Humble Hero (Amazon 2018) and participate in daily twitter and blog forums, I could've been a much better wordsmith. So, if I had a life redo, it would've been being a more serious student of writing mechanics when my young mind was most receptive to learning. While I enjoy the art of music, sculpture, and painting my greatest admiration will always be for the effective writer. Those capable of successfully communicating ideas, emotions, and stories will always be my artistic champions.
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