‘Tis the season for new beginnings

I once read somewhere that everyone thinks they are a writer. Lately, I’ve found that to be true. Not a month goes by without meeting someone who’s writing a novel or a screenplay. I think it’s because there’s a misperception about writers out there. People see Stephen King, JK Rowling or Stephenie Meyer and think I could sit around all day in my PJs while the kids sleep and write about that hot high school boy/vampire I was dreaming about.

But writing isn’t all about fame and glamour. Sure, there are days when I toil away, writing on scraps of paper, type on a laptop and raise my blood pressure for hours with inordinate amounts of coffee (with crème and Truvia). There are passages that make me feel I am channeling dead writers. Better yet, I feel that I am brilliant and doing what I believe Hemingway said to do: “write what hasn't been written before or beat dead men at what they have done”.

Other days aren’t so easy. Last month, I spent 3 hours at a café and wrote one page. One! I stop the novel to write short stories. I come back to a line later and find the urge to get lighter fluid, a match and take the story out to the grill. You have to read to be a writer. You have to learn. You have to work. Yes, I said work. It’s not all pajamas and coffee and avoiding the laundry.

I studied writing in school. I wrote as a reporter in the real world. People think that’s glamorous. That it works like it does for Richard Gere in 60 percent of his movies. There’s not always a corner office on the 80th floor, a Runaway Bride, or a Mothman. It’s not about money. Let me rephrase. There’s rarely money. There are peanuts. There are peanut shells.

I will tell you what is there. Sometimes there’s just a cat pulled from a burning fire, or a family in need getting the helping hand of a neighbor. A lot of times, there is hope. There’s hope that you can tug at one person, move them in a way that almost hurts and reminds them that they have a heart. That you can say what they feel inside but can’t find the words for. There’s hope that you can say you tried, even if you fail. Failing is okay, because that means you at least had the guts to.

Teaching, painting, scrapbooking, singing – it doesn’t matter what your talents are. It doesn’t matter if they are inherent, or inherited or god-given. What matters is that they are yours, and the things in you imagination, your potential, can’t live unless you try. I write because I love it. I write because I feel like I’m not doing my job on this art when I don’t write for awhile – when I wash dishes and do laundry and plan a wedding and grade papers. I feel like my characters are dying out there without me.

‘Tis the season for new beginnings! If something you always wanted to do is tugging at you, not for fame or money, but for your heart, your well-being and other people’s well-being, do it! People won’t make fun of you unless they are jealous. I can’t respect people enough that chase their dreams.

I have a friend, Bertrand, who works on his art all the time and goes to art shows. His wife supports him. I don’t know how he finds the time! I wish I was as dedicated as him. My friend E. Bay’s going back to school for art, despite the fact she’s getting married two weeks before me. That’s commendable. My future brother-in-law and his friends make short films that get featured on HBO (even though he's been out of college only a few months). My future sister-in-law writes in 10 minute intervals on her work breaks. A high school girlfriend of mine, and fellow track star, been singing at Tootsies – and that literally rocks.

They are doing it. You can do it, too. We can all do it. It’s going to be 2010 soon, and anything is possible.

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