A Writer Writes

"A-B-C. A-Always, B-Be, C-Closing. Always be closing. Always be closing."

- Blake, Glengarry Glen Ross

The monologue at the beginning of that terrific film is so awesome, so potent and so perfectly done by Alec Baldwin that salesmen who are new to the art of the sale are shown it as motivation for their new careers. On top of being inspiring, in that "it's halftime and your team is getting beat by a team they should be blowing out of the building and your coach is trying to half-scare/half-shame you into playing like you should have been all along" kind of way, it is also equal parts insulting, profane and funny. I like watching it; makes me want to write. And that's only slightly because of David Mamet's unreal screenplay and dialog.

Every writer should have a paraphrase of Blake's quote on their computer desk or where ever they decide to create new stories every day: "A-B-W. A-Always, B-Be, W-Writing. Always be writing." A writer is supposed to write. If you don't think about writing when you wake up, when you should be working, when you're dealing with a waiter, when you're having a drink at a bar, and at night when you dream, then perhaps it's time to find a new hobby or creative venture. Writers write, period.

I haven't written anything other than detention slips at the school where I work since my father passed away February 3rd. I've edited the heck out of stuff; I've read the book I'm self-publishing in May/June to my wife; I've watched documentaries on Netflix instant to see if I can spark a new story idea (speaking of which, how did I survive before my TV was capable of wireless internet access?). To quote Will in Shakespeare in Love, "Nothing comes." I can't hold a thought in my head longer than twenty minutes. I can't even read for longer than a half hour. Some people have said I haven't dealt with what happened. But how do I do that?

By writing, of course. That's how writers deal with anything. We write about it. When my son was born, I started a Daddy blog. It was funny, it was scary and it was exciting. Mainly because that's what I was dealing with at the time. Now, my own Dad is gone. What do I feel? Anger. Sadness. Loneliness. Guilt. Depression. Pessimism.

Is there hope in any part of me? It's not so much hope as it is a dogged determination to keep walking. There isn't a "light at the end of the tunnel" so much as my own little engine that just keeps chugging, keeps pulling. Not because there is a town waiting for toys and fruits and animals and a cheery little clown over the next hill. But because that's what I do. I keep going. I move. I type. I create.

Writers write. And its time for me to get back at it.

A-B-W.