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I’ve been led to believe the only chance of writing anything worthwhile is to write things that make you vulnerable, that make people wonder about you, that make people talk about you to other people, that infuriate them, that turn them off, that trigger their thoughts, that give them hope, that help them understand a concept better, that make them laugh.
When you write you risk being disliked and viewed as a small thinker or a fraud or just boring or, worse, self-absorbed.
Should you share your deepest troubles, the things about yourself you are most ashamed of? I’m most ashamed of being selfish. How much of a risk are you willing to take to hurt someone, to show how weak you are, how resentful, or how self-impressed? Does anyone want to know what your experience was like in a college chemistry class?
I believe writing should, if you’re going to spend your life doing it, be a freeing experience. It should make you feel energized and stimulated, like flying a plane, or jumping off the high-dive at your local pool, or swishing a shot from the baseline.
I’m thinking about all this after reading a book titled How to Write Like a Writer by Thomas Foster, a retired professor of English at the University of Michigan-Flint. This is the best passage in the book.
“Whatever else it accomplishes, writing frees our minds to go places –intellectually, creatively, and spiritually — that we might never go otherwise. Writing is about more than the subject, more than the viewpoint, more than the assignment or purpose; it is about the writer bringing themselves to bear on a task. It is an act of turning nothing into something…You can choose to hold back, to protect some aspects of yourself, to not give too much away, but I would advise cutting loose, making your whole being available. At its best, writing is a full-contact activity.”
Don’t hold back. I like that. So I won’t. You are reading a guy who is now writing with his whole being, throwing a block as a pulling guard straight into an outside linebacker, gleeful when his mouthpiece pops out and falls into the muddy field. All of me is right here with you, stripped down to the core of my mind. Open, unafraid, bold. Crazed. Odd and normal all at once. Like everybody. Like you.
Believing, I swear, that this Baby Boomer Brotherhood mission has never been more unified and steadfast in its verve to, collectively, change the world, inspire each other, and get good things accomplished – right now. Go.
The author of this book writes about how difficult writing is and how, no matter how many years you practice it, it never gets easier. I don’t agree.
It’s still hard but I find writing comes more naturally after 35 years. Words pour out more easily. Not Shakespearean, but that’s not my goal. He’s hard to understand and no fun to read anyway. And too dark.
Reading my words is low stress, high impact. My goal is to break through into your mind and convince you to stand up and just become who you feel you are called to be.
You can like it or ignore it. Like it.
The author has a different take.
“There is a misconception that learning to write better will make the process go better, smoother, less error-riddled….Sorry, it won’t happen. Words are stubborn things. They don’t want to obey commands, so they keep saying things we didn’t intend…It’s mad, really, how difficult writing is, how obstinate it can be. I have been writing more or less continually for over fifty years, and it is as hard as ever.”
Hard to write wonderfully. I’m only trying to write well enough to make you feel something, make you think. Sometimes tell you a story.
In this book, there’s a guy quoted, deceased fiction writer Barry Lopez, who says story is all a writer has and the only point to writing.
“The reader only wants one thing – the reader wants a wonderful story. And if you can’t tell the reader a wonderful story, then you’re not writing.”
Too extreme. Good writing is doable without conveying a good story. It can be insightful and just a blog like this with its own path.
Punctuated with this story. Why not tell it?
I grew up, became a writer, fell in love with Honey Comb, got rejected, won awards, got fired, changed my name to Sammy Sportface, led a movement like no other, wrote blogs from the beach, and thought about renaming myself, Percival Mayweather.
The end.
A story like no other. A story with a beginning, middle, and end. A story with conflict. A story with grit. A story
for you to wonder about for the rest of your life.
All the best,
Percival Mayweather
Author Profile
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Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
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