Here is the key: it’s not enough to want to write. You must need to write as a supplement to breathing. You should see writer’s block as the worst kind of constipation.
The valid writer is possessed by writing. Of all his possessions, this will probably prove to be the least valuable. No matter. It’s a must.
When the Muse orders “Jump!” You just say “How high?”
Never mind about cheating on your spouse or tax return; when you really need to feel guilty is when you have done no writing in the day.
This is why, of all the natural disasters the world assaults us with, none is as cataclysmic as the computer crash. Or a pencil sharpener refusing to have intercourse.
Such frustration is particularly traumatic for the female author for whom writing is surrogate motherhood. The book has a gestation period comparable to that of an ordinary baby. Both, at birth, are put in a wrapper and displayed fondly to the public. And instead of reading to her child, she reads from it to her creative-writing class, or any other living object with ears to hear.
Besides divine afflatus, what other gear do you need in order to become the next Margaret Atwood or Stephen King or even the author of a raging letter to the editor of the publication that rejected your poem?
First, you need to have access to a word processor. Is it realistic to hope that you can process your words yourself, with God’s guidance or a helpful secretary who really needs the money? Alas, no way. The ugly fact is that to be a writer today you must have a meaningful relationship with a computer. Nobody knows how William Shakespeare was able to get along without it and still have a sex life. Apparently, he had to write everything in longhand.
I sense eyebrows being raised. Well, class, longhand is, or was, a form of handwriting. Handwriting is what you do if you endorse a cheque. Still unclear? Then let’s just say that writing longhand not only takes more time than typing but reveals more about the writer’s own character than a graphologist would feel comfortable reporting.
The hazard of handwriting was first recognized by Omar Khayyám:
The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
Why? Because Omar couldn’t use the delete key! He may not have even owned a computer. If he didn’t, it was surely false economy. That’s why all members of this class are urged to make whatever sacrifice of lifestyle — food, drink, clothes, child support, cheesecake — necessary for you to be able to afford to buy this sine qua non: the PC.
And a printer. (Why should we deny ourselves the thrill of seeing our work in print, just because it’s not yet ready?)
Note: self-publication will be dealt with, severely, in a later section. If your computer is indisposed, it is normal to make a rough copy in pencil. For those of you unfamiliar with this writing instrument: a pencil is a lead-bearing device normally held between the fingers when not being chewed during creative ecstasy. The tip of the pencil makes physical contact with paper, creating arousal more sensuous than that provided by the PC.
In moments of divine afflatus, however, the pencil lead may break (coitus interruptus). Hence the need for a pencil sharpener, a rotary instrument that happily provides relief from the tension of composition, as well as a quantity of sawdust that can be used to mulch potted plants.
It may come as a shock to the novice writer to learn that his computer doesn’t know everything. Even that god almighty, the Internet, may lack verbal skills acquired only by Webster or Oxford. Yes, you need a dictionary. If you have no other book on your shelf, this is the first to replace the framed photo of your lover. Your computer may catch misspellings, regardless of whether you want it to or not, but is hapless when it comes to the shades of meaning you need to set your work apart from an ordinary ferry schedule.
There is a world of difference between denotation and connotation, and you will need a dictionary to find out what it is.
Other vital material:
1. Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations. If you suspect that you aren’t the first playwright to pen “To be, or not to be, that is the question,” Bartlett will confirm your suspicion and identify the author who took the unfair advantage of being anterior.
2. Roget’s Thesaurus. A cornucopia of synonyms. Essential for the writer searching for le mot juste (i.e., a French phrase that sounds sexy). Very often the word you want is on the tip of your tongue but won’t get off. In the course of writing a long work, words can build up on the tip of your tongue, creating a condition called lingual overload. The remedy, too often, is alcohol administered internally. Better far to be able to resort to your thesaurus where you will find so many engaging synonyms that you may just abandon your novel to concentrate on crossword puzzles.
3. Fowler’s Modern English Usage. Fowler, who seems to have had no first name but overcame this handicap with typical British pluck, is to writing style what Alfred Kinsey is to sexual intercourse. He had very strong views about the conjunctive. As for italics, which imply emotional gestures and involuntary lip movement, his reservations are to be respected even as they are widely ignored by twenty-first-century authors. In short, for safer intercourse with the Muse, every writer should have a Fowler on his bookshelf, if only for its benign censure.
Now, class, I suspect that some of you are quite well dressed.
That has got to stop.
Granted, once you commit to writing for a living, your stylish dressing will cease automatically. Sartorially speaking, you can’t start projecting an image of an unmade bed too soon. Your uncoordinated garments reflect your total concentration on your writing, on your garbing a sentence with an appropriate adverb, or choosing the right simile to set off a verbal ensemble.
Your visual effect should be that of a university professor who has gained tenure and can limit his dress standards to checking his zipper.
Does this mean smoking a pipe? As long as there is no tobacco in the pipe, this can be a useful prop, especially for the female author. A cigar? Never. Virginia Woolf was said to have been seen going for long walks smoking a meerschaum, but only she would have been neurotic enough to carry that off.
Now, what about the appropriate underwear for the beginning author? Not Calvin Klein, obviously. The mind boggles at the concept of Bernard Shaw wearing a thong. Putting on worldly skivvies is a bad start for the author who wants to bond with the common man, or the even more common woman.
Got a hole in your sock? Congratulations! Your big toe is right there, front if not centre, to remind you that the flesh cannot be denied.
Your fly is open? Your makeup appears to have been applied with a spray gun? Excellent! Further evidence that your full attention is given to your writing, not the trivia of personal appearance.
To sum up: from the top of your bed head