An open letter to Paul and writers like him

Dear Paul,


You wrote me to let me know that you had discovered my blog, found it interesting and thought that it might serve as an inspiration to you as you were a “writer not writing.”

In my response, I questioned this since, by virtue of definition, one must write in order to be a writer. I asked why you weren’t.

You responded and cited what you called the usual “excuses.” You have a wife, children, and a job. When I responded, I deliberately meant to trump you. I am a single parent with seven children, 1 ½ jobs and still I make time to write.

I won’t lie and say that I write every day, but I do engage myself in some activity that relates to my work—every day.

There are many excuses, reasons, what-have-you that can keep one from writing. Fears, trauma, one’s living situation; so many factors can affect the process. Perhaps I will have an opportunity to discuss how any of these (because I've experienced much) can keep one from doing one’s work. Right now, though, I want to talk about obligations.

I don’t doubt that you are busy. A marriage takes time, the needs of children, at least 40 hours at a job. Perhaps you have a home and there’s the upkeep there. So much other you have to do, so much other that is more “important” than just sitting there, writing. And you won’t make money from it, so what’s the point?

But I know I don’t have to explain its importance to you, Paul. What I will tell you is that you shouldn’t deny it by denying it the rightful place in your life by not making the time to engage in it.

To accomplish this, what you will have to do is forget. And remember.

Forget that you are a married man. Forget that you are a father. Forget that you have a part to contribute to some organization. Remember only one thing: you are a writer.

For years, due to personal tragedies and struggle, I couldn’t write. I didn’t write. Oh, I got ideas that I jotted down, I imagined works that never made their way onto paper. I wrote for a newspaper, but that was not the writing I wished to do. I did the arts pages and every time there was something involving an author –and Antonya Nelson and Robert Boswell live in my town so you know it was quite frequent---I felt a part of me dying.

I kept telling myself that there would be a point where I would be free to write. One day. One day. Those days became years. Paul.

I was to interview a writer who directs the annual book festival for the newspaper. I had always been jealous of her; she seemed to always be in the news with some new work. During the interview, I confessed my jealousy and she laughed. She told me all of the struggle that she had endured including sporadic teaching jobs and caring for a father with Alzheimer’s. Still she wrote.

She invited me to take part in the festival and standing before an audience, enchanting them with my words was such a thrill, I decided to write.

I had a part-time job lined up as I planned to quit my full-time one to give me the time to follow my dream. As soon as I did, the part-time job fell through and my car engine blew (again). I panicked and spent the money intended to keep me going ‘til Oprah stamped her approval on the novel I was planning to write on a used car that turned out to be a lemon. I needed to find a job.

The world seemed against me. My stresses were suddenly multiplied. But I wrote.

The writer I interviewed had told me I had to commit to my writing. Declare yourself a writer and then commit to that, she said. Committing meant writing no matter what. And what you commit is your time.

My life did not settle down completely, but it became tolerable. For a year, I sat my butt in a chair and worked on a novel. It was a trying, invigorating year. My lights were turned off. I wrote. My children complained that all I cared about was my writing. I asked the point of their comments and continued to write.

I wrote.

I wrote.

I wrote.

Looking back, I will say I was unfair to my children. I needed to learn balance; but I was no longer willing to put what I needed to do –WRITE—aside. I arranged my life so that there was time for what mattered and my writing had to have its part.

And you, like me, need to write. You need to work. You make the time for that. You need to be a husband. You make time for that. You need to father. You make time for that.

A few minutes, Paul. An hour. You must find the time in your schedule and then use it. Ernest Gaines wrote during his lunch hour. Perhaps that’s an option. You don’t need hours on end in order to do your work. There was a time when all 24 hours of a day were available to me to do nothing but write, but I chose to do other things. All that is needed is a place and a commitment to that place.

Carve out the time. Show up. Yes, I guarantee that Life will send something to test you. Be gentle with yourself if you stumble a time or two. But if you will show up, so will the words. Maybe not immediately. You will have to earn the trust of your muse, but once you do, Paul, the words will come.

There are stories you must write. Once you have decided it’s time, so will they.

Show up to that sacred place at the arranged time. Do it time and again until you feel that tug. And when the words start to come, forget all the other and remember only that there are stories coursing through your veins. When the words come, give yourself the permission to play Paul. Just go play.