A while ago, (no pun intended) there was a fellow who used
to drop in on the writer’s workshop. He claimed that he wanted to write a
memoir of sorts, something about his many decades of escapades that could be
shared with his grandchildren. However despite the urging of the others, he never
put much effort into the project.
Whenever someone would share a piece they were working on, reading it
aloud to the others, he always asked the same question.
“How long did it take you to write that?”
He offered no reactions, either good or bad to the
particular effort. To him, it was all about time. I tried to explain more than
once that the length of time is irrelevant to a writer, unless you’re on a
deadline. The intent is to get the story down in the first draft, then go back
and start the revisions and the editing process. But he always turned a deaf
ear to me.
Once when I shared an excerpt from a work in progress, he
blurted out his usual question before anyone else could speak. It was time to end his curiosity.
“Ten years,” I said.
“Ten years! That’s impossible?”
I went on to explain that’s how long I’ve been seriously
writing. While I can’t speak for everyone, I will often be working on a scene
or dialog when I’m driving, particularly on a long commute where there is
little traffic. It could be hours or days before I’m able to sit down at the
computer and actually write, but my brain is at work, shaping it, making it
better. He didn’t like my answer and
shortly after that, he stopped attending the group.
Maybe he just didn’t have the time for us.
Here’s a little excerpt from “Fleeing Beauty” the third book
in the Jamie Richmond series. In this
scene, Ian, the fifteen-year-old boy who is a friend of Malone’s, has been
staying with Jamie, working on the project unpacking the artwork. He has
recently met Brittany, a teenage girl from the neighborhood.
Ian returned after seven. He unpacked his clothes, grabbed
an apple from the refrigerator, and scowled at me. He slumped into a chair at
the kitchen table.
“Logan’s gone.”
“Yes, Linda and Vince came home this
afternoon.”
He gave me an exasperated look. “But Logan’s gone.”
“Of course he’s
gone. He was only staying here because she didn’t have time to put him in a
kennel before their vacation.”
Ian’s gaze went to the floor. He started bumping
his foot against the table leg. I knew what was going on. He looked so sweet I
couldn’t torment him for long.
“She’s waiting for you.”
His head snapped up.
“What?”
“Brittany is waiting for you. She stopped by before you got back. I
told her Logan was gone but that you were due anytime.”
“Why didn’t you tell
me?”
“I just did.”
“But I thought, you know, without Logan, I didn’t have a
reason to go by there.”
He was so cute. I reached across the table and punched
him in the shoulder. “She likes you, Ian. The dog was just your wingman. Go see
her.”
“She likes me?”
“Be home by ten.”
He bolted from the table. Halfway
across the kitchen, he whirled around. “Can I stay until eleven?”
“We’ve got an
early morning. Let’s make it ten.” I got up and went to the sink.
“C’mon,
Jamie, how about just a little bit later?”
“Ten-thirty. That’s my final offer.”
Ian stepped over and gave me a hug.
“Deal.”
With a bang he was out the side door and jogging down the driveway. I
rinsed my glass from the iced tea and started to laugh. I had seen four different
men that day and been hugged by each one. This was very unusual for me. But I
was starting to like it.
Here's a link to an older blog that you might enjoy.
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