Hello and welcome, reader.
As always, it’s my pleasure to have you join me here.
Once again, I chose practice over pulling the hair, one at a time, from my head today. And have I said anything in the recent past about the cathartic effects of this terrible habit?
Well, if not, there you go. Were it me, I’d pat myself on the back for helping save what passes for a writer’s sanity, after reading this. And no, I didn’t name this page ‘The Practice’ by accident, either.
So, let’s get on with the show.
Did you see what I did last time out?
I call my prose style irony at arm’s length. And my guess is those who get it, do. There’s little point worrying over those who don’t.
Art is subjective, after all, be it literary, or otherwise.
Not only that, but for a writer, it’s either there or not. In the hands, I mean. If talent lives there, when you touch a pen or tap the keys, stuff comes out. That’s a gift. Near as I can tell, granted by luck of the genetic draw.
The rest, all you make from it, the clarity, grammar, style, blah, blah, is practice.
That’s also why the elder Sam Clemons told a younger Bruce Munro it was pointless for most writers to try writing novels until they were past thirty. Because, until you’ve been around long enough to see a few things, there’s little a writer can say. Of much interest to anyone but themselves, that is.
Here, I’ve always made what I like and shared the results. That’s the source of the weird label attached to me, and the stuff I make, too. You know, taste? No accounting for same? Viv la difference? Anyway, around here, what happens after I’ve written something must ever be of the least concern.
Because, well, art. Beyond that, integrity. See, a writer, like a man, needs a code, and when he adopts one, he’s bound to live by those terms.
And don’t worry, because the gig gets simpler once you learn to be is to do and vice versa. From there, get to work and forget about anything not important to one or the other.
Though I must say I enjoy few things more than when people show they’re picking up on what I’m putting down and buy my books. My banker likes that, too. Maybe even more than me.
But if you don’t have the stuff in your hands, well, then it’s not possible to either do or be. No matter how bad one might want it.
Because talent is an exception, not a rule.
In that way, talent is much like experience. When you have it, you know it, and everyone else does, too. And when you don’t, it’s impossible to hide.
Anyway, here, we don’t deny, for either better or worse, that perspective is based on where one stands. Be it now or then.
But having the luck to endure means bypassing the fond reviews of nostalgia. As a life reflected by the past isn’t just lucrative, it’s fixed.
Likewise, life is longest after a gold rush. Though without guarantees. So, that’s why I say the world, and life itself, far more than me, loves the irony.
What helps, in these parts, is a willingness to embrace my obsessions. Again, for better and worse, depending on perspective.
Lucky for me, art is nothing, if not individual. It’s an undying compulsion, too. But those who can’t deny this want must accept the deprivation that often comes with making it. Either that or quit.
After all, the world still needs ditch diggers more than writers. That’s what I’ve been told, anyway, and many times, too.
Besides, there’s something those who make stuff up won’t ever understand.
It’s a thing of great import to a writer. And those who want to be, as well. Because there’s an emptiness that comes with accomplishing a work. From which there’s no return. Once you get there, staring back, in profound silence, waits only the abyss.
From whose endless inanimate void whispers, too late, a warning. Of how the more you know, the more that remains to be known, and how most of that is forever beyond your ignorant writer’s grasp. Until, at last, emerges this heartless truth: all is vanity.
Imagination or song of the infinite? The choice is yours.
Likewise, there’s little but bullshit to writer’s block. Oh, sure, there’re plenty of fears. And even more second guessing. Because knowing you’re forever defined by what you’ve written, for better or worse, is the only true story.
That’s a secret you’d like to know earlier, too. I sure would’ve, anyway. Because it’s of little use after the fact.
Oh well. And there you go. Do with that what you will.
Here, we have published a new novel. In a few weeks, it’s available worldwide on Amazon. And the usual response to that, from these parts, is underway. At such times, my old man would say I was crazy as a shithouse rat.
He’d be right when he did, too. Like he was many times about his eldest son.
That’s also when, I say, a writer needs criteria. If hanging onto what passes for sanity is a goal, anyway. For both sets of results, too.
Because, in either case, there’s something to manage, said the voice of experience. Though I’ll say the one is easier to deal with than the other, all the same.
I mean, if you’re wondering, failure draws less of a crowd.
But coming off a win, even a relative one, is a scary proposition. And doing this means working without a net. Every single time. After all, in truth, the artist is the product, and likewise.
So, a well-developed sense of detachment from one’s work is a necessity. For without that, the whims of a crowd, no matter its size, soon replace the muse. And, from there, it’s but a short step to life as a caricature.
Thus, for this writer, I must separate the work from the man making it.
Even after decades of pulling it off, that one remains, for me, the most important trick this racket asks me to perform.
For though I am what I do, and what I have done is doubtless that which made me, there remains a distinction between one and the other. I won’t deny my better self, most times, lives in the works I’ve made, either.
I know that to be a fact. You should accept it, too. Because I write fiction.
My pursuit of the recluse’s lifestyle, meanwhile, is driven by a need to separate the writer from his subject. And, despite what I just told you about fiction, that too is a fact.
Or, at worst, the point of today’s practice.
Anyway, if I wasn’t looking to be judged, I’d have stayed on the farm. So, once again, here we sit, to wait on arrival of the latest words about our latest words.
Because there’s no sense in my denying that falling off the side of a mountain is worse with an audience. No matter how sympathetic.
What confounds me is an inability to stop climbing the damned things. After all, clouds of lingering reluctance have ever hidden their mythical summits from these eyes. Despite the near endless claims of seeking for them.
How’s that for irony?
From here, it sure looks like life can’t get enough of the stuff.
Of course, detachment could be an art form, too, and I haven’t yet figured that out. I mean, you can’t ever know how stupid you are. I read that somewhere, and it makes sense. Though, around here, it often looks like I’m just smart enough to figure out I’m not.
Anyway, I’m no Balzac, either, but brother Kenny Holmes always said a gig is a gig. I figure he had that near enough to right back then, and still does, too. And did I say to be is to dobedobedo? Or something much like that?
Well, to fans of irony, and me, too, it’s theatre of the absurd. And what I hope most is the curtain doesn’t fall anytime soon.
Because I still haven’t figured out the danged plot.
And thus ends the latest rumination. Or would calling this one fiction be a better fit? What about claiming it as literary insight? As usual, I’ll leave that to you.
Now, for the big news, which I’m thrilled to share.
So, join me in welcoming my eighth novel ‘A Whippoorwill Called’ available worldwide Tuesday, April 15th, 2025, on Amazon. It’s a pleasure to share this one with you, and I believe fans of good storytelling will enjoy the tale of Charly and Jed Bedford. For a sneak-peak, click the URL below here.
https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0DWC4LGCL
Thanks, too, for your support. I hope you enjoy the novel and tell all your friends. And if you dislike it, I hope you’ll tell the world. To help you with that, the Goodreads review site is at the URL below here.
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/227753325-a-whippoorwill-called
Thanks for sharing your opinion. I look forward to your review.
Until next time, thanks for being here, and for sharing this with anyone who might like to read it.
TFP
February 15, 2025