I wanted to write long before I knew how to write. Then came the business of learning how to write and that took all the joy out of wanting to write. But I had this old seventy-five pound L.C. Smith typewriter that my Grandfather had given me. The American Book Company presented it to him when he retired. It sat on a sturdy mahogany table in my bedroom...just sat there staring at me as if to say, "C'mon hotshot, you wanted to write didn't you? C'mon, make me write, I dare you!"
It was very intimidating. I typed out the names and addresses of everyone I knew, and I typed my last will and testament. I was only fourteen, and the names and addresses of the people I knew only filled half a page and my estate consisted of a red Columbia bicycle and the L.C. Smith.
But the urge to write was an itch that defied scratching. To be able to string words together; to say something with them that would be blindingly brilliant and stand the test of time. I bought a Webster almost as heavy as the L.C. Smith, a Thesaurus, a Bartleby's, and a cast-off encyclopedia. The sum of the world's knowledge now filled the sturdy table upon which stood the L.C. Smith. There was room for nothing else. As the dancer says in "Gypsy"..."all I need is the girl."
The girl in this case was Erato-the sweet Grecian Goddess of the written word. She is loath to waste her time with teenagers, particularly those with nothing to say. Only two years into my teens, I had very little to say. Oh yes! I did write short stories in which the words were woven like strings of unrelated beads. All they had in common was the string they were strung on. I remember one, "Julian"; it was one of those "Waiting for Lefty" things, or "Waiting for Godot" perhaps. Although now that I think back, it might well have been modeled on "The Iceman Cometh". I'm sure we've all been through it...a bunch of losers in a bar all waiting, hoping that something's coming, something good. No women...what did I know about women? I don't think "Julian" had an ending either...what did I know about endings? For all I know they're still waiting, waiting for the iceman, or Godot, or Lefty.
In my case the waiting ended the Labor Day weekend of 1939. Two strangely disparate things happened that weekend. A camp counselor and I took twenty children to see the opening of "The Wizard of Oz", and while we were there the wicked witch of the west marched into Poland. It was the kind of disparity that lingers in the mind. For five years I witnessed the fear, the blood, the promises, and the learning of how precious and fleeting life can be.
Erato would have me then..."You know enough now, get to it...pick up the torch, lead me from the black hole of Joyce and the macho strut of Hemingway."
"I'm sorry, Erato, forgive me, I'm married now, a house to pay for and children to raise. Show me how I may write my way to financial security and I will gladly carry that torch for you." She snatched it away...a most demanding lady. It's all or nothing with Erato; she is tougher on dilettantes than teenagers.
But oh, I wrote! Whenever I could, I wrote. The books had served me well, and the old L.C. Smith, if I needed it, was always there. Erato was not there, and even with the best of intentions I could never get very far without her. The chef must be in the kitchen, and the captain must be in the wheelhouse. Once in a while I'd read something by someone who must have given their soul for her. How I envied them! What did they have that I didn't have?
Well, I've had my eighteen holes of living, haven't I? I'm sitting here in the clubhouse with a few of my oldest and dearest friends. So far as I can tell, "Lefty", "Godot" and the "Iceman" have still not arrived. But we'll wait a little longer. Perhaps Erato will join us for a beer.
Copyright 1997