Mr Garrick's Blog

Don't ask me where I got it. I have sources and SSS (Super Stalker Skills).


Why Bother?
Just yesterday, I read a post from The Writer's Den http://davidhuntershaw.blogspot.com/, and it got me to thinking about an old topic: Why do I continue to pursue this dream of becoming a writer? Like the author of the blog, I myself have had other pursuits and aspirations that at one time or another have competed for my commitment and focus. For one, I am addicted to classical piano. Once I start playing, I have a lot of trouble stopping. I can go five to six hours without stopping. There have been a lot of times when other things have intervened and disrupted my writing. Sometimes, life just gets in the way. I have also been told that my writing is just not good enough while at the same receiving encouragement from individuals whose opinions I do respect. There is and has been a considerable amount of adversity here.
But, invariably, I return to my writing. Why?

Honestly, there are times when I do not particulary enjoy writing; it gets tough, especially during those periods of drought. But tough or not, I still work through it. I continue to write.
Why?
Maybe part of it has to do with trying to prove people wrong or the narcissism of showing the world what I can do. Maybe I do imagine myself as a world-wide best-selling author ready for book deals and tours, whose stories have been adapted to the big screen. Or maybe it's about gaining the admiration of those I respect. On some level, we all desire admiration. In fact, it is a human need. There is nothing strange or abnormal about that.

But mainly, I write because I enjoy how an idea develops and comes to fruition. Yes, the genesis of an artistic idea. For example, sometime ago while running, I was struck with an idea. I don't know where it came from, but it was there all the same. It was more like an image really, because when I imagine scenes that I write into my stories, they are like movies that play in my head. Well, this scene involved a young man standing on a street corner selling drugs. Just then, a car careens around the corner and from its open window a shoebox is thrown. It strikes the young man on the head and the lid opens up and sprays fine grains of grey ash all over him. It gets in his mouth and eyes and ears. He spits onto the hot pavement. He mutters a curse or two that no one hears.
Just then a homeless man who looks years older than he is approaches the boy and says:
"You know who that was, don't you?"
The young man shakes his head.
"It was Miss Mille's boys."
The boy is raking his fingers through his hair to remove the ash.
"You know what that was, don't you?" He lifts a grimy finger and points to the box of spilled ash.
The young man shakes his head.
"That was her youngest. Henry was his name."
The young man looks up in disbelief.
"Killed here, right on this very corner last week."

This is how my second novel (currently 20,000 words old) began.




I don't think this is all of it, I thought I remembered reading more. But whatever, here it is for you to enjoy:)

This is a TEEHEE moment:))))) (multiple chin smiley)

Also, I posted before this; read it.