“How can anyone possibly sit and write a thousand words every day?”
The man didn’t mean anything negative by it, he was simply astounded that anyone would try, let alone commit themselves to sit – day in and day out – writing with little, if any, financial reward. I get that – writing can be hard work. I also get that he spends a rather significant portion of his life glued to the seat of his easy chair watching a sixty inches on the diagonal, plastic box that stands across the room from him.
No, he couldn’t understand what could possibly drive someone to do something like write. However, if you ask him about the Oakland A’s or the Oakland Raiders he could spout off their current position in the standings, their wins and losses and probably name half or more of the players on either team. He might even be able to spout several individual playeres stats for the season. That stuff is important to him and more so than I can even conceive, I suppose that makes us even.
That I find myself driven to write, and to write every day is important to me, just as his sports teams are important to him. I enjoy the process of writing and I enjoy what comes out of that process. He’s driven by his pleasures (or frustrations) of watching his team play every chance he gets and/or reading about their latest game or joining in the speculation about their future.
I am amazed when I go back and reread some of my earlier work. There are times when I cannot believe I wrote what I am looking at. There is no question that I did, but I just don’t know where the stuff comes from or how it gets to the paper like that. I suppose that man’s equivalent might be highlight reels, commentator’s discussion, and comparisons with other teams, games, or players.
Our passions are very different, and I feel certain I derive as much pleasure from mine as he does from his. I indulge in the depth of my passions for writing, creating and discovering the worlds created by the dark ether of my mind. I find it difficult to adequately explain the level of pleasure I find to someone who has never ventured down my path. I can put words to this but expressing the emotional pleasures I find is next to impossible.
Write with passion. Let the emotion bleed through and on to the paper/screen.
Inside a run-down apartment hangs a faded black and white photograph of a dark haired woman. She is dressed in a manner that appears to be from the 1950’s, she has a smile that melts the heart and promises so much more. Prominent in the background of the photo is a metal structure that might or might not be the leg of the Eifel Tower. Across the bottom written in an elegant hand is a note,
To my love, my life, and my reason for being.
Below the photograph sits a stack of three letters bearing four-cent American postage stamps on the envelopes all postmarked in 1959. Judging by how dog eared they look, they have been read many times. Looking about the room, you notice an absence of any signs a woman has ever set foot inside this apartment, the décor is decidedly masculine, hard edged, and rugged. The photo is the only decoration adorning the walls.
Tell me about the occupant of this apartment, who Anna is, the content of the letters, and speculate on whatever became of her.