Why I Write

For some, writing is a lifelong obsession. It might be poetry or short stories, or simply committing their daily activities to a diary. For me, writing is a recently acquired passion.

There were indications I might be headed down this road. I always enjoyed writing letters and e-mails. Through the years, a few friends commented on my writing ability and urged me to pursue that talent. I have always been an avid reader.

I explored a book about trends in employment and income. The author urged his readers to develop various income streams since jobs, as we know them, are rapidly going extinct. Even though I was counting down the weeks to retirement—it was an admittedly long list—I thought that was great advice. I considered writing how-to books on everything from tablescapes to entertaining grandchildren. But a more interesting alternative occurred to me.

As long as I can remember, I invented stories in my head. I have vivid memories of sitting in the backseat of my parents’ car, staring out the window, creating wild adventures. That’s me with my imagination machine! I often used a favored TV show or movie as a basis for my tales, imagining parts for myself in that preexisting framework. This became a coping mechanism I used throughout my life. Times were hard; relationships difficult? I escaped into my mind, where I controlled people, conversations and events to suit myself.

I set to work documenting my favorite—and lengthy—chronicle. It’s a tale of insanity, love and commitment during World War II—my 300,000-word epic. I spent hours on research, read tedious books on military procedures and war correspondents. I scoured the internet for appropriate slang and historical references. I created new material to fill gaps in my story line. It was the most fun I ever had.

As my story reached its dramatic conclusion, a disturbing thought occurred. What would I do next? How could I replace this diverting activity? Staring at a blank computer screen, I knew no other remembered story was appropriate novel material. Shortly, an idea came to mind—just a beginning. Settling on a time frame, I began my research. I read on-line newspapers from the 1890s, poured over material regarding fashion, music, history and, as always, slang terms of the era. My story unfolded bit by bit. Somewhere around 50,000 words, I knew the end.

Then came another book, and another and another. In an amazingly short time, I completed five 100,000-word novels. Now, what was I going to do with them?

Recently, I attended venues where a couple of men demonstrated their passion for singing. It was apparent from their enthusiastic comments, they felt themselves the embodiment of Frank Sinatra. Unfortunately, no one listening shared their opinion. Am I equally delusional? Certain my stories can delight and entertain, will I find I am the only one amused by them? Only time will tell.

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