Saturday, September 18, 2010


To my writing rants a friend has replied with tips he found on his own….

Writers sit at their desks for hours, wrestling with ideas.

Maybe. I tend to wrestle the blank spots, however.

They ask questions, talk with other smart people over drinks or dinner, go on long walks. And then write a whole bunch more.

Actually, I have no comment at all for the previous statement. It just makes these damn brainy writers look like swingers or wife-swappers…

Men and women sit at a desk and force themselves to translate profound ideas into words and then to let those words lead them … writing can be magic.

I see a sentence drifting overhead, then struggling against a mental gravity hauling it into the writers head where it becomes bloody chum. Working its way through, the pulp reshapes and oozes out onto a silky page. Some writers' thoughts churn out beautiful patterns and sprays of imagery and thought that strike readers' minds permanently; they are accurate, sharp hatchets.

I often feel that my own pile of spilling words is small. I poke at it with fingertips rubbed raw from the poking poking poking. Can the words lead? Yes. Can the words be magic. Yes. The blackest magic ever. Writing is to put a spell on yourself and to look way into the corners of your brain for wounds to pick, tender spots to press with your thumb, and once-bright memories that often need CPR. Oh yeah, you're gonna bleed.

Words tug me along heroically, urging me toward the end of a sentence. Some of these words will divide the duty as a few get behind me to push. I arrive at the end of these strings of words as if I just woke up. Looking behind me I find a carnage of broken letters and marks left by my heels dragging along.

And here is one that I really like:

When you are actually writing, and working as hard as you should be if you want to succeed, you will feel inadequate, stupid, and tired.

Well, let me lay down my lance! I am there!

Inadequate, stupid, and tired come up whether I am writing or not. Today the three left me standing there in public with thousands of dollars of camera equipment in my hands saying, I just don't know what I want! Honestly, I don't know that much about lenses…

The Camera Shop Guy went through my gear saying, well, here is a wide angle, here is a standard 50 mm. Grabbing my 35 mm to 70 mm he says, this one is junk. With another lens in hand he says, this is a decent lens … you have range. What you're missing is a telephoto. So, what are you looking for?

I told him, I don't know. I will know as soon as I look through it.

He hands me a really good looking 85 mm. I slap it on the camera and look. I look i look i look. Nothing. I don't want this lens, but can't spit out a reason.

Do you like it, he asks.

I say, well. No.

Why?

Can't really articulate that…

I get the blank look and again the question, what do you want? What will you be doing?

I tell him, I am doing some stock images. It's not in a studio, but at different locations. I am looking at one, two, three people at once in different settings. I want to pull them to me in sharp focus in the foreground, with a blur behind them.

Pointing to the 85mm, he says, that's the lens.

To myself I think, it's not the lens. I just looked.

I look through another lens or two, then look at my sad little lens family spread out on the counter.

As I twist a 24 mm and focus on a stack of papers, I see him unscrew a filter on my 50 mm and say, What is this filter? He says this like it smelled bad or just swore at him. I wish that it had.

I decide to take my junky lens, stinky filter, and indecision home. I sit sadly in Jerry's truck, unable to look out the window at ugly Stamford and its camera snobs. If I had known what I wanted, I could have used the damn Internet and ordered it for myself. I guess I went there hoping they could help me find a lens. I should not think such stupid things.

We step outside where I do a little swearing on the sidewalk. I did not want to spend $1,300 without being certain. That cash could buy me tattoos, nice, crisp ink for which I would readily cough up more than a grand. We leave.

I read something from another friend about wine and hangovers. Sounds good to me.


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