Amateurland

One of the biggest challenges I've faced in the past ten years since I started writing seriously (or is it seriously writing?) is my decline into mediocrity. Namely, my failed attempt(s) to become a professional writer.

What does that REALLY mean, though? If it means getting paid, well then, that has happened for me (got my $30 check in the mail almost a year ago). But what I think we (meaning you and me) truly mean by "professional" is writing like one. And THAT my friends, is what led me down the path into Amateurland (to be clear, what I mean by "amateur" has more to do with attitude than aptitude, in this case).

Insidious, isn't it? We all do it (at least I'd like to imagine so) because we want our story to be great from the onset. Believe me, I know. All along I was trying my best: pouring over every sentence as I wrote it, every syllable as I wrote it, reading and rereading and re-rereading every paragraph as I wrote it, editing the story as I wrote it, changing the niggliest details as I wrote it, redrafting ten, twenty, thirty, seventy times (you guessed it) as I wrote it, and all so my manuscript would be perfect from beginning to "The End." If only hard work equaled quality. The truth is in writing it doesn't. Not if the hard work sounds anything like what I've described, because what I've described isn't a labor of love, it's torture (the writer's equivalent of water-boarding).

Don't do it to yourself. Take it from me, only one of two things can come of it: you'll go mad and quit or you'll go mad and realize what I'm trying to tell you now (Hemmingway thought of a third option, but I don't recommend it).

Just write. Don't worry about perfection (as my protagonist said in my first novel, "Perfect is for God and circles." I should've listened to his (meaning: my) advice; we both would've been better off if I had). Worry about crafting a story you not only love, but love writing. In the end, that's what will make it great.

I want to leave you today with a poem I wrote called, "Squeeze the Orange." It's about my youngest daughter and also happens to be my best example of why you should follow my advice. It came out of me whole, without a second thought or reservation. But most importantly, I wrote it in its entirety first, and THEN polished it. Had I not, I would've lost the moment, and therein lies the tragedy.

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“Orange… Salute!”

There she sways in her leotard,
lost in a mob of tumblers,
a chanter on naked toes.

“Form the orange, form,
form the orange…”

My daughter
the seven-year-old,
the second-grader,
who still doesn’t know
how to swim
or ride a bike.

Not from negligence
I hope you know,
but know you don’t believe.

“Peel the orange,
peel, peel the orange…”

It is simply her nature
to be cautious;
to worry the concern
for her own safety
smooth like a stone.

I have tried to instill
a fearlessness in her
I never felt myself.

It is my duty
as a father,
as the first man
she ever loved,
to be braver
than I am.

But then I remember
the time she stepped
too deep at the city pool;
her cheeks filled
with air like balloons
ready to pop.

She needed to breathe
as she looked up at me
with closed eyes,
pleading with her tiny hands
for her daddy to save her.

“Peel the orange,
peel, peel the orange…”

She hovers, waiting:
not forming,
not peeling,
my hazel eyes crouched
in her sockets,
fingers twiddling,
feet primed to spring.

She is not as nimble
as the others,
neither as statuesque
nor graceful
as God deemed in His
perfect wisdom
to deny her.

They dance in time
while she stands still.

“Squeeze the orange,
squeeze, squeeze the orange!”

She rushes her favorite teacher,
a young woman of seventeen,
and squeezes her with all her might
as the rest of the little girls
run to catch up with her.

She knew what she was doing all along.

Now she is first
in the center
of a warm,
safe little world:
not as pretty,
or fast,
or gifted
as some of them…

But more beautiful than them all.