I just finished reading Natalie Goldberg’s Wild Mind, a book that’s supposed to set fire to a writer’s imagination and get the writer to start writing again. At the end of each chapter, she offers writing suggestions. Well, Ms. Goldberg, I don’t feel like following your suggestions of writing about a spiritual experience or something that I love. I don’t want to write about a hotel room I was in or what it feels like to walk on the moon. I’m not in the mood to write what I’ll miss when I die or make a list of my favorite words.
Goldberg wants us to open our minds and let it go wild by writing as fast as we can without stopping. If you do that, she declares, you’ll feel better about yourself and about your writing. That’s the part of her philosophy I totally agree with—letting the mind go wild. That’s what I do on a daily basis with the hope of an idea popping into my head—except nothing has revealed itself in a long time. Should I have a subject in mind, as she suggests? I’m downright ornery when someone, anyone, tells me how or what to write. What I want to do is to blaze my own trail and not follow someone else’s.
I’m lost. I haven’t been doing anything but waking up in the morning, eating breakfast while reading the newspaper, going to my water aerobics class at the YMCA, coming home, eating lunch, and writing zilch.
And so, the world turns while I’m tapping my fingers on this keyboard, looking at the words appear on the screen in front of me, and I’m unwilling to open the doors to the greatest treasure on earth: the imagination. Damn, why am I not using my imagination? I wish I could write three, four, five pages on one subject and one subject only. So, what do I do? I sit on my ass and write about my writing woes.
What the hell are you doing, Joe? A writer is supposed to get published. You get a dinky article or story published maybe once or twice a year. What the hell is that? You need a book under your belt. You’ve been writing for almost thirty years and you haven’t been able to publish any of your four books. Thirty years and nothing to show for it! When are you going to realize you have no talent? Why are you unwilling to learn the art of writing? Don’t you know that to keep the reader interested that tension/conflict and what’s-going-to-happen-next are the essentials of writing fiction or even non-fiction? You schmuck, don’t just write down your thoughts and memories. Use your Imagination! You’re an embarrassment to the writing profession. Wise up, man! If you can’t write, then go and get a regular job. Become a mailman, salesman or deliveryman. Don’t just sit on your ass and complain about your writing inadequacies. Quit the profession if that’s what writing has done to you. Time is of essence. You’re not getting any younger. You’re almost 60-years-old and you tell me you’re still holding onto the belief that you’re a writer? You’re no writer, you’re a goddamn loser.
Boy, I’m really down on myself. That’s how a depressed person thinks. Writing is so important to me, yet I’m unable to write something that has any meat to it. I’m just spinning my wheels by writing things that come to mind instead of having a plot or subject to write about.
I see myself lying flat in the ring, my face kissing the canvas, and I hear the referee yelling into my ear, “three…four…five…” I grab hold of the rope, “six…seven…eight…”
I’m on my feet again!
Now I see why no one should ever call it quits. No one! Ever! If I’ve been writing for thirty years without any success, then start doing what I have to do: use my imagination. Don’t ever let the referee end the fight. Have hope. It’s the homeless, the disabled, the starving—they’re the ones who’ve lost all hope. What the hell am I complaining about? I have a head on my shoulders, don’t I? I have two legs, two arms, two upright sons and a wonderful wife. What more could a man ask for? I should be rejoicing to the high heavens that I’m still alive and conscious. It’s time to stop complaining. It’s time to start using my imagination. It’s time to start writing again!
[Note: I wrote “Six…Seven…Eight” in the year 2000 when I was 60 years old. I’m now 86 in the year 2026 and have published many books since 2000.]