Commuting Home and Wishing I...

Words and ideas, as of late, have been like rain in Sacramento's August: rare as a good steak. (Note: beware of pseudo-writers bearing weak similes as gifts.) Perhaps happy with the completion of a short story, I've found comfort nesting in my laurels. I do have an idea of another short story, the genesis of which occurred last year. The premise has been fermenting in the back of my fat head for awhile, and now it seems to be moving forward a bit, its parts congealing. The working title is "Sixes and Eights," but the plot and characters still need to sort themselves out.

Part of the overall problem, certainly, is the unknown audience: the few friends who have professed to occasionally stopping in here are, it seems, occupied with life's business, and there is nothing quite so futile as writing for nobody. From talking now and then to other writers, however, the hope that someone is out there reading is good enough--and it often works for me. The Internet is a grand thing, and there is always a chance that someone will stop by. It is (sticking with weak similes) like fishing: you cast the bait into the water and hope a fish is hungry. I certainly imagine some people reading; in fact, I imagine specific people, whether they like it or not. Oddly enough, there is no attempt to publicize anything here, so if there are no readers, who is to blame?

Quite often, the ideas for writing come from visiting the past. At least, from visiting the past--locations, people. The past is a dangerous place and time to visit, however, for a person can get stuck there and accomplish nothing of value. This, I think, in some ways makes writers of science fiction superior to the rest of us: if they are good, they do not suffer the past, are not burdened by it. Perhaps they carry their own brand of pessimism, however, in that they often imagine a burdensome future.

When I teach college composition classes, I impress upon my students the importance of knowing their audience; I have not, however, learned to apply that to my creative writing. I wonder if I even want to know much about whatever audience is out there, for if I did, I might try to be too specific, too particular. Perhaps not having a defined, static audience should make writing easier; who knows? When asked if he had an audience in mind when he wrote, the poet William Stafford answered, "No, it's just for myself. I'm very indulgent at the time of writing. I'll accept anything, any old trash; it can never be low enough to keep me from writing it." That's a good approach, isn't it?