Writer’s Wrules

The writing bug infected me several years ago and I became hopelessly hooked. The need to write had come suddenly and the feeling was powering, almost over-powering. The need was urgent, too, because words were repeating on me like heartburn and I craved relief.

The mere act of putting thoughts on paper, any random thoughts, eased the condition somewhat. It dispelled excess gas, so to speak, but I soon realized that there would never be an absolute cure. I did sense, however, that additional improvement to my condition would follow if my words could attract readers and hold their interest.

Encouraged by the possibility of further relief, I set out on a do-it-yourself study-route towards writing success. For my motto and inspiration, I coined the phrase, ‘Write and They Will Come’. I placed that motto and every how-to item that I learned, into an active file, which I labelled ‘Writer’s Wrules’.

I began to understand the size of the job ahead after I had skimmed through several textbooks, and many back issues of Writers’ Digest. It soon became quite clear that one couldn’t plunge madly ahead.

As an accountant I had always followed generally accepted accounting principles and conformed to preset formats and conventions in presenting my work. But as a writer, I had thought that I must let the artiste in me come to the surface, and that I would be unfettered by mundane regulations such as width of margins, double spaced lines, precise numbers of words, and quality of paper. But, sadly, I was learning that writers, too, must adhere to prescribed formats and conventions. I learned, for example, how manuscripts must be submitted; that Editors will accept only neat, double-spaced, typewritten pages that have precise margins and page headings.

I was learning and my list of Writers’ Wrules was growing.

I bought a used, manual typewriter and began learning to type and learning to write at the same time.

Double trouble.

It was quite a mouthful that I had bitten off but the powering urge had not diminished and so I chewed away.

The appearance of some of my early efforts was quite messy. I should really have had that shift bar fixed and maybe asked why certain letters were puncturing the paper. Perhaps a new ribbon would have helped, too. The unsightly finished pieces, representing the very best that I and my Underwood could produce, were unceremoniously trashed.

The computer that I inherited soon after was much easier to use and I soon could complete whole pages without hardly any x-outs. As a result, the presentation, if not the content, of my writings soon improved tremendously and I was ready for the test . . . my first dose of medicine.

I proudly showed my wife a finished manuscript and asked for her comments. I said, “Read this, Honey, and tell me what you think. Be honest. Don’t butter me up if you don’t like it.”

After reading my maiden effort slowly and carefully, she said, “I will be honest. Your grammar is bad and your spelling is terrible. The story, itself, is not very good either because there is no conflict or suspense and I couldn’t relate to your protagonist, at all. He just isn’t believable. Besides all of that, I knew from the beginning that the butler was guilty.”

I was crushed and I considered quitting. To be a writer or not to be; that was the question. But I still suffered from that unrelenting heartburn, and I had to spell relief, so my answer came quickly. I’m Irish and I’m stubborn and I decided to continue.

I registered for more courses and also started to attend a weekly writers’ group. There, I nobly developed a thick but selective skin, in order to suffer the slings and arrows that flew at me during what was termed, critique period. It more correctly should have been termed open season.

I sorted the remarks and I learned. I suffered too, but I kept coming back for more, rationalizing, no hurt, no worth.

As my studies continued, I became aware of many more Writers Wrules. I learned to KISS (Keep It Simple Stupid) and to SIS-DAT (Show It, Stupid, Don’t Always Tell). I learned to avoid cliches — like the plague. I learned about transition, point of view, and focus. I learned more grammar, spelling and punctuation. I learned that one must write, write, write and then rewrite; and that one must ruthlessly utilize the axe and pruning saw as special editing tools and finish deftly with the scalpel.

I had again reached a crossroads in my writing career. I was trying to apply all the Writers Wrules to my writing but in spite of that it seemed that every time I thought I was nearly ready, some new technicality or obstruction would arise. I started to wonder whether there was a conspiracy against do-it-yourself learners and whether I should perhaps be on the lookout for some form of shortcut to success.

Before leaving on a vacation, I did an assessment of my progress. I knew that I had improved, but people critiquing my work were not particularly impressed. Some said that my work showed promise but others made snide remarks.

Critics notwithstanding, I knew that I was getting close. Although almost ready to test the magazine markets, I hesitated because I sensed that there was something missing, some indefinable something. I needed a certain spark to make the difference.

I kept wondering about that elusive spark during my vacation trip to Ireland. I frequented the haunts of the great Irish writers of the past and even went on a guided Literary Pub Crawl, looking for a clue. I visited the Writers Museum in Dublin, hoping that Joyce, Shaw, Wilde, Swift, and Yeats, might have left some lingering vestige of their talents in the air, for me to absorb.

Nothing happened . . . except . . . I knew suddenly what I should do. It was a revelation.

My intended course of action was the short cut that I sought. I debated the ethics of my plan, but the debate was brief. I decided to proceed. It wasn’t as if I was an athlete intending to unfairly use steroids to develop muscles for speed and strength. I was a writer and I was merely going to avail myself of a bewitching and charming Irish legend, whose magic is available to the children in all of us, if we make the effort and if we believe. My belief in the magic of the Blarney Stone would provide the spark that had been missing from my writing. There was no doubt.

Blarney Castle is about four miles from the city of Cork and high in its parapets was my answer. In 1830, Reverend Father Prout had written of Blarney,

There is a stone there, that whoever kisses,
Oh he never misses, to grow eloquent.

How eloquent?

Well, as a cousin of mine told me, after kissing the stone, you could tell someone to go to hell and he would immediately become anxious to start the trip.

At the castle, I climbed 120 steep, narrow stone steps, and lay (layed, laid, or lied — check the Wrules) on my back on the battlements. While an attendant held my feet, I bent my head back; got my face and lips in position; and I kissed that famous stone. As I lay there, (forgive me for this), as I lay there, “romancing the stone,” I swear that I thought that it kissed me back.

I was keyed up; virtually bursting as I got to my feet. There was no change in my physical appearance for others to see, but inside, I knew. I had done it and I would even get an official certificate. I was elated and puffed-up. I had kissed the Blarney Stone. My writing would be so much better. Now, at last, I would be eloquent.

Yeah, and I was heading for a fall but didn’t know it.

When we stopped for petrol, nearby, the young man asked if I had been to the castle and whether I had put my lips to the stone. I was beaming as I replied with a simple, “Yes,” knowing that armed with my new gift, I could, instead, have loquaciously dashed off 2500, or so, well chosen, wise and flowery words.

The young man was oblivious to my exhilaration and pride. He showed me not the slightest deference as he said, “I suppose it was the old fellow’s turn to hold feet today.”

I answered, “Yes,” quite eloquently.

I was feeling very much in charge of the situation until the young devil closed in for the kill. He was smiling, as only the Irish can, when they’ve lead someone up the garden path.

He said, “Well if the old fella was holding feet, this morning, then it must have been young Sean’s turn to pee on the stone.”

The vacation is over now and I’m back home, a chastened soul. I now have forsaken forever, all thoughts of short cuts and magical quick fixes.

I’m still optimistic that I can produce quality work, if I can find that elusive and indefinable something, that missing spark. With more hard work and adherence to my own, ever growing, do-it-yourself, Writers Wrules, I’ll Write and They Will Come.

A Coat Tale of Two Cities

Writer’s Wrules