alone , but not lonely

A l o n e   A g a i n   O r

I have spent a great deal of time alone over the years, and as a result, have developed many skills for filling the time. I enjoy reading, often spending hours in rapt concentration as the pages whiz by, whether a techno-thriller or a book detailing events in History, new discoveries in Science, a fascinating Biography or any of the marvels of the Physical World. Reading is a gateway to a universe of wonder, of knowledge, of self-understanding and the realms of Man’s stored knowledge. I feel sorry for those who do not enjoy this simple pleasure.

I also draw, filling page after page with doodles and designs, ideas for room arrangements and architectural details. I began drawing when I was a young teenager, adopting a style reminiscent to what I saw in comic books. I took a drafting class in the 8th grade, thinking I did OK, but not as well as some of the teacher’s favorite students. Little did I suspect I would make my living for the better part of my life doing this. Along the way, I expanded my repertoire of drawing skills, exploring the way design interacted with written words and everyday items.

When I was in freshman English, in high school, the teacher required us to write a poem. I tried my had at it and enjoyed it, then wrote several others. One of my first efforts was titled “Where are the flowers, now”, with a repeating refrain that ran, “where are the flowers, now, where have they gone?” Some four or five months later, I heard a song by Peter, Paul & Mary, called “Where Have All the Flowers Gone”, written by Pete Seeger, who also influenced a young Bob Dylan. The only similarities in the two were in the repeated question/title, but I was razzed by my friends for “stealing” from a popular song. I had never heard it before, that I know of, and certainly didn’t consciously copy any part of the song, but who knows? We all take in stimuli from a vast variety of sources and then reissue it as refined by our own views, prejudices and perceptions. At any rate, this early success--did I mention the poem in question, and another with obvious homage to Poe, was well-received in class?--lead me to pursue an interest in writing that has remained with me to this day. I did quite well, writing in high school; at one school, the creative writing class published a ?magazine? filled with students? work. The first issue of the semester, I had one story and a poem; by the third issue, I had more entries than all the other students combined.

Had you asked me in those days what I wanted to be, I would have confidently answered a writer! I seriously pursued this goal, although later that same year, at a different school, I encountered a less enthusiastic teacher, who told me I should stick to writing about what I knew, i.e. teenage issues. Her criticism took the wind out of my sails, and, the following school year, after I submitted a story that I had slaved over and felt very positive about, I received a rejection letter--an actual letter, one my friends and teachers at the time said was a good sign, rather than a rejection notice--I began to let that dream slip away from me. I still wrote, to amuse myself, and the friends I corresponded with, until one day I received a letter from a friend who said he was going to start saving my letters, because they were little works of art, so creative; consequently, I stopped writing for others.

I have always kept journals, filling them with sketches and written snippets, recording my passage through this world, for myself, if no one else. I still do, sometimes seeing, in my mind, an entire piece, inspired by something I read or just saw on TV, or as a result of a conversation. I write to soothe that savage beast within that desired to roar, but instead is content to know the talent is still there, the potential still on tap.

I can say I came by it honestly; my maternal grandmother wrote and, with her sister, performed radio plays in the late teens and early twenties of the previous century, in their home town of Brooklyn. They were quite popular, and my great-aunt maintained a life-long interest in performing, appearing in dinner theatre and community theatre productions well into her 70s. My uncle also took after this side of the family, achieving a modest level of fame in college and in the Los Angeles area for his appearances in community theatre and civic light opera presentations until he decided to forego his theatrical dreams and concentrate on professional pursuits. His is a case of too little ego, because ego is the fuel by which careers are driven; that he has the talent is widely recognized, that he is willing to sit in one office after another and attempt to convince someone who wouldn't know talent if said talent were to bite him/her on the butt, is anther story entirely.

Sadly this is the case with much of the creative arts; the loud, obnoxious and barely-talented rise to the top out of sheer persistence, while those who may well be the better talent wait tables or move on to a more dependable source of income. Who is to say whether it is an equitable arrangement? Not me, I'm too busy writing what I want, or reading to gather new ideas, or drawing the blueprints for a better world. I'll leave that decision to you, gentle reader and wish you luck in your own private spaces.