Writing

Part of the reason I started this blog was to learn how to write. Arguably I already know how to write, but not all writing is writing.

Wait, that doesn’t make sense. But it does. If not all writing is writing, then what is writing?

I feel like a very small child, like my year-old niece. I want something, I want it badly. want Want WANT! must have! But the words aren’t there. My mental picture is there; I know exactly what it is I want. But the words aren’t there, just squeals and grunts and shrieks.

And so, like any small child, I must wait for an adult to come along and teach me the words I need. In this case, it is Earl Pomerantz , a comedy writer, answering the question of when he first knew that he was a writer, telling the story of sitting down to write a letter.

“It was just what it was: Exactly the letter I’d intended to write.”

Maybe I’ve missed more than I care to admit in life by not having the words when I needed them. So please be patient with me as I stumble through haikus and random story snippets, and litter the Happy Moron with literary detritus.