I’m Your Tutor, I Know Everything
Comfort in Anger
I woke in darkness to the sound of the surf beating on the shore. I pulled on a t-shirt and shorts, preferring to wait for my shower until after breakfast, then called to the dogs. The ocean tosses irritably, further pushed uncomfortable by a weather system a hundred miles away.
Love is a strange thing. There are the times when I remember softly the silly, private moments shared; those that aid in the continuity of a relationship, the familiarity, and cohesiveness, the sense of couple-ness. But, then, well then there are the times when I have to grit my teeth in exasperation at the numerous, thoughtless actions — wondering how I arrived at this point.
The answer: too many irritating moments.
Sometimes, being close to something just as angry will help, which is why I walked beside the ocean this morning. April comes by, and winter starts for home. The morning broke clear, no fog, no rain. I can almost taste the summer. Sadly, the years cannot go back whence they came. Each year reflected as a battered kite caught in a tree; a watch spring is unwinding and expiring, life is running out or just running like children to houses when the darkness comes.
I want to tell you a secret — honestly. However, I cannot tell you this secret until you’ve read through this piece of work (without cheating) and heard what I have to say.
You out there, you beginning writer, you cannot wear your heart as a profession. Sure you want to write novels and, of course, it would be nice to have a little worldly respect for the effort you have put into it. C’mon, admit it.
To some extent we are all handicapped with this ambition. Some of us won’t admit to it, preferring to say it is simply a pastime, an artistic outlet for our weirdness.
Most of you are not wealthy. Some of you are students, studying to become vets or physicians or lawyers. Naturally, your parents will be very proud; you wanting to be a doctor and all, but inside your desire is be wealthy, that’s right isn’t it? Okay — okay, don’t get your knickers all twisted with trying to make the point that money is not important to you. And, yes, I know you want to make a difference in the world. But most of you are creatively handicapped, so any chance of writing your way to success, while attractive, is quite unlikely. Correct?
We older ones are more sensitive about the truth. We tell ourselves that writing is occupational therapy, after walking the dog in the glorious free open air, roaming over heather-covered hills, we settle down in our studies, in the kitchen, on a park bench, to write because in one way or another we are failing.
Writing is where we can run and play, victimize, and pleasure our characters because in life we’re pretty hopeless at it. The best writers are by far the biggest failures at anything else.
If you’re going to write, then write.
Look, come over ‘ere, I’ll tell you the secret of writing. You are useless to the story if your life is ordered and settled. My advice would be to take a two-week holiday and on your return, give it up.
If you’re in any way crippled by life, been stricken with fever at some point, lost your memory on more than a couple of occasions, like St. Bernard dogs, enjoy picking up children just so they can spittle on your face, and make every effort to avoid family events because you see the lot of them as simple-minded folk, keep on writing.
I’m your tutor. I know everything.
© Harry Hogg 2019
