Writer's Cramp

Me and Ernest

2006-03-03T10:39:00.000-08:00

I know why Ernest Hemingway killed himself.

I fantasize that Hemingway and I have some things in common: not a lot of things, but some. Don't laugh. He and I are both writers...well, in the same sense that a high school player and Joe Montana both have experiences as quarterbacks. E.H. started off as a reporter, and I have done my share of news writing. He put manhood and action as a big priority both in his life and in his writing, and I tend to focus on them both as well, although I have never been to war or fought a bull.

And as I read about Hemingway's life, he strikes me as someone who lusted for life, who took life by the udders and tried to milk it for all it was worth. He was also obsessive. He wasn't much of a family man. He had three marriages and lots of kids, but not many of them missed him when he was gone.

And that's probably where my comparison becomes a contrast. As much as I love writing, I love my wife and my children more. Shelly and I have been married 30 years, and it doesn't show any signs of cooling off anytime in the future. And if having a good marriage and family is an indication that I am not committed enough to be considered a serious writer, then so be it.

But I am obsessive. Anyone in my family will attest to that. That's what brings me back to my original line in this entry. I know what killed Ernest Hemingway.

If you spend your entire life doing something, spend your time and effort working to improve your tradecraft to the point where you can write a decent sentence, and then a paragraph, and then a page, and then a novel, the creation overcomes the creator. Writers become what they write. It's a sense of identity. I have heard from many professional writers that you have to separate the livelihood from life, that's after all, it's just a job. But it is not just a job. It is an identity. And I challenge any established writer to prove otherwise. To get to the point where you are publishing regularly, where you have an established name, you have to let it become part of you. And every time you write something, you are sharing a little part of yourself.

We tell beginning writers to put your heart and soul into your writing, but once it goes to the editor, you have to learn to separate your ego from your work. But we are really trying to convince ourselves of that. We are preaching, and the sinners we are trying to reach are ourselves.

And then when we have dug that pocket knife deep into our own bodies and extracted a pound of flesh to deliver to the editor, and they have pronounced it good, or at least acceptable, we have to turn around and do it again, and again, and again.

To mix my metaphors, we go to the well again and again, until one day we go to the well one too many times. We find that instead of pulling up cool, refreshing water we find mud. Or worse yet, dust.

Hemingway was an old man when he shot himself. Or at least older than I am. His writing is a reflection of the life he had: the excitement, the danger, the regrets. He had moved beyond the stage in his life where he could take great physical risks. He had sired and raised children, and written about his relationship with them. And in the end he was left with himself: a lonely, old man.

True, Hemingway was an alcoholic, which naturally led him, as it does others, to abuse. But other alcoholics haven't shot themselves. Alcohol was the fuse, but his life was the dynamite.

In a sense, he realized that writing won't keep you warm at night, or take care of you when you are old. Only loved ones can do that. Obsession got him success, but not happiness.

It's important to know the difference.

Work Ethics Get in the Way

2006-02-21T05:23:00.000-08:00

Somewhere along the line, I got this idea that the more you did, the better the world would think of you. Maybe it came when I realized that I wasn't my father, and learned that I was good at doing great volumes of work. Not necessary excellent work, mind you, but adequate. That came from writing hundreds and hundreds of news stories through the years. You learn to put it all together in your head quickly and write it, often without a lot of polish.

When I was working to finish my PhD, I motivated myself by saying that I would go back to writing books when I was done. Then when I was done, I gave myself the goal of writing a book each summer when I was off from school. That amount of work sounds pretty ludicrous to most people, but I knew that I could do it. And having great goals, even when I didn't accomplish them, motivated me to do more.

But maybe more isn't what was needed. As I told one of my writing students recently, it's not enough to know how to write. You have to have something to say. I spent two months last summer writing the rough draft of a novel, only to have a less than enthusiastic reaction to it from those who read it. The obvious answer is that I need to take the time to do another draft, and probably another, and another. That's where the rub comes. Years of cranking out volumes and reams of writing has not really prepared me to slow down and focus on quality. And that's a whole different mind set.

Writing is such a mind game. The battle has to be won between the ears a long time before words ever appear on paper. You have to know what you are going to say before you say it. More than that, the clearer your vision is in your own head, the clearer your will be able to make your writing, and the clearer you will be able to recreate it in someone else's head. So that's the struggle I am going through now.

I have been caught up in mass production for too many years. Now I have to switch gears and lower my scope. Less is more. By expecting less of myself (volume) I can, in the long run, expect more (quality). But I guess I am losing flexibility as I get older. Easier said than done, as they say.

More than anything, I have to get my priorities straight. I have to realize that I am never going to be rich from my writing. I am a big fish in a small pond, to clutch at another cliche. I do well in the dwindling Adventist Book Center market. I have received positive comments from editors. I have to decide if that is my domain, or if I am called into other circles. And I have to figure out the measure of my success.

Just thinking out loud, I guess.

***

Writing versus Teaching Writing

2006-02-18T07:47:00.000-08:00

My daddy used to say, "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach." Well, he would roll over in his grave to know that his son was a teacher, doing the thing he thought the least of.

He was never much for formal education. He didn't get his high school diploma. It was the Great Depression, and by the age of 15 he was on his own--hitchiking across America and back several times, riding freight trains, and falling in with the wrong crowd. He got his education from The School of Hard Knocks. Later, the U.S. Coast Guard/U.S. Navy (they were merged during WW II) gave him further education in diesel machinery, welding, and electronics. He dinked around after the War, got married, had kids, and finally ended up working for General Electric's Atomic Power Division. He was the pride of his family. He could make anything, fix anything, do anything.

Along I came; the fourth of four kids, and the only son. He was proud of me, and everyone just knew that I was going to be a twig off the same tree. But I was not my father. I grew up in a different time, in a different context. He tried to get me interested in science, especially metallurgy. (Mom, on the other hand, wanted me to be either a minister or a physician). Finally they gave up and realized that I wasn't going to follow either path.

I did well in school. I was the first in my family to get a college degree. Later I added my Master's and then my PhD. Now I find myself on a university campus.

How did I get here? Well, I have two explanations. First, and most important, I am a firm believer in allowing God to lead in your life. He said, "Time to move to Texas," and my wife and I gulped and followed. In retrospect, I know it was the right thing at the right time. We had been living in Idaho at the time--had been there for 10 years--but it was time to move on. So here we are.

Second, I have always looked for jobs that allow me time to work on writing. My publishing house job had tied me up four days a week, but I had Fridays to pursue other things. Here, I have summers, Christmas vacation and Spring vacation to do that. And so I continue to try to write so that I will know what I am talking about when I go into the classroom.

Trouble is, I am not sure that any teacher is 100% confident of what they know when they stand in front of the classroom. Bob, my colleague and department chair, advised me early on: "If you don't know something, just tell the students so. Don't try to bluff your way through it. They will know." And so I have tried to be honest in my approach to the topics I teach.

But then I get into situations where I end up teaching something I am totally unfamiliar with: Media Law and Ethics, Development (fund raising), Interpersonal Communication. To paraphrase Dr. McCoy (Bones): "I'm a writer, not a bricklayer (or lawyer, or whatever)!" So in those cases, I am forced to go back and become intimately familiar with the textbook, and whatever supplemental material I can find. And what I find happening is that because it is more of a challenge, I actually enjoy teaching that class more than I do my writing classes. It's an adventure for me as well as the students.

Don't get me wrong. I love teaching, and I especially love teaching writing. But I sometimes feel like I am putting myself in a position where I am coming before students as an authority. Yes, I have been published over the years in various and sundry forms. Yes, I have been an editor. But I am stumbling through this fantasyland/nightmare called the Writing Process just like everyone else. After more than 30 years of writing I still get rejection, and have to deal with it. I can't teach like Aristotle or Plato and pretend I have all the answers. Because if I did, I would write that breakthrough novel that would make it unneccessary for me to rub shoulders with the teeming masses ever again.

Instead, I muddle through like everyone else, hoping that God will see fit one day to let me be a "success,"--whatever that is. Realistically, I am just happy that I am able to do what I enjoy doing, while getting paid for it.

2006-02-17T19:03:00.000-08:00

This shot of me was taken by one of my students a few years ago. I liked it so much I used it on the back cover of two of my books--even if my mouth is partially open. Thanks, Jason Mustard, wherever you are.

Well, one has to start somewhere....

2006-02-17T18:07:00.001-08:00

Let me introduce myself. Yes, I am Dr. Robinson, but not the kind of doctor who helps people. I am a college professor in Texas. At least that's what I get the most pay for.

But in a lot of ways I consider myself more of a writer than a professor. Being a writer has been my ambition since I was in college many years ago, and the jobs that I have had since then have been because I wanted something that could (1) allow me to support my family while (2) doing something directly or indirectly related to my desire to write. So since college I have editing a weekly newspaper, worked in hospital public relations, been a book and magazine editor, done research for a publishing house, and most recently, stood in front of classes full of students pretending I know what I am talking about.

In the meantime, I have gotten a few books published, as well as articles and stories in various newspapers and magazines. As this thing continues, I will share more about those books, and where you might learn more about them. I also have stuff that never got published. One of these days I will probably put up a full-blown website and share those works with whoever is interested.

In any case, this is my first posting, so I will say I have officially starting my blog-site. Now I will be curious if anyone reads it!

Dr. Robinson