On Being a Writer

I'm not sure what writing is like for those of the female persuasion, but, for me, being a writer is cool. We get to be cynical and sardonic in a way so many writers are, and to be loud, boisterous and argumentative in a way those with out the required social graces can be. The good writers always send the house wine back; the less talented would never surrender this nectar for the soul.. Few of us get haircuts and fewer among us bother to shave. Our wives nag us, providing the necessary excuse to stay our late, drink booze and smoke really great stuff. Few writers are normal and sure as heck, many are capable of getting stirred up and creating a fuss.

The really good one are allowed access to the dining tables of the Algonquin where they might enjoy the company of folks from the New Yorker, savor the kinds of coffee that provides a hell of a kick start, sip expensive champagne from the tables on Mount Olympus, and smoke Cuban, Honduran or Jamaican cigars taken from sterling silver humidors. These writers are also seen on the streets of Broadway in their tuxedos after opening night for one of their shows. They are the ones with the classy broads on their arms who are headed for a night club where the coffee cups on their saucer will shake, and cigarette smoke mixed with the fumes of gin will permeate the air while they await the verdicts of the critics from the New York Times. The poorer writer like me get to make noise with our soup, or sip on a bottle of cheap wine while sitting on the curb in the company of other winos. The really good bad writers do the latter with aplomb.

All things are possible. In reference to may writers, decadent, depravity, and hedonistic and child like behavior come to mind as useful adjectives

But if a writer has to have a big head of hair, fit smartly into a tweed jacket and possess the coordination and talent to light a pipe with one hand while pouring a decent scotch out of a silver hip flask with the other to be acceptable, I'm in a bucket of horse manure. At the present time I'm having a great deal of difficulty finding an affordable pair of loafers with the fresh smell of Italian cow shit on them and locating a joint that has the class to provide an inexpensive bowl of macaroni and a carafe of potable table wine. I'm short, round and homely, have little hair, and possess a limited vocabulary that I learned from a mom and pop born in the old country.

Like many writers, I have developed the discipline required to throw out the dame who I hoped would follow me home, sit at a writing table and open a vein with a sharp knife given me by one of my five ex wives who are incapable of understanding me, and crank out a couple sheets of prose that will require much revision and more of "the hair from the dog that bit me". On better days, I will undertake the futile exercise of dropping a finished manuscript into a mail box on my way down the street in search of coffee and a stale toasted bagel that comes with cream cheese. If I am fortunate a former paramour will present herself in time to provide the necessary coins. If I am truly fortunate, a dumb editor with the intellect to grasp the awesome brilliance of my manuscript will read it and send money via return mail..

My goals for the short term future are simply to not only capture the attention of a rich dame who might understand my more human wants and needs, but also to be capable of providing the nurturing properties of understanding, human compassion, and funds required to placate the greed of the money lenders, numerous bartenders, and the demands of those many nefarious others who are at the gates.Failing to achieve this single goal will doom me to a continuing existence of bartending at an undignified oasis where undignified gentlemen get toilet hugging or knee walking drunk, embarking on the career of a pool shark and risk getting my thumbs busted, or maybe gather the poise required to wash and wax cars in a used car lot. A complete failure on my part to demonstrate at least one of these skills will necessitate my immediate departure on the next bus out...