DECEMBER’S REMINDER TO THE WRITER TO BE THANKFUL, NOT GREEDY

In my halcyon days of authordom, I could spend the better part of a day working at my craft......then, stretch, contemplate something or other.... do push-ups, run five kilometres, drink a half pint of Scotch and then relax beneath the haloof my pipe smoke. If I tried even half that today, I’d be hunched over and in great pain for the next two weeks or more. While it’s not entirely an occupationally inspired condition, as I can blame an active sporting life for many other bodily injuries, over the decades, my posture at the keyboard has been a serious strain on neck and back that’s for sure. If I’d followed the advice of my typing teachers, and paid more attention to good posture, maybe, just maybe I could still work at the keyboard for a couple of hours, and not feel the need for physiotherapy.

The problem with writing as it applies to this scribe, in particular, is that I have always been a passionate writer. How so? My wife has long reminded me how my feelings for a writing project can be determined by looking at, for example, my rough work. When I first started complaining about neck and wrist problems, she said, “Come here; I want to show you something.” She showed me the writing pad I had been working on just that afternoon. Just as a sidebar note, I started writing my copy again after I had killed some of the best typewriters ever made, and found it almost impossible to get replacement ribbons. At that point I had already killed two word processors in one year. NO idea why? I just did! So I took up handwriting again to submit my editorial copy, and imprinted with a pen what I had done with typewriter keys since I began writing in the mid 1970's.

Looking over Suzanne’s shoulder, down onto the notepad, she was pointing to the imprint my pen was making on the other pages below the one I had been working on. “So?” I answered. “What does that prove?” “Well,” she said, flipping through the other pages below, “Look at how far your pen has imprinted down into the pad.” Sure enough, I had gone through about five pages where you could actually read the imprints when held to the light. “You’re pressing down so hard you’re gouging into the paper below,” she pointed out, even faintly to the sixth and seventh blank pages. I couldn’t believe it. “And that’s not all,” she said, pushing the pad across the table. “Look at this?” “Suzanne was pointing at the table top. There it was. My writing imprints onto the wood of the table-top. It didn’t happen that day, and had obviously occurred on an occasion when I only had a few pieces of paper below the one I was working on.....but the evidence was clear that I had been writing, and pressing down so hard that I left a deeply ingrained word trail. I was stunned to see this evidence. No wonder my arms and shoulders hurt for hours after a writing jag.

When I began writing on a typewriter, even the portable I had for university, it required a heavy touch.....and I always adjusted the lever on the side to allow for this......because I liked the feel of resistance, I suppose, when making a point. In the newsroom of the old Herald-Gazette, in Bracebridge, we had massive old Underwoods and when those things sang.....they sang beautifully, and when there was a full newsroom of reporters working to deadline, it was as if I was sitting in the office of the Toronto Star, The Globe and Mail or the New York Times. And we all knew the cadence, and what our contribution was to the daily din. As we were passionate about our work and loved to write generally, our enthusiasm for our craft did indeed transfer from emotion to physical typing. To this day if I’m particularly moved by a topic, or angry about some local news item, my family will often note “Dad’s working up an editorial again!” My editorials have always been a tad more aggressive than general column work.

The point is, I suppose, I’ve been physically harming myself for decades, doing the work I adore. When Suzanne suggests to me that a computer keyboard doesn’t require the imprint of hammer to anvil, I chortle to myself, because after all these years, I just can’t turn it off no matter how aware I am of the over-zealous method of composition. My son even recorded me once from several rooms away, so I could hear the thwacking of innocent keys myself......seeing as up close and personal, I couldn’t hear my own abuses. Fact is, when I truly think about it, I have always known my typing was as aggressive as my writing.....I don’t have many vices other than this......I don’t smoke, don’t drink any more, and I’ve given up hockey goalkeeping. So I feel that this audible pounding of the keys is a true-to-life characteristic of the writer who lives at Birch Hollow, above The Bog. As for personal injury, yeah, that bothers me a tad as well. But when I make a conscious attempt to stop the bone-jarring imprints, I might as well drain off the pent-up anticipation......because creativity is my most reliable outlet.....versus the spontaneous combustion I’m sure would happen, if and when I cease being able to compose these tomes.

So when I get aches and pains.....I remind myself about the joy of suffering for one’s craft!

If you’re a writer......I shouldn’t be your mentor. Have a good December. I’m going for a walk over to The Bog with Bosko the dog.....hopefully I’ll find something more to write about before lunch!