Nobody Reads This Page – “Writer Reflections”

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

I have reminisced here before about growing up in a household where creative wordsmithing was a craft woven into the fabric of our genetic tapestry. With the holiday season again holding sway, I am moved to ponder this lineage in personal terms. For some, embarking on a journey-in-print comes from an inspirational moment, a chance occurrence, or a trip through the halls of a college or university. But for myself, it is simply a work of logic. I learned how to hammer the keyboard by osmosis. Lessons were gained through observation and practice, not a formal classroom.

 

My father was the tutor and mentor.

 

I mimicked his routine by setting up my own office in our Virginia basement, around the age of nine. Or perhaps a year later. This involved a plastic typewriter made in England, and a plywood square on top of a trash barrel. But most of my early work was done with a pen and notebook. I jotted down ideas and story fragments in real time. Some became full-length manuscripts or poems, while others simply provided exercise to keep my quill in motion.

 

When I stopped looking upon writing in terms of the yield alone, and instead as an activity to be constantly pursued, my mind was opened. This altered view was one I adopted from Ralph Waldo Emerson, as filtered through the pages of motorcycle journals such as Cycle World, Easyriders, or Back Street Heroes from the United Kingdom.

 

“It’s not the destination, it’s the journey.”

 

In the early 1980’s, my bent toward typing out creative prose took on more immediacy as I was stalled between a brief encounter with TV production at Channel 13 in New York State, and music endeavors. I felt adrift and alone. But my habit of putting thoughts onto paper returned to offer direction. This kept me grounded when I needed it most.

 

To help with my text-borne labor, a friend of the family offered to sell an office machine from his barn collection. A relic that could still be used professionally by someone like myself, who had lots of ideas but a threadbare budget. It was a bulky, non-electric Royal KMM typewriter, meant to sit with authority atop an oversized desk in a traditional environment. This workhorse had lots of vintage mojo, but caused friends to roll their eyes and shrug. It had long been surpassed by a generation of newer, more sophisticated tools.

 

Of course, I did not care. The archaic mule fit my minimalist personality with perfection.

 

The sharp metal of its stamped keys often cut through sheets of parchment that I used as my base for letters and documents. This amused those on the other end of my linguistic pipeline. Some complained that they were showered with bits of confetti, after opening letters and stories. I tried to use a lighter touch when working, a deft approach that regularly failed. My emotions often swelled when composing lines of description. This had me pounding away like a mad organist making cathedral walls resonate with wild tonalities.

 

It also chewed up the ink ribbon, eventually. I found a suitable replacement from a different model, and wound it onto the original spools. This left me with blackened fingertips, but a sense of having developed coping skills that were worthy of celebration.

 

Having returned home to Ohio, my obsession seemed to get lost in between career advancement and family priorities. But then, in the twilight of maturity and retirement, I found that it was once again a tool for my survival. Though explaining this methodology proved to be more difficult than I expected.

 

Living in a neighborhood where alcohol, horseplay, and social activities took precedence, my confession of such secretive pursuits seemed to evoke confusion and disbelief. Every time I would speak about being an avid scribe, the response made me chill with embarrassment.

 

“YOU DO WHAT? WRITE? UMM... LIKE J. K. ROWLING OR STEVEN KING? HA HA HA!”

 

Nothing that flowed from my pen or keyboard had the literary punch of such notable authors. Yet attaining that kind of market success was not my aim. I looked on it as being a routine guided by family traditions. Like working out physically, for good health. Mentally clearing the cobwebs and refreshing my brain mass by staying busy.

 

Having been confronted with this sort of critical indifference on so many occasions, I eventually learned to answer any query in more basic terms. Instead of mentioning long hours spent in front of my computer screen, I would smile when delivering simple explanations that fit the groove. Perhaps something about drinking beer and eating salty snacks, while watching sports competition. That change helped to keep me from becoming a target.

 

A recent encounter made me stumble off the path, however.

 

I saw friends in front of a local supermarket, who were manning a red kettle for the Salvation Army. Their cheer in receiving donations sounded authentic and inviting. But when I paused to make conversation, this unplanned encounter loosened my lips. The fellow and his wife were both good-natured and curious, as we had not seen each other in a long time. So when they inquired about my retirement hobbies, I gushed with details over having 34 books for sale, online. Spitting on the sidewalk would have been less puzzling for them to consider. I got blank stares and gasps, before grins and muttering took hold.

 

 

“BOOKS? WELL, WHAT DO YOU WRITE ABOUT? SITTING IN YOUR TRAILER?”

 

I should have claimed to be spending my days hunting woodland animals, or building festive holiday displays out of discarded, wood pallets. That kind of report would have put me in better stead with these volunteering acquaintances from Ashtabula County. Unfortunately, I only thought of this after my mouth had opened.

 

“Well, all kinds of things really, music, song lyrics, history, popular culture, and satire...”

 

Both of my benefactors sighed loudly and folded their hands. The vacant glare of their expressions had an intensity of laser beams focused on my reddened face. I sensed that it was time to graciously disappear with my cart of groceries.

 

“SURE, SURE, MAYBE YOU’LL MAKE IT BIG SOMEDAY, RIGHT! YOU NEVER KNOW, RODNEY! YOU NEVER KNOW!”

 

I nodded and walked away in silence. Seeking accolades was something not coded in my DNA. Gaining rewards of any kind seemed wholly beside the point. My benefit was in the action itself. Motion as an evidence of life continuity. A spark in the cosmic continuum, offered to praise the creator. Whoever and whatever that entity might be, in unseen terms.

 

As I turned a key in the ignition, one enduring thought gave me comfort. I knew that those in my bloodline would understand. My journey was their journey. And indeed, a common star by which to navigate.