Donovan Kelly
Crummy But Good Writer with a Lighter Touch
Writing is a sneaky curse like poison ivy. You can go years without getting the itch. Then you pick up just the tiniest little tickle, scratch it a time or two, and suddenly you’re hooked for life. The poisonous leaves-of-three or a blank computer screen demanding words, I don’t know which is worse.
Yes I do. Poison ivy at least won’t crawl into bed with you and snap you right out of a good sleep. Wake you up and tease you with the shadow of a new idea that just passed by. Catching up to that story is like grabbing a wet licorice stick in a pile of black snakes in the darkest place God ever made.
“Guess you take the itch you are given.”
Turning on the light and the writing machine to track down the story means the end of sleep. A bleary eyed struggle until day breaks, you break or the story breaks, whichever comes first. Not getting up means tossing and turning with what you hope is a wet licorice stick crawling around in your head all night. Poison ivy or writing. Guess you take the itch you’re given.
If you have a youngster hanging around the house, you have seen young itches being developed and tested. Most common is the experimental what-if itch, a time when children do things just to see how adults will react. They pout, throw toys, or refuse to sit still, as if they have an itch to be an office worker.
My worst what-if itch is when my little darling gets a poker face and says, “Paw, I don’t like you anymore.” She knows I will react. And I do.
The first two times, I tried to confuse her by saying, “I don’t like Paw either.” The third through fifth times she said it, I bluffed with, “Well then I’m going to the library” and I pretended to go out the front door until she stopped me. The sixth time, when I bluffed and headed for the door, she handed me a map she had drawn on how to get to the library. Point, set, match to the four-year-old poker player.
I also blame my kinder readers for helping to keep me awake at night. When a reader or an editor says “Keep up the good work,” or even just a “Golly, your writing doesn’t stink nearly as much as it used to,” the writing curse turns into a terrible sweet addiction, one you just got to keep itching and scratching. But I reserve the right to switch back to poison ivy at any time.