I left work early today, tired from my trip. The writers strike complicates things; productions are stopped running out of material to shoot. If nothing is written then there is no direction to follow, nowhere to go, everything grinds to a halt. It is hard to determine which side is right, especially knowing both sides of the argument and having friends, associates in both camps. It is hard not to understand the reasons motivating WGA demands even as I worry about long term consequences as pinpointed by the threat of not allowing material to be written for the award shows. After all the awards will take place, material will be needed and if the material is not written by guild members and if said material tickles funny bones… what would that mean for the WGA and us members? What does all this mean for the future of scripted television? What does all this have to do with the act, the need to write?

So many questions and only one thing is certain: I need to write. I’m often asked why I write which always leads to how I write. After moving into my very first apartment, my neighbors understandably wanted to get to know me. My odd hours were always featured in these conversations as they sought to find out what kept me up so late at night, or rather until dawn. “I write” was my innocent reply at first, thinking it sufficient. I soon realized that is was not and found myself facing an inquisition as to what I wrote, who I wrote for, etc... I decided that the best and most humorous way to cut short their questions was to answer that I wrote postcards. That reply definitely stalled conversations since nobody, including me, understood what I was talking about. It was a stroke of genius because by simply adding ‘postcards’ to the verb ‘write’ they left me alone. However, one day, a neighbor a little bit more curious or a little bit smarter than the others, typed my name into a search engine and the inquisition started up again. I ended up moving and since then I avoid putting my name on the mailbox and more importantly, when people ask me what I do in life, I tell them I read and it is a truthful answer since I always re-read what I write and am an incurable bookworm to boot. Nonetheless, I want to share with you ‘how’ and in the process attempt to free myself from the ‘why’ of my writing.
The “why” is invariably tainted with derision and sarcasm, disbelief and disdain – why would I write when I could have a profession more ‘suitable’ to societal norms. Only writing, and presenting yourself as an author, leads to questions. It’s uncommon; it intrigues and worries; it is outside the box. Think about it, a doctor is rarely asked why chose to be a doctor; even cleaning ladies are never asked about their career choice. Writing was not a choice I made, I write because I love to write. In fact, I need to write. I have to admit that I can’t keep myself from writing. I have attempted at different moments in my life to contain the words that crowded my mind seeking release on a blank page and thus taking their place in the world. I truly tried to shut them away, building mental dams but each time they seeped through, drowning everything else out. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t help myself, a pen would creep into my hand, and the words would burst free, spilling out. It seemed that if I did not free them I would go crazy.

At the same time, writing is most certainly a form of madness. There is nothing reasonable about giving birth to fictional characters, nurturing them, letting them live and have their say. To let your imagination run wild before constructing it into a coherent form must be symptomatic of some sort of mental illness. That is why I don’t think a person can one day wake up and choose to write; it is something a they are born with whether they recognize it or not. There is in the very act of writing something self-evident and in its’ practice something rather like an obligation. As soon as I was old enough to read I knew my destiny was to write. I clearly recall spending nights as a young boy hiding under the covers with a flashlight and a pencil, scribbling. My parents soon found me out but did not try and make me stop. Deep in my heart I know that without the freedom to write I would not survive. I need to write, it’s a question of personal equilibrium and I find it impossible to lie to a white page. I don’t believe it possible to write without conviction. I put everything I am in my writing; I bare my soul calling on my strengths and my weaknesses. I tailor and twist my sentences, searching for the perfect word because the written word should not lie. This seeming vulnerability is in fact the greatest ally a writer can have, it liberates and gives the greatest satisfaction writing can ever provide: knowing that you were sincere.

Whatever the reason or the cause may be, it is the only way for me to live, it is the only way for me to breathe. That is why I write. I write because I have no choice, I am addicted to words and their magic. I write to avoid falling victim to mental lethargy and the ensuing mediocrity. Writing is like loving; the more you give the more you get in return. I write and find myself elsewhere, beyond the words themselves.

That said I should explain ‘how’ I write. Call me old-fashioned but I scratch and scribble on sheets of paper, lots of paper. I rarely number pages before the words have finished their escape. I follow the hills and valleys they form until there is nothing left to follow. I don’t like hitting keys on a keyboard; I lose the rhythm and find myself lost. I need to feel the words as they emerge, to trace them with my fingers and hear their glee as my pen inscribes them on paper. The words turned into sentences are never properly aligned; the page I place them on is always filled with doodles and scratched out sentences of words sometimes stillborn. Words lead to other words and sometimes they jump off one page to follow an idea on another and sometimes they get lost or take you where you never expected to go. Everyone has a preferred writing instrument, either pencil, pen. It doesn’t really matter if it is wood, metal, or plastic, liquid, solid or gel – all that matters is that is comfortable in your hand. All that matters are the transformation of seemingly random words into a story. The process is magic, in fact it seems to me that the emotions a text transmits are hidden between the lines, in the spaces between words. I believe that the intensity of feeling contained in a sentence is found not in the words composing it but in what is not said, in the silences. In my opinion this strength, this intensity a text carries can only result from the alchemy of pen and paper. To my mind it is similar to a painter in front of a blank canvas. If he suddenly finds himself without the smells of paint and turpentine, if he immediately can access effects without having to trace them, his painting will no doubt be pretty but something will be missing. His feelings will not be ingrained in the texture, and the painting will have no soul. I doubt that a visitor at the MoMA would spend as much time in front of a well framed poster of a Van Gogh as he or she would in front of the original. One of my close friends also writes. He always tries to persuade me to use a computer rather than pen and paper. He tells me about the incredible opportunities word processing offers, “Underline a word, click and presto there’s a synonym”. I remain unconvinced, thinking of dead batteries, of programs crashing and virus-infected laptops. He tells me, “I’ve got back-ups, anti-virus programs and pre-charged spare batteries” – every weapon imaginable to kill any difficulty he might encounter. Whereas the only weapons I’ve got are a pen and some paper. They are not even weapons really, just simple tools that require no technical support, no extra batteries. All they need is me. They’re patient, they don’t blink furiously when I hesitate and they don’t go to sleep if I pause a moment too long. Granted they can’t power up a program nor search for a synonym but I think they have something that can’t be found in the flickering glow of an LCD screen: a soul.

I agree that digitalizing is a necessary step, but not the first. It only comes much later, once the labor of creating is accomplished. My readers will probably never read my hand-written pages but I know without doubt that the emotional element remains when typed into the computer – even if barely. I also freely admit that to pull together a typed manuscript of 300 some pages I need over 800 handwritten pages. It doesn’t bother me because I enjoy writing. Even pages tossed aside have a role to play in my creative process; they are the roads not taken, paths seemingly leading nowhere for now but which may eventually take me somewhere unforeseen.

But I must stop, I have to stop writing: as a writer I'm on strike but as a business owner involved in the industry I have a full plate dealing with fallout from the strike. Aspirin please!