September 20: Making Love to the World, Born to Write, Saint Marty's Day Nog

Billy helped Trout deliver his papers, driving him from house to house in the Cadillac.  Billy was the responsible one, finding the houses, checking them off.  Trout's mind was blown.  He had never met a fan before, and Billy was such an avid fan.

Trout told him that he had never seen a book of his advertised, reviewed, or on sale.  "All these years," he said, "I've been opening the window and making love to the world."

"You must surely have gotten letters," said Billy.  "I've felt like writing you letters many times."

Trout held up a single finger.  "One."

"Was it enthusiastic?"

"It was insane.  The writer said I should be President of the World."

It turned out that the person who had written this letter was Eliot Rosewater, Billy's friend in the veterans' hospital near Lake Placid.  Billy told Trout about Rosewater.

"My God--I thought he was about fourteen years old," said Trout.

"A full grown man--a captain in the war."

"He writes like a fourteen-year-old," said Kilgore Trout.

I like Kilgore Trout more and more.  Trout is the quintessential frustrated writer.  Every day, waking up, opening his window, and making love to the world with language.  He continues to write and publish even though it has never made him money.  Continues even though he's not even sure if anyone is reading his books.  He writes and writes, perhaps because that is what he was born to do.

It's rare to know what you are born to do.  Personally, I can't think of a single individual in my life who is living the dream, who gets up every day excited to go to work, excited to see what the day holds.  Maybe a few retirees who seem to have mission and purpose, who know exactly what their contribution to the universe will be.  Other than that, it's about punching time clocks, collecting paychecks, and counting down to Friday at 5 p.m.

I have to say that I sort of know that I was put on this planet to be a writer.  Writing is what makes me happy, fills me up.  Given the choice between sitting on a beach or writing at a desk, I would choose the a desk every time.  That's how I can say with a good deal of certainty that I am supposed to be a writer.

However, I have responsibilities.  A wife.  Kids.  House and cars.  My wife has bipolar and needs expensive medications.  My son has ADHD and needs expensive meds, as well.  I'm a diabetic with an insulin pump.  Again, expensive medications and supplies.  So, responsibilities get in the way of my passion.  Most nights, I'm too tired to even think about sitting down with my journal.

So I write in stolen moments.  Five minutes before I clock in for work.  Ten minutes at lunch.  A half hour before I teach a class.  I write on scraps of paper, napkins, used envelopes.  I cobble together my writerly life from the leftovers of my day, and I'm happy for those leftovers. 

This afternoon, after I publish my blog posts, I'm not going to write anything fun.  I'm going to type up a handout on an assignment for the mythology class that I'm currently teaching.  After that's done, if I'm lucky, I may have fifteen or twenty minutes of REAL writing.  My writing.

If I'm lucky.  And I will be very thankful for that time.

Only 15 more days left to Saint Marty's Day.  Time to whip up a batch of Saint Marty's Day nog, which is a lot like eggnog, but with Bailey's Irish Cream.