I know that most writers have to work at another job to survive in this world, which leaves them little time and energy to write. I’m one of the extremely fortunate ones who has the time and energy to write. So let me fill you in on a typical day in this writer’s life:
I wake up around 7:30 and make my breakfast while my wife Joan is busy studying Latin or ancient Greek at the kitchen table. While eating and sipping coffee, I’m simultaneously reading the morning paper and listening to the news on the radio.
At 9:15, it’s time for me to drive to the YMCA for my 9:45 water aerobics class (a.k.a. deep water running). I attend this class four days a week. (In the old days, before my right knee and two hips started bothering me, I’d go for a brisk walk down by the ocean six or seven days a week. I still walk, but only a couple of days a week now.) After a vigorous one-hour workout in the pool and a relaxing twenty minutes in the dry sauna, I take a shower. While dressing, there’s always someone in the locker room to shoot the breeze with about politics, economics, sports, movies, religion or the state of our health. It’s the only time of the day when I get a chance to socialize. Along with exercise and proper diet, I believe social interaction is a large part of a human being’s well-being.
After getting home from the Y at noon, I put a lunch together.
Around one o’clock, I get to my desk. For several hours that seem to go by too swiftly, I’m doing something related to writing. I’m either writing in my journal to chronicle my past or present life, or I’m writing in my journal as fast as I can to get an idea to write about. If an idea, such as a story, chapter, essay or poem, hits me, I’ll write like the wind to get it all down. Then comes the inevitable revising, which can take hours, days or even weeks. Included in all this is sending query letters to agents, sending my short works to magazines or posting something on my website.
Come seven o’clock, it’s eating dinner with Joan.
Around eight o’clock, I’ll unwind for a while by watching the news or a sporting event on TV. I’ll return to my desk around ten o’clock to either revise whatever I was working on or check the many e-mails I receive and answer those that warrant a reply.
Since I became a writer 40 years ago, I’ve had to dish out a lot more money than I’ve taken in, what with postage, paper, print cartridges, paying for editors, publicity and travel expenses. I would be a millionaire today if I made a dollar for every hour I’ve spent writing my novels, short stories, essays and poems. But I’m still happy I chose to be a writer. I feel like the great New York Yankee first baseman, Lou Gehrig, who said to an overflow crowd at Yankee Stadium on the day of his retirement in 1939, “Today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”
Although I write about writing, I refuse to tell people how to write or what to write. All I can do is try to inspire them to write and give them a picture of what the writing process is all about.
“Tell me,” you might ask, “what is the writing process all about?”
The process, simply stated, is: If you know what you want to write, write it. If you have a desire to write but don’t know what to say, then write anything that comes to mind without stopping. Do it for five, ten, thirty minutes or an hour.
As for me, I love to write when I don’t know what to write. I feel freer than a bird when that happens. I can soar, glide, swoop, dive, imagine, feel, think, go back in time, peer into the future or vent my anger. No one is telling me what to do. I’m free. I’m a writer. That’s why I consider myself the luckiest writer on the face of the earth.
Sometimes I say to myself, “I want to write about the writing process except I don’t know what to say. I’m lost. Here I am trying to inspire others to write and I can’t think of anything to write. What’s wrong with me?”
This is what is known as a case of writer’s block: a thick concrete block that stands a hundred feet high and extends miles to the right and left. You can’t go through it, over it or around it. “What am I to do?” I ask myself. “I’m stone-cold blank.”
So I start at the beginning by sitting down and reaching for a pen or turning on the computer.
But before I start writing, a question arises: “Should I force myself to write about the writing process or should I write whatever comes to mind?”
And I answer myself by saying, “If I have to force myself to write on a certain subject, forget it. What I’ll do is write whatever comes to mind. If something about the writing process turns up, I’ll keep writing about it.”
Uh-oh, but here comes the writer’s nemesis, the editor, who says, “You can’t write what comes to mind, it won’t make sense. There are certain rules to follow in writing. One of them is that you must plan ahead by making an outline. And then you must think of a topic sentence to get started on the right track.”
I say baloney to anything that prevents a writer from writing. I can write anything I want—and so can you. We have to tear ourselves away from that editor hovering over us. We have to wipe that constricting figure from our minds, take a deep breath and write the first thing that comes to mind—and to keep on writing.
It’s hard for a writer to bust through, climb over or go around that concrete slab known as writer’s block. To conquer that block, we have to symbolically dig under it by clawing and scratching our way into our subconscious, forgetting about outlines and topic sentences, forgetting about spelling, punctuation, grammar and all the other rules of writing and just letting ‘er rip.
When the woman Jake Massry lives with leaves him for another man because he can’t succeed as a writer, and his old world father, on his deathbed, orders him to get a “real” job, Jake, to get his head straight, hits the highways of America in his worn-out VW bus, Old Bones, in search of himself and his country.
It’s Spring 1974—prices are spiraling upward and President Nixon is embroiled in the Watergate fiasco. As he travels from place to place in Old Bones, Jake meets a colorful cast of characters: sexy women, gays, born-again Christians, philosophers, racists, bullies, and Gary Morse, a 19-year-old hitchhiker who possesses a large “red ruby” given to him by a young heiress.
Excerpt from Chapter 9 of Highway Sailor: “The Cops are Comin’”
As Gary and I were walking by the Maricopa County Courthouse, I said to my partner, “Do you want to go inside and watch a trial?”
“What for?”
“It interests me,” I said. “I thought it might interest you since you said you’re going to be a lawyer some day.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go in.”
We entered a brand-new building and asked the lady at the information counter if she could tell us what floors the trials were on.
“Floors six to ten,” she said.
We took the elevator to the seventh floor. We peeked through the small door-window of the first courtroom we came to and saw a trial in progress. We quietly entered the room and sat in the back row. Scattered around the room were about thirty Mexican-Americans, young and old, who turned in their seats and stared at us.
Their dark eyes asked, “Why you two hombres come into thees courtroom?”
“We’re just observing,” Gary and I replied with our blue eyes. “We just got into town and thought we’d see how the court system in Arizona is working. We see one of your kind is on trial. What did he do?”
“He keel Hector Morales.”
The jury was all white, made up mostly of older men and women. One of the jurors was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. The defendant’s attorney was questioning a witness for the defense.
“Were you in the bar when the fight broke out, Mr. Orosco?”
“Jes.”
“Who threw the first blow?”
“What you say?”
“Who started the fight?”
“Hector Morales.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Orosco?”
“Jes, I’m sure.”
“Where were you when the fight began, Mr. Orosco?”
“Seeting at a table weeth Miguel. Hector come over to our table and tell Miguel he was looking for heem.”
“Why was he looking for Miguel?”
“Hector wanted Miguel to stay away from hees seester.”
“You say that Hector Morales hit Miguel first?”
“Jes.”
“What did you do when the fight began, Mr. Orosco?”
“I stand back weeth the other men and watch.”
“At first they fought with their fists. Is that correct, Mr. Orosco?”
“Jes.”
“Then one of the men picked up a pool stick. Which man did that?”
“Hector Morales. He peek up the steek and sweeng at Miguel.”
“Tell us what happened next.”
“The steek heet the pool table and break een half. Then Miguel, he peek up a pool steek. He start sweenging at Hector and heet heem. Hector go down to the floor and Miguel keep heeting heem.”
Gary and I left the courtroom as soon as Mr. Orosco finished his testimony.
We were sitting on a bench next to the courthouse fountain, taking in the hot Arizona sun, when Gary said, “You wanna know what bugs me, Jake?”
“What?”
“When people just stand around and watch a fight. Why don’t they ever try stoppin’ one?”
“Come on, Gary, it’s human nature not to get involved in a fight.”
“That ain’t human nature, it’s what our society allows. Human nature is tryin’ to stop a fight.”
“A person could get killed if he stepped in to break up a fight. You read about it in the papers all the time.”
“It ain’t true, man, and I’m gonna tellya why. All you gotta do is use your brains. Like when these two guys in Brooklyn was fightin’ on the street one day, a whole bunch of people was just standin’ around and watchin’ the show. Everyone was sayin’ how ugly and terrible it was. Talk, man—talk is cheap. You know what I did? I yelled out real loud for everyone to hear, ‘The cops are comin’, the cops are comin’.”
“Did it work?”
“Man, it surprised me it worked so good. Them guys beat it outta there like two scared rabbits.”
“Gary, are you telling me the truth?”
“I ain’t puttinya on. It worked, it really worked.”
“Then that’s a fantastic deed you did for humanity. I’m proud of you, Gary. You deserve high praise for that.”
“Look, man, somethin’ like that ain’t gonna work all the time. But for sure you gotta do somethin’ instead of just sit on your ass and watch the world go by.”
Joshua Sampson, a white history teacher in a black ghetto high school, throws the book away and lets his students take charge of their own destiny. The place is South Central Los Angeles. The time is 1969. Sampson’s students, with his guidance, begin teaching his classes. He sits among these future leaders as they voice their opinions on Vietnam, freedom, Black Power, drugs, police harassment, the grading system, capital punishment and whether Sampson is teaching them or not.
Excerpt from Chapter 4 of A Class of Leaders: “First Period Class”
The alarm woke Jody and me at seven. I took a quick shower, shaved and brushed my teeth. I stepped into my black Sta-Prest Levi’s and put on a blue long-sleeve shirt. Jody was eating granola as I rushed into the kitchen. I poured a tall glass of orange juice and gulped it down. I grabbed my briefcase, kissed Jody good-bye and rushed out the door.
The morning air was cool as I drove bumper-to-bumper on the Santa Monica Freeway to the Harbor Freeway, but I could tell it was going to be another one of those warm, smoggy days. It took me forty-five minutes to get from West Hollywood to South Central L.A., arriving at school at 8:10. I went to the main office to sign in and to pick up any bulletins or notes in my box. I went to the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee and then started across campus. First period began at 8:20. As the bell rang, I walked into my room.
Ramona Williams was sitting at my desk ready to teach. She was now one of fourteen students enrolled in my first period.
“I’m gonna ax each one of ya your opinion of three questions I got,” she said in her slow, husky monotone to the dozen of us scattered around the room. “After you all give your opinion, I’m gonna give mine. The first question I got for you is: What do you think of the United States goin’ to the moon? Pamela, I’m callin’ on you first.”
Pamela Holmes, a very shy and fidgety girl, refused to answer. She shook her head and pleaded to Ramona with her eyes that she didn’t want to say anything. Two other students and I were frantically waving our arms.
“Put your hands down,” ordered Ramona. “I ain’t callin’ on no one till Pamela gives me her opinion.” With some inflection in her voice, Ramona said, “Come on, Pamela, no one’s gonna bite you.”
Pamela was stubborn; she just sat there and shook her head.
The room was silent. Finally, Ramona said, “Nancy, what do you think of the United States goin’ to the moon?”
An attractive girl was Nancy Vellon. She was bright, smart and always immaculately dressed. “The United States,” she said, “can do better things than go to the moon.”
“Like what?” asked Ramona.
“Like instead of spendin’ money on spaceships and things, they can spend it on the needs of the people.”
Ramona let everyone express his or her opinion. She was even going to give the sleeping Edward Coleman a chance.
“Edward,” she grunted. “Edward.”
He didn’t move.
“Edward!”
He slowly lifted his head and jerked himself upright. His eyes were half open as he swerved in his seat.
“You all right?” Ramona asked.
“Yeaah. Whaa youu waan?”
Ramona was disgusted. “Forget it, Edward. Go back to sleep,” and he put his head back on the desk. “Some people,” Ramona told the class, “they just a nuisance when they take drugs.”
A few students glanced at me, wondering what my reaction would be. I didn’t say a word, because I thought Ramona handled the situation better than I could have.
“The United States is just like Edward,” said Ramona. “He think everything just fine and dandy. But it really ain’t. He just dreamin’. And the United States is dreamin’ if they think goin’ to the moon is gonna help anything. If we don’t take care of business down here on Earth first, what’s the use of goin’ into space? People are starvin’ all over the world, and what we doin’? We sendin’ men to the moon.”
The next question Ramona asked was: What do you think of the United States being in Vietnam? A few students had already given their opinion when a girl walked into the room and handed me a note. Mr. Thomas, the principal, wanted to see Darnell Blue at once, and so I handed Darnell the note. He looked at it and left the room. Ten seconds later he was standing at the doorway, gesturing for me to step outside with him.
Ramona continued teaching as Darnell and I stood in the empty, hollow-sounding hallway. He was nervous. Beads of sweat were running down his shiny black forehead. He started to ask me something, but cut it short. He looked desperate and kept jumbling his words. Finally, he said, “Cain I trust you, Mr. Sampson?”
“Yeah,” I said, wondering what he was getting at.
He dug into his pocket and brought out a packet of Zig-Zag rolling papers and a small plastic bag containing marijuana.
“Cain you hold this for me?” he said, wiping the sweat off his brow.
I took it from him and put it in my pocket.
“It’s between you and me, awright, Mr. Sampson?”
“Yes, between you and me.”
“Thanks, brother. I ain’t never gonna forget this. I’ll be back as soon as I’m finished with Mr. Thomas.”
“Darnell,” I said, looking straight into his light brown eyes, “I don’t want to see this stuff in school again. Do you understand?”
“I hear ya, Mr. Sampson,” and he turned and ran down the hall.
I walked back into the room to find the small, light-skinned Derris Hoy telling the class in his high, squeaky voice, “If I was old enough, I’d be in Vietnam right now. We gotta stop those Communists from taking over the world. We gotta beat—”
Nancy Vellon broke in. “That’s the most stupid thing I ever heard, Derris. Vietnam, it’s wreckin’ this country. It’s the most stupid war this country ever got into. We can’t let this country—”
“That’s enough, Nancy,” said Ramona. You didn’t let Derris finish what he was sayin’.”
“Yeah,” said Derris Hoy. “Like I was sayin’, we gotta kill those Commies before they start goin’ into those other countries around Vietnam. We doin’ the right thing by bein’ there.”
Hoy was the only one in class who backed our country’s involvement in Vietnam.
“The next question,” said Ramona, “is about airplanes. What do you think of flying on airplanes? I’m callin’ on you, Pamela.”
Pamela shook her head and again refused to answer for the third time.
Derris Hoy was frantically waving his hand for Ramona to call on him.
“You couldn’t pay me a million dollars to get me on an airplane,” he said. “That’s all you be hearing about in the newspapers and TV—airplane crashes. No, I’ll never get me on no airplane. Never!”
When I heard most of the students laughing at Hoy’s comment, I immediately raised my hand and waited for Ramona to recognize me.
“It’s no joke if Hoy’s afraid of planes,” I told the class. “He’s not the only one who’s afraid. My girlfriend Jody is terrified of them. Do you want to know how she’s going to get to Europe next week? She’s going to take a train from here to New York, then a boat from New York to England. She hates planes so much that she almost has me convinced of never getting on one myself.”
