MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE

How do you define a writer? A writer isn't merely someone who writes and publishes a book. No. There are any number of authors who aren't "writers." There's no logical reason for any person to want to be a writer (any sane person). Now more than ever, with the entire publishing industry dying a slow death; magazines and newspapers slipping into bankruptcy or ceasing to exist altogether; book publishers adopting a corporate "play it safe, more of the same" mentality. The odds of ever ekeing out a living by means of the written word resemble hitting the jackpot on a penny slot machine.

Writing is about passion. Desire. Writing isn't a job or a career or even a vocation; it's an affliction. There must be no choice in the matter. How often have I heard it said, "If you can imagine yourself doing anything other than writing, for God's sake, do it."

Sherwood Anderson, the author of "Winesburg, Ohio" -- a book which inspired such wildly diverse (and important) American authors as Ernest Hemingway and Henry Miller -- had this to say about writing:

"What ever meant more to me than this? What thing, what woman, what possession, what promise of life after death?"

For those of you not familiar, Anderson was a highly successful, middle-aged businessman who one day literally up and walked away from it all to pursue his burning desire to write. Sherwood Anderson was a "writer."

I once had what I believed to be the perfect litmus test for determining if someone were truly a "writer." Hypothetically put, could you answer "yes" to the following question . . .

If you found yourself permanently stranded on an uncharted island, completely alone (not even Mrs. Howell for company), would you continue to write?

Consider the implications of this: no monetary reward; no fame; no potential groupies; not even the slightest chance that another human being would ever read what you'd written. Would you still continue to answer the call of the muse? . . . Continue to toil away day after day; scratching words into the sand with a stick if necessary, only to see your profundity erased by the first strong wind -- not a trace left behind?

My answer: "You bet yer ass!"

Of course I would continue to write. After all, I was a "Writer." Sure.

Well, let me tell ya; somethin' strange happened. After years and years of writing simply for the sake of writing: turning out novels, short stories and humorous pieces that no one wanted to publish, I got tired. The discipline and passion that sent me straight to my writing desk after a 9 hour work day and a 90 minute commute began to wane. I realized that my situation wasn't much different than that poor, "hypothetical" sonofabitch stranded alone on an uncharted isle. Spending 2 years slaving away at a novel only to see it ultimately collect dust on a closet shelf wasn't a great deal different than scratching words into the sand with a stick. The iron resolve that made me get up off the sofa and turn off the TV; kept me out of the bars and clubs, eschewing a social life for the dreaded solitude of the blank page, had turned into Silly Putty.

I stopped writing. Days, weeks, months and ultimately years (6 to be exact) passed without having written even a single word. I'd failed my own test. The "writer" had stopped writing. Then something even stranger happened: the internet.

It was as if a mysterious crate had washed up on my lonely island; a crate containing reams of paper and pens (Pilot Precise Grip -- my favorite) . . . and bottles . . . with tightly fitting corks. I was saved. No longer did I need to scratch my words into the sand -- I could scribble them onto little bits of paper and set them adrift in a bottle -- and maybe, just maybe, somehow, someone would read them! Imagine that?

"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days."

So here it comes . . .