Tom Soter
My father always warned me of people striving to do “great things.” He never did. Better to do your bit in the smaller corners of the world. Indeed, if I can make someone smile or even laugh, and make them forget or, better yet, endure the pain of a lost family member or loved one, that’s enough for me. What is “meaningful”? Some work in soup kitchens, others change bed pans, I write stories. I also am reminded of the statement by Sullivan (Joel McCrea) at the conclusion of Preston Sturges’s great film, Sullivan’s Travels. After spending much of the movie trying to make a “message film” that will change the world, he realizes that being “merely” a comedy director can, perhaps, be enough. “There’s a lot to be said for making people laugh. Did you know that’s all some people have? It isn’t much but it’s better than nothing in this cockeyed caravan…”
I thought of that concept with satisfaction when my father’s ailing old friend, Joe LaRosa, called me out of the blue to tell me how much pleasure my book had brought him. I had similar feelings when I heard of a complete stranger laughing uproariously at passages in it, and, too, when I read comments posted on Amazon by satisfied readers. “Written with great humor and heart, Overheard On a Bus is a very engaging and entertaining collection of essays,” wrote one. “With a writing style that's easygoing yet delightfully, subtly snarky, and occasionally inspired, these reminiscences, many with 1970s New York City as a backdrop, are by turns charming, touching and flat-out funny,” wrote another.
And no one complained about the personal subject matter, either. Why should they? What better subject to write about than one’s own life? If a writer is any good at his chosen profession, he should be able to make at least some of that interesting. I’m a writer. So I write. But I often remember the words of the actor Raymond Burr, who said to me that an actor isn’t really an actor unless he is performing in front of an audience. I feel the same way about writing. A writer must write, otherwise why call himself a writer?
I thought of that concept with satisfaction when my father’s ailing old friend, Joe LaRosa, called me out of the blue to tell me how much pleasure my book had brought him. I had similar feelings when I heard of a complete stranger laughing uproariously at passages in it, and, too, when I read comments posted on Amazon by satisfied readers. “Written with great humor and heart, Overheard On a Bus is a very engaging and entertaining collection of essays,” wrote one. “With a writing style that's easygoing yet delightfully, subtly snarky, and occasionally inspired, these reminiscences, many with 1970s New York City as a backdrop, are by turns charming, touching and flat-out funny,” wrote another.
And no one complained about the personal subject matter, either. Why should they? What better subject to write about than one’s own life? If a writer is any good at his chosen profession, he should be able to make at least some of that interesting. I’m a writer. So I write. But I often remember the words of the actor Raymond Burr, who said to me that an actor isn’t really an actor unless he is performing in front of an audience. I feel the same way about writing. A writer must write, otherwise why call himself a writer?
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