For about a year my dear friend Caroline Schermerhorn and I met to discuss writing. Caroline was a published author. I was, well, an avid journaler and crumpler of paper. We read books about writing, talked about writing, and how we could never find the time.
One book turned all my good intentions into a rough draft: On Writing by Stephen King.
Other books had left me feeling girdled, constrained.
In On Writing King tells of his son wanting to play the saxophone. So they got him one. Lessons too. The son dutifully took out his instrument for 30 minutes a day, then put it back in the case. After a few months King told his wife it was time to cancel the lessons. Why? The kid never just let loose. Never any real-play time. All practice.
King says (on page 145) that when you find something "at which you are talented, you do it (whatever it is) until your fingers bleed..." Because it makes you happy.
I felt like I could finally PLAY.
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