Writer with A View

florida driveway
My place is situated at the edge of a  South Florida scrub pine preserve forest, on a cul-de-sac, with no other houses in view — despite being only 4 miles away from the Atlantic ocean

All my life, I wanted to be writer.

But it never happened.

Oh, I published things here and there, and even earned a living for a while as a technical writer, but mostly I remained a drinker with writing problems, a NY barfly with immodest literary ambitions, one who deludely thought he would write when it was time to show the bastards how it’s done.

All I needed was to live a little.

Then I would have something to write about.

Well, I lived a little, then a lot, over a ten year period; but still…  nothing.

So then I thought, well, first let me make some money.

Once I am more comfortably well off, or rather, no longer wasting my penurious  life in dive bars on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, then I can start writing for real.

I eventually became flush and no longer had to bother with the insignificant things — like closely monitoring my checking account balance.

But alas, still no writing.

Then I thought, well, maybe if I got married, I’d have stability and structure in my life, especially now that my drunkspeare* days were over.

That’s the ticket, I thought.

So I got married.

Still nothing.

Then I thought, I know what the problem is.

Writers need privacy.

Writers need a great view.

All I needed was a view to put everything into perspective and get this writing thing going.

So I bought a big house on a secluded lane abutting a backwood scrub pine forest in Florida.

florida scrub forest
dawn view of the forest preserve

Great view, eh?

Almost inspirational.

florida pine scrub forest
a misty winter view

But no.

Still no measly first novel.

Well, now I’m pushing 72, at an age when a real writer is kicking back and admiring the view of his or her many published books, the work of a litetime, their magnificent spines satisfyingly lined up on a shelf somewhere prominent.

Me, I got nothing.

I’m still trying to get started.

Soon I’ll be pushing up the daisies.

I don’t know.

Do you actually have to written something before you can say you have writer’s block?


*RIP, old friend

smiley with glasses



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.