
When it’s not raining, or cold, I like to write outdoors. All I need is my pen and my legal pad, a chair, some shade, and my pipe–and I’m off to Obann.
This is when my neighbors like to play the game, “Talk to the Writer.” If I were just sitting there doing nothing, I could have beanstalks growing out of my head and no one would notice. But as soon as they see I’m working, everybody wants to come over for a chat. On occasion, I have been visited by three or four neighbors simultaneously, while trying to write.
They’ll talk about anything under the sun, but fairly often someone will want to talk about writing.
The question most often–indeed, always–asked is, “How long did it take you to write that book?” For the life of me, I never can see what that has to do with anything. But everyone wants to know. I have no idea why.
And the most common comment is, “I think I’ll write a book someday, if I can ever find the time.” Like it’s something everyone can do! Rocky Bridges once said, “There are three things which everybody in the world thinks he can do–run a hotel, manage a baseball team, and write a book.” He was right.
Many people seem to believe that books and articles write themselves, and I don’t even really have to be there. So the writer is bombarded with invitations to stop writing and come over and see if he can find out why the air conditioner is making strange noises, or what-not. Well, of course, if it’s so easy that literally anyone can do it, I really shouldn’t have to spend that much time on it, should I?
I am convinced they know not what they do.