Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be writers. If it’s in them, it will come out, but there’s no reason to encourage it. Don’t recommend it, for God’s sake.
Personally, I only think of writing once a day. Every day. All day long.
I usually watch TV and read at night.
Once I wanted to be president, or at least a Congressman. I was young and thought it honorable. I have since developed a sense of humor.
My great weakness is that I have never cared as much as I ought for money. It did, however, mesh nicely with my chosen profession.
Journalism was a good gig while it lasted. I traveled all over the country, trying to chase speeding automobiles, blissfully impervious to the impossibility of that task. I couldn’t catch them, but I could write about it from a nice vista overlooking the track.
Here’s how my writing career began. It was before my football career ended. I took typing class, and sat behind a manual typewriter carrying a certain athletic pride, and it hurt to discover I was inept. A girl two seats in front of me might have secretly been Wonder Woman. I sat back there typing “a-s-d-f” and “semi-l-k-j” while the cylinder on her contraption might have been a loom at the cotton mill.
She wasn’t Wonder Woman, but she did marry a professional wrestler.
I started typing every night. I wrote a diary, mostly about how football practice went. I wish I knew where all those pages went. I’m not sure why. I’d probably retch, reading them.
I became the kid writing four graphs about high school basketball games for the local weekly and the editor of the school newspaper. There’s one of us in every town.
When I got to college, still in denial over my clear destiny, I always liked classes with essay questions.
Now I’m too old, both practically and by nature, to change.
I always knew I would be a struggling artist. I envisioned it as being at age 23 instead of 57.
A blog is often my morning warm-up. Please examine my books here: http://www.amazon.com/Monte-Dutton/e/B005H3B144/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1416767492&sr=8-1