I’ve always found it hard to be a writer in spring and summer. As a matter of fact, I’ve always found the call of the outdoors, whether for fun or labor, hard to resist in any season if the weather was even halfway decent.
Were it not for weekly deadlines I would have never gotten anything done for the newspaper in my days as reporter, editor, photographer and paper boy. More than once I’ve asked myself “What was I thinking?” when I gave up a milk bucket and a pitchfork for a typewriter.
That thought most often crossed my mind on bright, spring days when I could look out the window at calves playing in the pasture, while I was tethered to that week’s newspaper deadlines. I tend to forget in springtime how much I appreciate this job in an air-conditioned office when I see a crew of strapping young men tossing bales on a wagon under a blistering July sun – well, that’s not exactly right: What I’m really thinking of is when I could do that, and wishing I still could.
I guess I wanted it both ways as a youngster. It was in my sophomore year of high school that I discovered a rudimentary talent and passion for writing, thanks to challenges from my English teacher. Long after that English class I continued trying my hand at essays, short stories and sappy poetry, but never at the expense of my farm chores.
Though I never had anything to do with my school newspaper, I did become my FFA chapter reporter and sent activity reports to the Springfield newspaper. That lasted until school officials informed me and my ag teacher we could not continue using Fair Grove school stationery. Too late. Once published, I was hooked.
I was serious enough about writing to suggest to my dad that a typing class would be a good idea. “No,” he said. “You’ll never need it. Besides, the girls with their piano fingers would be a lot better than you.”
I never argued with my dad, but that was one time I should have. I couldn’t foresee that typing would someday be a vital skill. I never did get that typing class. Two years after high school I’d saved enough money to start college. Freshman composition papers had to be typewritten, so I rented a typewriter and taught myself. It was slow going. I timed myself – 30 minutes to complete one page.
That was 60 years ago, and I’ve yet to have a typing lesson. Somehow, though, I’ve been able to “hunt and peck” my way through a newspaper career.
Just thinking this through for the first time, maybe that’s why I find it hard to write in spring or in any season: the writing part has never been much fun; but I know I’m not alone.
Years ago I read an interview with author Rod Serling (Twilight Zone) in which he was asked if he loved to write.
“No,” he replied. “I love to have written. The writing part is just hard work.”
That’s at least one thing I have in common with a world-famous author.
I love to have written.
I would rather clean out the barn, or build a fence, than toil at a keyboard. Looking over my shoulder at the end of the job would give me the same sense of accomplishment.
But that would give me nothing to share with hundreds of people.
That’s what makes writing worth the effort. As with any task we undertake, the reward is in the results and the accomplishment.
I love to have written, and perhaps I should confess, I love to have been read – else why would we write, other than to better know ourselves?
As a rule, we all want our words to be read or heard, if not by everyone, then by God or ourselves.
In any case, it is always more satisfying to have written than to remain in that struggle to find just the right words to reveal our innermost thoughts.
A former feature writer for Ozarks Farm and Neighbor, Jim Hamilton is a retired newspaper editor/publisher. Hamilton was reared on a small dairy farm in Dallas County, Mo. Contact Jim at [email protected].
