It should come as no surprise when I tell you that over the past half-century I’ve read scads, oodles, and even buttloads on the fine art of writing. From how-tos to Who’s Who’s, from interviews to the latest news, from teaching ’bout it to preaching ’bout it, I may not have heard it all, but mighty close. And as a result, I’ve come to a few solid guidelines.

One is that inspiration is an illusion. Or more exactly, while it might spark an idea that’ll get you through a paragraph or two, after that, it’s just plain work. It’s like revolutions. They may start with some firebrand in the ivory tower providing the lofty flame, but it’s up to a multitude of chumps to do the actual, in-the-street, skin-in-the-game revoltin’.

Another guideline is that writing is the ACT of writing, not the art. It sounds obvious, but it isn’t, given the number of peeps who want to think otherwise. So, as a reminder: Writing is not planning, brainstorming, outlining, reading, discussing it, or anything else. Either you is or you ain’t, and unlike horseshoes, there’s no such thing as “close enough.”

Next, writer’s block. I’m sure such a thing exists, but not with them who have weekly deadlines. A luxury for the aesthetes and dilettantes, indeed, but an impossibility for the working stiffs.

Finally, there is no right or wrong way to write. Either it works, or it doesn’t, and that’s proven by the results … or lack thereof. But a vital caveat: Just because something works for me has no bearing on whether it’ll work for anyone else.

Finding out what works for you is like being dropped off in a huge, unexplored wilderness, without a map, compass, guide or even a hint of how to proceed. Of course, there’s an infinity of books, workshops and gurus, with infinities of advice on how to write, and it can’t hurt to check them out. But after that, what’s left is my writing mantra, which is, “It’s up to you, Chickie Babe.”

When it comes to writing, I’m rigidly — if not hopelessly — ritualized. I write my rough drafts only by hand on yellow 11X14 legal tablets. As for WHAT I write with? Again, ritualized — Sharpie .7 Gel pens, black ink only.

Then there’s the WHERE I write. After Lakeview Deli went to full-time catering, I moved my “office” to Nori’s cafe, preferably at one of the four-tops by the river. For me, it’s the perfect setting — well-lighted, coffee and munchies within reach, and lots of foot traffic and background noise. I know lots of writers like to work in private, away from the herd, but I’m not one of them. I not only like to write in public, but I NEED to — at least with my rough drafts. Final drafts are a whole different breed of cat.

I do my revisions and final drafts on the computer, in the total silence and privacy of my digs. In fact, it’s the only thing I do with my computer. Everything else computer-wise — Facebook, email, internet searches — I do on my iPad, in the comfort of my La-Z-Boy. Ultimately, my computer is just a post-modern typewriter, but a whole lot easier to revise on. White-Out RIP.

As I said before, my writing process is rigid: Rough drafts in public, written by hand; final drafts typed on a computer. Sometimes I’ll compose my rough drafts at the keyboard, but it’s only in case of dire emergency, since I loathe doing it and it’s far more tedious and time-consuming than writing by hand (but don’t ask me why).

Now, a note about my deadline. It’s late Thurs morn, or at the latest, early Thurs afternoon. Thus, in order to avoid a frantic morning rush, I almost always have my rough draft finished on Weds night. Then I can take my time putting in the final je ne sais quoi, before I burden Tori Marbone with putting it in the Enterprise.

Over the years, I’ve run into various final draft glitches, but all of them were of a minor nature — at least till last week. And that one — Ah, my foes, and oh, my friends — was a real doozy.

–

A desperate time, and a desperate measure

–

First, for reasons known only to The Great Spirit, I struggled mightily with the rough draft — so mightily that by Weds eve it was only half-done. Weds night found me hunched over the keyboard, my Fine Semitic Nose to the grindstone. Sadly, the only result was psychic noseburn.

As I said, I hate composing on the keyboard, and for one very good reason: I’m lousy at it. And when the pressure’s on, like it was Weds night, I’m even lousier. Not that I wasn’t writing. I was … but slowly, painfully and unproductively. There were thoughts, and there were words, but none of them were all that cogent or even mildly interesting. I was turning into a bungling cliche master before my own bleary eyes.

There was only one thing to do — take a break, which I did. Unfortunately, it was a literal one.

As I got out of my chair and turned, I somehow swung my right hand and hit the computer monitor with a resounding Crack! As it turned out, for the monitor, it was The Crack of Doom: The image on the monitor was farblonget. First, the entire left one-quarter part of the image was blank, which made one-quarter of the right side gone, baby, gone. Second, the entire image was fuzzy and seemed to be bopping up and down.

Obviously, something was seriously wrong, but what wasn’t obvious was what I could do about it. I thought for a min and then decided I’d try Cyber Homeopathy. Because I’d hit the monitor on its right side and it’d gone all out of whack, I figured maybe I could restore the image by hitting it on the left side, which I did. And — Lo and Behold — the image was restored! But only for a too-brief while: As soon as I sat down to type, it again lost its cool … which STAYED lost.

What to do?

I did the only thing I could, which was go to sleep and hope things would be better in the morn.

Probably a lot of things were better in the morn, but my monitor wasn’t one of them.

It was a desperate time, which called for a desperate measure — I’d have to finish my column in the Enterprise newsroom.

What’s so desperate about that, you ask?

Well, I’ll tell you.

Remember, I said how I have to revise in privacy and silence, and I hate composing on the keyboard? The ADE newsroom would be the worst of both worlds. If you’ve never been in a newsroom, lemme give you a brief guided tour: It’s constant noise and action — machines clattering, reporters chattering, people walking in, people walking out, peeps eating with their mouths open and slurping sodas noisily — basically, a Genghis Khan sacking of the mind. And there I was, in the midst of it, typing onward (though clearly not UPward).

Oh yeah, and to make sure I lost neither my humor nor my perspective, every now and then someone would come over and ask me how I was doing. “Just fine, thanks,” I replied … phony grin and gritted teeth.

I’d started writing at the Enterprise at 10 a.m. and gritted and grinned my way till 3 p.m., when I finally finished.

A question that logically follows is, How good was it? My answer to that is, it’s up to my readers to decide that.

If I have any philosophy on writing, it comes from something the great runner Frank Shorter said about marathons: “First you worry about finishing, then you worry about time and place.”

To me, time and place, so important in running, mean nothing in writing. Finishing, however, means everything.