My Only Burn is Heartburn

Monday I'm giving a lecture on the art and craft of writing. As if I know more than my cats about this. But that's the funny thing about being published. Suddenly, everybody thinks you know something. Maybe you do, maybe you don't. You give it a shot. I do know a decent novel is not done with smoke and mirrors. It takes a modicum of talent, a studious amount of technique, and a helluva lot of work.

It's like playing tennis. The more you practice, the better you get. Now I'm not talking about the likes of Roger Federer. There's a certain type of genius going on there. A touch of 'forever' in what you do. The works of Michelangelo, Nijinsky, Mozart, Caruso, Elenora Dusa - just to name a few - have soared above the rest of their peers in their particular field. The guy with the lid on the left, BTW, is Nijinsky. When he died, he left his feet to science for study. They took the bones apart to see how he managed to soar so high in all his dance steps. They found normal bones.

I never considered myself a soarer. Certainly not on the same plane as literary geniuses. I have no great American novel burning within me. In fact, the only burning sensation I have is solved with Tums. Could be the ice cream.
However, I do know a thing or two about writing, I love to write, I am committed to being better at my craft, and hope I turn out a decent novel or two.
Sometimes you need a trampoline to get as high as those other guys. I've got one on order. Meanwhile, happy writing to us all. It's a gift to be able to do it at all, never mind eternity.