I LOVE TO WRITE

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

On my desk sits the 2007 Bylines Writers Calendar where I am featured during the week of`September 16-22. The new calendar for 2008 will be soon available, but unfortunately, I missed the deadline for submissions to be considered. The thing is, this calendar has been beneficial in more ways than getting my name, photo and bio out in the public. It’s been helpful in writing my articles for Criminal Brief.

In my November 1 column, I announced National Author’s Day, the information courtesy of the Bylines Writers Calendar. So far, every writer I’ve mentioned the existence of the “holiday” had no idea we had a day set aside for us. (We are forewarned for next year!)

This week is dedicated to celebrate not one, but two literacy-type holidays. Tuesday was National Young Readers Day. I know some young readers and I remember Tuesday, but I don’t remember anything locally or even nationally going on. Perhaps there’s a rule about not having more than one parade per week, and this week surely goes to the Veteran’s Day as parade-worthy. (BTW, many thanks to all our veterans and soldiers serving their country. All Americans owe you a debt a gratitude we can never repay. Actually, a lot of countries besides our own owe you, too, but that’s another column.)

According to the calendar, today is “I Love To Write Day.” I wondered what exactly that entailed. On the Internet, I soon found out some people were actually doing something about this occasion. According to the press release, “On I Love To Write Day, people of all ages are encouraged to write something: a poem, a short story, an essay, a letter to the editor, start a novel, finish a novel … the possibilities are endless.”

Well, hey, I love to write, so I’m going to give this one a try. As much as I appreciate how computers have made writing simpler, today I want to grab a legal pad and a few sharp pencils. There’s something freeing about erasing or marking out words instead of backspacing or hitting a delete button. It takes me back to my childhood where I loved the beginning of school mostly because it meant fresh reams of notebook paper and pencils. When I moved up to pens in school, I was rather picky. Although, they weren’t popular with the In Crowd, I was a fountain pen kind of person. I like refilling the cartridges and even getting some ink on my fingertips. It’s not so easy to find fountain pens and their cartridges these days, but I think I have one in the bottom of my drawer that belonged to another generation prior to mine. Unfortunately, there is no ink refill, so I will stick with the pencils. I have three lined up and ready to go, one is silver, one is swirly pink and violet colors and one is a traditional yellow. All are No. 2 lead pencils — we must have standards for such things, even if I picked two or the three strictly for their looks.

Outside, insulated coffee mug in hand, I climb the stairway to our backyard tree house that overlooks a few of our neighborhood’s yards and part of the street where I live. I feel a bit regal being above the rest of my neighbors and a bit spy-like, too. I enjoy the secrecy of my position.

I begin with simple exercises, writing what I see. I describe everything I am privy to from this higher elevation. The neighbors to the south have a trampoline I didn’t know about. The dogs I’d heard barking occasionally turn out to be southwest of my property line and are full-grown Dobermans. Two of them parade back and forth along the fence line reminding me of the trained sentries they must be. I imagine a burglar fleeing down the alley from a uniformed cop, choosing the dog’s fence to jump and being more than surprised by these two animals.

The couple to the east of me are making landscaping changes. Their college-age grandson is hard at work with a shovel. Sweat streaks form a widening wet circle beneath his neck onto the neckband of the David Bowie tee-shirt. What if he weren’t simply planting Rose of Sharon? What could someone hide in another’s yard and still have ready access to practically any time?

A fire-engine red truck pulls up opposite the front of my house. Before coming to a full stop, the horn beeps three times. I wonder who might be hidden behind the darkened windows. What if he hasn’t yet noticed someone sleeping in the back of his truckbed?

Overhead, a flock of geese honk on their northward journey, their announcement of their arrival more commanding than the truck’s. By the time, I look back at the truck, it is speeding off. I have no idea who — if anyone — got inside to join the driver.

Sipping my coffee, I think about the quietness I rarely hear. Usually surrounded indoors by electronic noises and human conversations — both the ones I am participating in and others I overhear, the sounds of trees limbs moving in orchestration to the wind is soothing in its simplicity. A sweetness of the moment catches me off-guard and I am humbled by all I do not control.

As a soft breeze tickled my cheeks, my imagination moves where it seldom does and I begin to write anew. This time it is poetry, something I attempt rarely, maybe because it is always so personal and I have no way to gage its worth.

Today, I decide whatever I write is what I was meant to write just for today. Just because I can. Just because I love to write and today it is being celebrated by at least a few of us.