Commentary
“Hi, Sean,” the message began, “please tell me, how do you come up with something to write about? I write a column for my school paper, and I don’t have any ideas. I am 13, my mom has breast cancer, and it’s been crazy lately at my house. I like to write, but I always come up blank and never have any new ideas. Thanks.”
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Dear Kid, I’m going to let you in on a secret about professional writers. None of us have any new ideas. Moreover, you don’t need ideas to be a writer. You don’t even need to hav gud gramer. I am a prime example.
I think the problem is, you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. Pressure will constipate you, my friend. Pressure is the government cheese of the literary world.
In school, we are all exposed to a lot of good books, with the exception of “Lord of the Flies.” Our English teachers are constantly exposing us to classic literature, and this can be intimidating to young writers.
“How am I ever going to write anything like THAT?” young writers often immediately ask themselves after reading the ceremonious hell that is “Moby Dick.”
The short answer is, you won’t. You will never write the next “Moby Dick.” And you wouldn’t want to because—don’t tell anyone I said this—“Moby Dick” is the worst book ever written.
If you want to know what it’s like to be a professional writer, it’s simple: Go milk a cow.
Bear with me while I explain.
I grew up around country people. My uncle had dairy cows. One time I lived with my uncle for a summer. I had no choice but to live with my uncle during this particular summer because I had recently been accused of setting off a cherry bomb in the girl’s restroom toilet at the Methodist church during VBS. I was innocent, of course.
While living at my uncle’s house, I had to do farm chores. One of my chores was learning to milk cows.
The first thing you learn when milking a cow is that you have to be calm when you approach all cows. You need a mild manner when dealing with a 1,300-pound Holstein who has bowel movements bigger than you.
My uncle reminded me of this as he ushered me toward an animal that was roughly the size of the Jefferson Memorial.
“No sudden movements,” said my uncle, “or Barbara will kill you.”
Barbara mooed at me. She was about as excited at the prospect of getting milked by a 10-year-old boy as she would have been about having unanesthetized surgery.
So there I was. Holding an empty bucket. It was cold. The air smelled of hay and manure. Barbara was looking at me with big eyes. She was groaning.
I’ll never forget my uncle gave me some advice before I started. He said, “Don’t concentrate on filling up the bucket, the bucket will take care of itself. Just get a good squeeze on the teat.”
I gripped the teats. I yanked and pulled. When I finally got it right, a stream of milk shot from Barbara’s udder and made a high-pitched noise in the bucket. I was thrilled.
My uncle just looked at me and smiled. He said, “Great work. Now do that six million times.”
My morning lasted approximately as long as law school, and I never filled the bucket more than halfway. When I finished, I was exhausted, my hands hurt, my back was sore, and I had lost the will to go on.
This is writing.
So the best advice I have is this: Don’t think too much about writing the best piece of literature ever. Don’t worry about having good ideas. Don’t think about impressing anyone.
Just sit on your tiny stool. Warm up your hands. Be calm. Be diligent. Be honest. And concentrate on getting a good squeeze on the udder. Before you know it, boom, there’s your column.
Stay in touch, friend. Your mother is in my prayers.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Sean of the South: Dear Sean
Commentary
“Hi, Sean,” the message began, “please tell me, how do you come up with something to write about? I write a column for my school paper, and I don’t have any ideas. I am 13, my mom has breast cancer, and it’s been crazy lately at my house. I like to write, but I always come up blank and never have any new ideas. Thanks.”
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Dear Kid, I’m going to let you in on a secret about professional writers. None of us have any new ideas. Moreover, you don’t need ideas to be a writer. You don’t even need to hav gud gramer. I am a prime example.
I think the problem is, you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. Pressure will constipate you, my friend. Pressure is the government cheese of the literary world.
In school, we are all exposed to a lot of good books, with the exception of “Lord of the Flies.” Our English teachers are constantly exposing us to classic literature, and this can be intimidating to young writers.
“How am I ever going to write anything like THAT?” young writers often immediately ask themselves after reading the ceremonious hell that is “Moby Dick.”
The short answer is, you won’t. You will never write the next “Moby Dick.” And you wouldn’t want to because—don’t tell anyone I said this—“Moby Dick” is the worst book ever written.
If you want to know what it’s like to be a professional writer, it’s simple: Go milk a cow.
Bear with me while I explain.
I grew up around country people. My uncle had dairy cows. One time I lived with my uncle for a summer. I had no choice but to live with my uncle during this particular summer because I had recently been accused of setting off a cherry bomb in the girl’s restroom toilet at the Methodist church during VBS. I was innocent, of course.
While living at my uncle’s house, I had to do farm chores. One of my chores was learning to milk cows.
The first thing you learn when milking a cow is that you have to be calm when you approach all cows. You need a mild manner when dealing with a 1,300-pound Holstein who has bowel movements bigger than you.
My uncle reminded me of this as he ushered me toward an animal that was roughly the size of the Jefferson Memorial.
“No sudden movements,” said my uncle, “or Barbara will kill you.”
Barbara mooed at me. She was about as excited at the prospect of getting milked by a 10-year-old boy as she would have been about having unanesthetized surgery.
So there I was. Holding an empty bucket. It was cold. The air smelled of hay and manure. Barbara was looking at me with big eyes. She was groaning.
I’ll never forget my uncle gave me some advice before I started. He said, “Don’t concentrate on filling up the bucket, the bucket will take care of itself. Just get a good squeeze on the teat.”
I gripped the teats. I yanked and pulled. When I finally got it right, a stream of milk shot from Barbara’s udder and made a high-pitched noise in the bucket. I was thrilled.
My uncle just looked at me and smiled. He said, “Great work. Now do that six million times.”
My morning lasted approximately as long as law school, and I never filled the bucket more than halfway. When I finished, I was exhausted, my hands hurt, my back was sore, and I had lost the will to go on.
This is writing.
So the best advice I have is this: Don’t think too much about writing the best piece of literature ever. Don’t worry about having good ideas. Don’t think about impressing anyone.
Just sit on your tiny stool. Warm up your hands. Be calm. Be diligent. Be honest. And concentrate on getting a good squeeze on the udder. Before you know it, boom, there’s your column.
Stay in touch, friend. Your mother is in my prayers.