by Alissa Winterheimer

The time that we have every day is elastic; the passions that we feel expand it.
-- Marcel Proust

Fred Flintstone once took the family to see the Grand Canyon. It was a pathetic stream, maybe two inches wide, in the middle of an expanse of cracked desert. They all stood there looking perplexed and unimpressed. Fred said to Wilma, "They say someday..."

Writers want to be the Grand Canyon. That's our Grand Canyon, not Fred's. It takes patience and tenacity to cut through the desert. I often feel like my mind is Fred's canyon and I'm Fred, looking at the dismal trickle.

Writing is not romantic. Writers are not guaranteed love and admiration. They're more like hermits than socialites. Writing is not exciting. Most writers have not lived a hundredth of what their characters have lived. Fiction is the ultimate in permissible lying. Writers write out of necessity. I've never seen a bumper sticker that says, "I'd rather be writing."

Sometime last year I met a man who had abandoned his life in California. He moved to Austin for six months to see if he was a writer. And he wrote.

I was a little envious and quite impressed. I think everyone was. Everyone dreams of making their dream come true. I remember being told, "This didn't just happen, you know. I started planning this ten years ago and I worked hard to make it happen." I'm sure he was sick of hearing how cool he was.

For some time I wondered how he made it happen. Recently, being a year wiser, I had a revelation. Doers take themselves seriously and they keep their promise to themselves. Taking yourself seriously means making an investment, being willing to fight for what you want and not listening to those who think you're an impractical dreamer. It also means you won't be wooed by every awe-struck talker prone at your feet. If you're serious, you realize you have more to do, no matter what you've already done.

I've also realized that writing is more of a craft than an art. People who think writing hinges on creative genius are not writers. There is much tedium to struggle through: research, querying publishers and editing are three biggies.

In my younger days, I felt fortunate to practice the "cheap art." How lucky I am that I only need pencil and paper! I've realized the folly of that. The American Society of Journalists and Authors published a book, Tools of the Writer's Trade. It's 368 pages of writers discussing their investments from word processing software to which tape recorders are best for interviewing to why no office should be without a microwave and how clothes pins come in handy.

In college, I found that the essentials for road trips are the same as the essentials for an all-nighter at the computer: music, Mountain Dew, cigarettes and a bag of pretzels.

I recently heard that you're not really a mountaineer until you've left some blood on a mountain. I've also heard that the best things ever written, have been written in blood. I assume the literary sentiment is figurative.

Time is my personal nemesis. My home is a mess, my bike has a flat, all of my credit cards are maxed out, I haven't eaten yet and I'm sitting here trying to write, about writing. If that isn't ridiculous....

I have been ordering magazines from Publisher's Clearing House, and yesterday I learned that I'm in the final round. That's right, if I have and return the winning number, I will be "TEXAS' TOP WINNER -- GUARANTEED A FULL $11,000,000"! Just imagine all the time $11 million could buy. Enough time to write.

When I lived in Minneapolis, I always wrote at Muddy Waters on Lyndale Avenue. I had a ritual. I pulled my work from my bag, set it on the counter with my pencil and cigarettes. I ordered coffee. I set to work. One day, I set out the first and only typed copy of a play, about 70 pages. I had a word processor and it took about eight hours to print 70 pages.

I went to the rest room, and when I returned, Andy was wiping coffee off the bar and my pile of paper was drenched. I gasped in horror and my heart skipped a beat. Andy grinned big. He then lifted my manuscript from under the counter and handed it to me, removing the pile of soggy typing paper.

Now, I can laugh. Ha. Ha.

plight1 n. A condition or situation of difficulty or adversity

plight2 tr.v. To promise or bind by a solemn pledge, esp. to betroth (from American Heritage Dictionary)