Steadfast

The Literary Fruits Of an Ordinary Life

Roy Barnacle


'When are we going to see your next essay?'' In the past when friends and erstwhile fans, or even my impatient editor,  asked me that question, I usually paused, wondering what I should  give for an answer. I find it difficult to laud any  great literary triumphs (achieved) or tragedies (overcome), or that manifest great progress or betterment for myself and my fellow man.  I have led a fairly ordinary life, with ordinary aims and ordinary achievements. (Is that an oxymoron?)

When I finally told this truth to friends, they pooh-pooh my anguish with great love and affection. One dear friend reminded me of something I told them many years ago when we were discussing what makes a true writer. I said I thought a real writer could be told to write on ''thimbles'' or ''the color blue'' or ''sardines'' and he or she would dispense 800 words on such subjects, not with ease perhaps, but with a probable amount of skill and expertise.

I have never actually felt that I was writing for the ages or to change the world. I also never wrote to gain fame or wealth. (''Never write to pay a bill, or to be sure you never will....'' wrote one famous bard.)

It was something else. Feelings, perhaps? Or a longing to just tell one single solitary soul that there is hope and expectation of goodness in a growing world of distrust and melancholy? Perhaps I am too emotional, or might be, to be too practical in my writing. Too practicaL to write about gun culture, child abuse, political ineptitude or financial corruption. My emotions might tell me to melt the guns, castrate the child abusers, burn city hall down, and demand financial restitution at 54%.

I miss my father very much. I find my eyes moisten at children singing and at friendships that ask nothing in return but the friendship itself. I regret things I have said and things I have never said. I have discovered that seeking the ultimate is an eternal task, but at the same time, life's a cinch, by the inch.

If, as is said, in every man's writings lies the character of the writer, then indeed I continue to struggle to find those threads that are woven with who I really am. I have raised two familys, survived two divorces, and declared a traitor for leaving the land of my birth, for a spiritual re-birth in another..

I have sought, in the words of Mr. Chips, ''to be brave and strong and true. And to fill the world with love my whole life through.'' Perhaps my ''experiences'' can be called ''blessings.''

Surely, there must be something to write about that.

© Copyright 2001 Roy H. Barnacle. All rights reserved.