Writin' Blogs: It Ain't Easy

It's been three and a half years since I first contacted Dan Cirucci at Penn State University, Abingdon, Pennsylvania about how to write a blog. No wait. It's been that much time since I asked him what I could do to be a writer. His answer was, "Practice, practice, practice". That's a simplified response, isn't it? I mean, I practice golf on an almost daily basis but I still flail around the course more than half the time. Heck, some of my friends have nicknamed me 'Shank'.
A couple of weeks ago I wrote a piece in a way that obviously, to me, spoke in a humorous tone. My buddy, Jude from Houston, sent a note of sympathy and, in essence, suggested I buck up; that life would get better. Like a slap across the face I told myself that the truly great writers have(had)the ability to write with passion and clarity. The reader will have no doubt as to what is being written and it's stated intention. Therefore, I need an editor. I need someone to say, "What do you actually mean when you write: Come Spot, come".
I think the Council Bluffs Cowboy would be an outstanding editor but it won't work out. While visiting in his home last week, looking at his 2,000 bird feeders that need to be filled, he doesn't have the time nor the inclination.
Sometimes I'll write a sentence or a series of paragraphs and tell myself: "This is good! This is as good as Hemingway on his best day". Then, after drinking coffee and soaking my feet in a pan of water and epson salt, I'll re-read the piece and find a thousand misspelled words, semi-colons in the most inopportune places and words that make absolutely no sense. I'll write a sentence like this: "The detective had a grimace across his face as he looked at the nocturnal cadaver". A chimpanzee at the Columbus Zoo would laugh at that piece of drivel.
Do you remember the column I wrote when Lizzie and I were in Florida about being in Church and all the things that bugged me that took place during Mass; people leaving early, how funny the priest was and all that jazz? Well, I forwarded that article to a priest friend in Iowa. When I arrived in his town I took him to dinner. The bill came to one Ben Franklin. Toward the end of the evening I asked him what he thought of my piece of which I was so extremely proud. He was blunt. "I didn't like it"! There was no 'because or why', just that he didn't like it. It was like a sword through the heart. I felt it was Pulitzer Prize material and he thought it was more suitable for the commode. I was hurt. You can't say, "F you" to a priest but in my mind I did--a thousand times. And I didn't feel like I was going to hell, either.
Forget that that I am and always will be a neophyte writer. After all, it is a hobby but after a certain period it's important to be able to step up your game; to take it to the next level, if you will.
My dear friend, critic and best writer I know wrote me a note saying, "my writing is fine". Well, I wrote her back and said, "I don't want to be fine. I want to be good".
I never did hear back from her about that one. Sometimes the silence can be deafening.