This past March, I attended the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop, a biannual workshop for humorists held at the University of Dayton, in Ohio. Approximately three hundred writers were gathered at Erma Bombeck’s alma mater, to attend sessions designed to help hone comedic writing skills, as well as socialize with other humor writers.
Erma Bombeck was the writer who not only inspired me to write, she also helped form a bridge of understanding between me and my mother. My mother was an avid reader of Erma Bombeck’s column, and her books. As my mother finished reading each of her works, I was waiting, eagerly, to devour Erma’s latest offering of humor, humor steeped in motherly experience, and at times, exasperation, Through her writings, I could see the struggle of motherhood was universal. I also realized that I should cut my mother (the mother of seven children), a little slack, for if three children had Erma on a roller coaster ride, my mother, the mother of seven children, was on an out of control tilt a whirl, with no off switch in sight.
But I digress. One thing I learned from the workshop, from the director himself, was that Erma Bombeck treated writing as a very serious profession, and that she would set aside time every day, to write at least 400 words a day. She did this daily, no excuses, no “writer’s block”; she and her typewriter had a standing daily date that was iron clad. Simply put, writing was a job and writer’s block was no excuse for failing to deliver the product.
Ten days after returning from the workshop, I had the surgery (and aftermath) that literally threw my world into a tailspin. I was tired, I was cranky, and I was definitely not feeling the desire to see the humor in anything. For several weeks, even sitting in front of my computer keyboard was a chore, for I was tethered to an electrical wound pump that was cumbersome and noisy.
The wound pump was eventually removed, yet still I only wrote when inspiration hit me. I figured, wrongly, that in the past 16 months, I had accumulated enough work to write a book. I gathered all my works, the product of my labor, and realized I had, max, 1/3 of a book.
That’s when inspiration really struck. The words of Time Bete, the workshop director, hit me, hard. Four hundred words a day. Had I stuck to that, I would have had two books worth of material.
Ten years after her premature passing, Erma Bombeck is still inspiring me. Four hundred words a day, that is my mantra. My first goal is to consistently produce the work. I can fret over making it funny after the initial product is delivered. Please wish me luck!
Erma Bombeck was the writer who not only inspired me to write, she also helped form a bridge of understanding between me and my mother. My mother was an avid reader of Erma Bombeck’s column, and her books. As my mother finished reading each of her works, I was waiting, eagerly, to devour Erma’s latest offering of humor, humor steeped in motherly experience, and at times, exasperation, Through her writings, I could see the struggle of motherhood was universal. I also realized that I should cut my mother (the mother of seven children), a little slack, for if three children had Erma on a roller coaster ride, my mother, the mother of seven children, was on an out of control tilt a whirl, with no off switch in sight.
But I digress. One thing I learned from the workshop, from the director himself, was that Erma Bombeck treated writing as a very serious profession, and that she would set aside time every day, to write at least 400 words a day. She did this daily, no excuses, no “writer’s block”; she and her typewriter had a standing daily date that was iron clad. Simply put, writing was a job and writer’s block was no excuse for failing to deliver the product.
Ten days after returning from the workshop, I had the surgery (and aftermath) that literally threw my world into a tailspin. I was tired, I was cranky, and I was definitely not feeling the desire to see the humor in anything. For several weeks, even sitting in front of my computer keyboard was a chore, for I was tethered to an electrical wound pump that was cumbersome and noisy.
The wound pump was eventually removed, yet still I only wrote when inspiration hit me. I figured, wrongly, that in the past 16 months, I had accumulated enough work to write a book. I gathered all my works, the product of my labor, and realized I had, max, 1/3 of a book.
That’s when inspiration really struck. The words of Time Bete, the workshop director, hit me, hard. Four hundred words a day. Had I stuck to that, I would have had two books worth of material.
Ten years after her premature passing, Erma Bombeck is still inspiring me. Four hundred words a day, that is my mantra. My first goal is to consistently produce the work. I can fret over making it funny after the initial product is delivered. Please wish me luck!
©2006 Kathleen M. Wooton, M.D.
My column at Savvy Women’s Magazine
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