FALLOW GROUND

    "I had reached the point that I had nothing to say and no great desire to say it," a then prominent Episcopal priest wrote me in the 1960's while on his vacation.  Many who write, preach, teach, and others who rely on their creative 'juices'  fall upon fallow ground from time to time.  

   Farmers know about fallow ground. .  . land that has been used and now for a season is plowed but nothing is planted.  Well, the muses of creativity sometimes go into hiding and 'the well is dry'.

   My younger brother writes a weekly column for our local newspaper.  Perhaps because I have known him for 60+ years and because I have been reading his material for almost 30 of those years, I frequently can tell when he is 'on' and when he just is grinding it out.  When he is 'good', he is very good . . . like the time that he won a North Carolina Press Association First Place Award for his story of Aunt Bea's funeral. (She of the Andy Griffith Show renown and who retired to our hometown.)  The funeral was by invitation and he was not an invitee.  How did he do it? As an ordained minister, he has conducted numerous funerals; he knew something of her 
story, and he talked with the priest who led the rites. Plus, I am convinced that somewhere along the way, he kissed the Blarney Stone.  Even so, he acknowledges that on occasion, he hits a fallow patch.

   'Papa' Ernest Hemingway when asked the secret of successful writing replied something to the effect of having the seat of one's garment adhere to the seat of a chair for extended periods of time.  (But is he not reputed to have written while standing? I digress.)

    I have come to enjoy . . . the word is too mild . . . writing blog posts.  Sometimes, topics will almost present themselves; at other times, there is nothing.  Gratefully, unlike Hemingway, I do not rely upon my prose for a livelihood.  Still, it is more than a bit frustrating to want to write, but creativity does not respond well to coercion.  As I wrote that last sentence, I remembered a term paper that I wrote for Professor Waldo Beach at Duke Divinity School in the Spring of 1963.  Though my grade was an acceptable "B", he sized it up well with his comment : "Signs of haste and imminent deadline".

    Perhaps the moral of this musing might be along the lines of  "What's the hurry? There's no deadline."  But, then, maybe my brother will tell me where to find the Blarney Stone.

    Satchel