Posted on July 25, 2012 by authorfredhurr

Do we modern civilized westerners really know what it is to travel along a rocky road?
I have just finished reading a book called The Friar of Carcassonne. It is a terrible tale of religious persecution and the horrors of the Catholic Church Inquisition in 13^th century Languedoc, a region of southern France, and the famed land of the Cathars.
One very common feature of medieval life was that if you wanted to get from Rome to Paris or Paris to Carcassonne, your choices of transport were few. Horse and cart, riding a horse or donkey, or going by Shanks’s pony–in other words, foot-slogging weariness for hundreds of miles. And the highways and byways were either hard, rocky, dusty roads in summer or icy, frozen lanes and quagmires in winter. Both descriptions could be understood to be a rocky road.

Can I seriously liken my journey in becoming a writer to a rocky road experience? Honestly, I don’t think I can. Sitting in a comfortable study, shelves full of reference books to consult with and now in these, our marvelous times, having a window onto everything through the screen of my PC. A good wife to provide cups of coffee and hand-made sandwiches at my request, a safe environment outside should I want a breather, and even a tender mattress to lie upon should I get overworked and need a nap.
What can I say on this subject?
My second thought took me back to a summer morning twenty-five years ago. Slipping out of the English Lakes holiday cottage at five a.m., I was bound for Scafell Pike, England’s highest mountain. I had planned the trip many months before, pored over the ordnance survey maps to find the best way up to the summit while avoiding any obvious hazards and dangers en-route. I had planned it well. Made a list of all the equipment I needed, and not just needed for the climb, but also in case of emergency, accident, or injury. I wrote a route map and planned to give a copy to a responsible person who knew where I was going and what time I was expected to return and who also would know what to do in the unlikely event I didn’t come back at the appointed time.
The night before my intrepid adventure, I checked my equipment against the list. I made doubly sure that everything was in good order especially my handy fell walkers compass. Triple checked that I had enough food and drink. Had I packed a whistle to raise the alarm and a camera to record the good bits and a pair of binoculars to see what was up ahead?
It was a great day out. All was well. I got to the summit late morning, and there was no one else about. Most importantly, I got back safely and on time, so thankfully the mountain rescue folks weren’t needed.
For sake of argument, disregard the comfortable study and the peripheral luxuries that often accompany the writer’s life. Consider the following circumstances in comparison. If a writer starts out his or her journey in a lackadaisical fashion, then only failure can be the result. If I had started out on the climb up Scafell Pike without proper planning or management or the right equipment then perhaps I might not have returned. I might have encountered many pitfalls on the way for which I had made no contingency plans and thus suffered the consequences.

To avoid the rocky road, the apprentice writer must plan ahead carefully.
A daily timetable is a very good idea. Work out which part of the day is the most creative and productive for you. Don’t fall for the ‘you must get up at dawn to be a serious writer’ jab. If you are a nocturnal creature, write at night. But remember most bad novels were written just after a good lunch.
If you must, put a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door, so you can concentrate while you are being productive.
Make sure your ‘climbing’ materials are all in good working condition and you have all of the necessities.
Here’s a last tip. A trio of guys, Dibell, Scott Card, & Turco, wrote a book called How to Write a Million and it has helped me a lot over my years as a writer. Check it out!
How have you overcome ‘rocky road’ experiences as a writer? In life?

Against the Clouds

The mourners gathered in the street and onlookers held curtains
back or clicked the plastic blinds to see but not to be seen. Others stood
at open doorways watching silently. He must have been a wealthy man. Four
black Mercedes, long limousines and a score of undertakers.

The light faded and the sun obscured by grey clouds and the rain, the rain
fell hard and swift. The clouds rolled by heading south into the land of the
living.

The chief undertaker and elderly man himself, not far from death, black
top-hatted in velvet, walked slowly ahead of the shining cavalcade. In his
right hand he held the black umbrella aloft and in his left hand he swung a
silver topped black Malacca cane. It moved cleverly in the funeral manager's
hand, tapping out a slow rhythm on the wet shining asphalt like a beat on a
muffled drum.

A flock of funereal crows circled overhead.

The sleek cars followed the engines whirring silently. The mourners
ensconced on leather seats held hands, and slipped comfort words easily off
their lips to one another. The children dressed in black rode along squeezed
in between the adults feeling small and watching the eyes of living for
clues.

The leading hearse halted at the cross road to let the chief get in out of
the rain.

The driver commented to his colleague 'It's a perfect day for a funeral. I
hate sunny days.'

The last car followed. Not a limousine. An old car, not black, belonging to
a poor relative, it had a little flag on the bonnet flying precariously
against the wind, the magnet just holding fast on the rusting metal.

The limousines sped along the highway gathering speed. The routine of
observing death could not wait.

The route took them away from the clouds, to the dark vale of the north. The
deceased's eyes closed, not wishing to see anymore, headed the way of
passing, now passed away. The coffin always heading forward, not back, there
is no coming back for the dead.

The long line of stately vehicles, the dignified drove on, living souls
contemplating the end of things searched for platitudes to share with the
Minister or God always seeking absolution or instead hiding behind the eyes
of fear.

The cavalcade of black shining cars, the occupants enclosed, trying out just
what it feels like to take the final journey, against the passing clouds.