When Writers’ and Artists’ Lives Are Simple

Clouds over blue water

You hear so much yapping about a career in writing and art being a hard life. Shoveling coal for a living is a hard life, but when you are doing what you were put on earth to do with your life–and that is to write or paint–your life is simple, for then you have answered the most crucial questions of all: “What shall I be? “What shall I do? Then you ask, “How do I do it” and that is your craft, that is your art.

My blog is intended for writers and artists. Three million Americans identify themselves as writers. 2.7 million Americans identify themselves as artists. Of course, the blog also reaches millions of people in foreign countries who also identify themselves as artists and writers. To date my blog has been looked at by four hundred thousand writers and artists, the majority Americans, and others from even the least populated mountain and island kingdoms.

 

 An Example of What Happens to Writers as Their Lives Unfold: The Opportunities that Appear

I will use myself as an example of a writer whose career over many years I can describe. It may be of value to writers and artists to compare to their own careers. Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life is my best and my favorite book. It was written to help people. The main beneficiaries of Fighting To Win are discouraged people—broke, out of work, disappointed with their career or life, etc. Fighting to Win lifts them up.

Many people–probably most– struggle to find direction for their lives, but some people know from their earliest years the life, the career, they will pursue. I began writing professionally at eight–$25 for a story published in Jack & Jill. I didn’t know then that eventually in my career as writer I would, as many writers do, evolve into writer/poet/book marketer/public speaker/blogger. I decided on the way home from school on a rainy day that my goal when I grew up would be to be a writer so I could write beautiful words like “lovely,” “sea-faring,” and “proficient.” That goal has never changed through the publications of twelve books that are not self-published.

Ninety percent of a writer’s talent is inborn. That’s why writers needn’t attend the Iowa school of writing, but are generally self-taught. Some writers who write surprisingly well when they are very young are prodigies. There are artist prodigies too that draw and paint beautifully like much older artists. They master perspective when they seem too young to have mastered it .Mozart was a music prodigy, composing at four. Baryshnikov was a prodigy in ballet. He was the greatest dancer of his era because he could leap highest.

An early blooming prodigy can perform something before being taught to do it. For example, a young writing prodigy can write a story that has a plot, characterization, themes, tension, mystery, a strong conclusion though they have not been taught those features. The remaining ten percent of a writer’s expertise is skill and technique that comes from study, a ten percent separating great from good, and a phase that introduces the need for hard work, even among the most naturally-gifted.

As in every field, sweat-and-toil hard workers out-perform  lazy or listless workers. You cannot rely on natural talent alone to bring high success. Without drive and intelligence–however naturally talented you are–you will not go as far as you could.  Each day writers and artists should hope they have talent and tell themselves. “Today I will be energetic. Today I will be focused.”

A career in the arts is in keeping with my Welsh heritage. The Welsh entertain each other with stories and songs. I completed three degrees in American literature and taught Self Development in a university graduate school. At age twenty I had a short story published in a major literary journal. At twenty-one, a highly-regarded writing teacher said of my paper, “Teachers wait their entire career for a student who can write like this.”

I knew nothing about publishing and sent the entire manuscript of Fighting to Win to a publisher who called me and said they wanted to publish the book. I asked what kind of changes they wanted made and they said, “None. The book is a perfect book.” That statement soured me. Surely no book in first draft form is that good. I wanted a more demanding publisher who would encourage me to write my best. I turned the offer down. Having some doubts about the book I wrote an entirely new draft, starting from scratch, consuming a year.

I made an agreement with an excellent literary agent. I owe him a debt of gratitude.  He was energetic and honest, and placed my book Fighting to Win with Doubleday. After the success of Fighting to Win, another publisher said they wanted me to write a book for them. “What do you want me to write about?” I asked. They said, “Whatever you want.” So I wrote Waging Business Warfare for Scribner’s publisher, a book that The Wall Street Journal said would change the way companies do business. Both books climbed the best sealer charts. Fighting to Win was also a best seller in Sweden. Waging Business Warfare in France and Japan.

Writer or artist, you have to distinguish yourself from the crowd. You have to get known.  I’ve had many appearances in the national media on publicity tours and on my own. The books and my name became known in North America and foreign countries who purchased rights. I discovered that I am a good interviewee for marketing books, which is really sales. I have trained people in selling technique. The goal of a writer marketing to the broadcast media is to be invited back. Ideal is when the host of the show says “Call whenever you have something you want to talk about. We’ll put you on right away.”

Having written a book that becomes known by the public changes the author’s life forever. If you’re an author you’d better like the book since you and it from the publication date to the end of your life will be inseparable. You will be known as “So and so, the he author of….”   

A New York publisher, I didn’t know, head of a major house who “had read everything,” generously called me out of the blue to tell me  she had read Fighting to Win and found it “One of the  two or three best books of any type–prose, poetry, biography, history, arts etc.–I have ever read.”

Then I took on a new career: public speaking in auditoriums in North America and Europe to audiences of thousands about their self-improvement, based on the content of Fighting to Win. I discovered a talent for public speaking to large audiences that I wasn’t aware of. Long ago I was afraid of public speaking, but now I enjoy it as much as I do writing, and the income is impressive. Many speakers/writers earn more money from speaking than from writing.  The writer who can also speak is lucky. It is quite a shock to writers accustomed to working alone to find themselves on a stage addressing three, four, five thousand people who have come to hear an author’s wisdom.

Later I began this blog, designed to stimulate thinking about the important roles of writers and artists, especially those who hope to excel, a goal I share, placing emphasis on research and prescriptive how-to advice.  I wanted to think of every aspect of writers’ and artists’ work life and write something practical to aid them. Each blog is an essay pertaining to the life of writers or artists–their necessary knowledge, their moods, their challenges, their discouragements, and so on. My most popular post is “The Characteristics of Creative People.” There are now 141 essays.

A major change in this writer’s life was turning, later in life, from writing prose to writing poetry. Since then there has been a stream of publications of poems and great joy. I wrote a book of poetry about  adventures I had at seventeen when for six months I lived the life of a hobo hitching rides on freight trains: The Poetry of Riding Freight Trains Across America.

Philip Roth said eventually people won’t read novels anymore because with such busy lives, growing busier, they don’t have the many hours needed to read a novel. A poem can be read in a few minutes.

Gold and white clouds on a blue sky

In Bliss

When you spend thousands of hours working hard over many years as many writers and artists have, and think of your craft all the time since childhood, writing and painting and other arts are the simplest  tasks of your time here on earth. Dancers find a similar joy in dancing, actors in acting. When unhindered, such craftsmen write, paint, act, and dance in bliss.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

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Writers and Painters Are Inspired by Spiritual Moments

I think every writer and every painter has been inspired by rivers or mountains or valleys or such sights of the natural world. This post tells the tale of a bird.

Blue mountains with trees, cloudy sky, river and grassEvery writer and painter has in their memory at least one moment and one thought or image that captures their imagination and provides inspiration for their work. Every writer and every painter reading this post remembers such a scene and such a pristine, unforgettable moment that occurred in their youth, middle age, or old age.

They return to the scene innumerable times in their imagination where a storehouse of words and images are kept because that scene and that moment are breathtaking. However long they walk the earth they will never forget that day, that moment.

Spiritual Moment: Bird Rising From a Field

I was out in western United States, 1,500 miles from home. I had been thumbing car rides and boarding freight trains starting from my Midwest home in Chicago. From travel I was filthy with dirt, dust, grease, and cow manure from box cars, flat cars, and coal cars, and why should I care? I wasn’t trying to win the heart of a lovely dark-haired girl with a captivating smile. I was alone and I was on the road where you rely on your brains and your luck under circumstances when life is arduous.

I don’t remember where my traveling buddy Nick was, but he was not with me. He might have gone on to New York. I don’t remember because it was a long time ago. We were seventeen, just out of high school, in a period of a few precious years when we humans have a hunger for experiences we’ve never known because we are granted the pleasures, the adventures, and the intrigues of life so briefly.

The Bird’s Ascent

For a long time as I waited for a ride from the first car to stop there was no movement anywhere in sight–just total stasis, and no cars on the road at the moment I saw the bird. There were no sounds, just silence. I felt no loneliness as you often feel on the road alone, and no fear at all though I was far from home and young and had a treasure of only four dollars in my pocket to sustain me. Where would I eat and sleep tonight? Tommorow night?

The world of riding freight trains is dangerous, populated by many dangerous men you learn to be aware of. If something were to happen to me and I were to die in this unforgivable way of life no one would ever know what happened to me. My parents would grieve for their lost boy the rest of their lives. But I felt safe there that day; every feature of that day was perfect: a perfect day. The setting around me was like a painting–there were fields of unmoving wheat as far as I could see that were gold in the sunlight, the sky an indigo blue. The purest white puffy clouds drifted westward on a breath of wind.

Behind me and to my left there was a crackling sound and the cry of a bird. I immediately turned and looked in that direction. It was a big bird, larger than a hawk–pitch black in color, the wings shiny–with bright vermillion on the underside of the wings. The bird rose slowly out of the field, its wings fluttering noisily as if crying to the wheat, “Let me go. Let me out.”

field of wheat in front of a row of trees in the background and a light blue skyThen there was a sound of a wind thrashing the wheat fields, rippling the fields in great waves like breakers tumbling upon a beach. Looking, listening, alone, no fear, feeling joy, free, that was the loveliest moment in my life. Only I had seen the bird. There was no one near enough to see it, only I–the bird with the flaming red wings coming from out of the field against a background of no other movement but the wind-blown fields, and no one else on earth to witness its flight.  I now in a car bound for California saw in the bird the beauty that from childhood a writer is always hoping to convey in their writing, the beauty a painter always hopes to paint.

Here is my poem that is inspired by that bird:

Mystical Bird

I admire rising from the field before me
A magnificent black bird whose wings open wide
And show a brilliant vermillion on the underside,
That shrieks with delight as it takes flight.

To live as happily as I wish I might
My soul must be
As a bird that rises joyfully
From fields of gold.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

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The Prettiest Woman in the World

Sidney
Is the prettiest woman in the world.
No other woman can compare with Sydney–
Her eyes, her face, her body, her voice,
Her every feature appealing and without an imperfection,
Her hair in particular, long and black as ink.
The moment I think of Sydney it is spring in my heart.

When she walks with me her body sways as
Gracefully as a willow. The chill of evening–
Night falling–the moon glow–is her loveliest hour.
I adore Sydney’s simplicity of manner in everything,
With her gentleness, delicacy, and refinement,
And her intelligence, wit, and charm when she speaks,

For that’s the impression
Sydney, whose beauty is beyond expression
In every language but a poet’s, makes upon me.

Oh, if only Sydney loved me.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

 

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

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F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Crack-Up no

Photograph of F. Scott FotzzgeraldF. Scott Fitzgerald’s (1896-1940) writing was the major interest in his life. From grade school to his death nothing was quite true to him unless he had written about it. He was a fine writer, and his writing was always about himself or people he was intimate with. As a result his life was inextricably bound up with his work and his life with his kooky and attractive wife Zelda was an interest in itself. He lived a colorful life and a disastrous one with Zelda. They lived like fairy-story hero and heroine, filling newspapers with reports of their wild life-style. Much of the disaster of their lives were of their own making. Fitzgerald is called the creator of the Jazz Age which began with his writing best seller This Side of Paradise at the age of twenty-four, making him rich, his goal for writing it. The book became the voice of the younger hedonistic, thrill-loving, post-World War I generation.

Fitzgerald felt that a person such as himself was happiest if they were rich and had acquired the trappings of wealth and were living “the good life.” In his earlier adult life Fitzgerald saw the “improbable, often the impossible come true. Life was something you dominated if you were any good. Life yielded easily to intelligence and effort. It seemed a romantic business to be a successful literary man.” (Arthur Mizener.)

Fitzgerald felt he could not have chosen any other profession although in the writing trade “you were forever unsatisfied.” In the nineteen twenties the big problems of his life seemed to solve themselves, and if the problems were too tough he ignored them. He strove to make a lot of money from his writing novels and dozens of short stories that were immensely popular, as he did in the early and middle parts of his career. Fitzgerald always lived well beyond his income, troubling his editor Maxwell Perkins for many advances on earnings. He was often confused between writing just for the money and writing high quality literary work. He had a keen understanding of public literary tastes and could profitably write both.

The Crack-Up

Fitzgerald wrote three magazine articles frankly describing his crack-up. His friend Ernest Hemingway advised him against writing them because, he said, they would make Fitzgerald appear weak. The fear of appearing weak was a concern of macho Hemingway, but not of Fitzgerald. Rare is writing so honest about one’s psychological and spiritual problems as Fitzgerald’s revelations in those articles.

For seventeen years things went on marvelously well, and then at thirty-nine Fitzgerald suddenly realized that he had cracked up. He said you can crack up in the mind and can crack up in the body and the nerves. His crack-up was in the nerves where he said there was “too much anger and too many tears.” He said that he had been living a long time “not caring much, not thinking about what was left undone, or of his responsibilities.”  He had a sudden instinct that he must go somewhere and be alone for a while. He wrote, “I didn’t want to see people at all. I had seen so many people all my life.” He was seeking “a certain insulation from ordinary cares. I went away and there were fewer people…I felt tired and slept dozens of hours or twenty -four hours at a day.” Sick, he made lists, “hundreds of lists of happy times, baseball plays, popular songs, of pairs of shoes, of women he liked, “and then suddenly, surprising, he said, “I got better.”

In reflection he began to realize “that for two years of my life I had been drawing on resources that I did not possess, that I had been mortgaging myself physically and spiritually up to the hilt. I realized that in those two years…I had weaned myself from all the things I used to love.” He saw that for a long time he had not liked people. He felt that even his love for those closest to him was only an attempt to love them, but was not love. He became bitter about everything he encountered or thought about day and night.

In the article “Putting it Together” Fitzgerald said, “In a real dark night of the soul it is always three ‘o clock in the morning day after day. At that hour the tendency is to refuse to face things as long as possible by retiring to an infantile dream– but one is continually startled out of this by various contacts with the world. One meets these occasions as quickly and carelessly as possible and retires once more back into the dream, hoping that things would adjust themselves by some great material or spiritual bonanza…But as the withdrawal persists one witnesses the disintegration of one’s own personality.”

Fitzgerald said “It was strange to have no self–to be like a little boy left alone in a big house who found he could do anything  he wanted, “but found there was nothing he wanted to do.”  In a final reflection on his ordeal, his crack-up, Fitzgerald wrote, “A man does not recover from such a jolt–he becomes a different person and eventually the new person finds new things to care about.”

Fitzgerald’s Death

In 1937 Fitzgerald was sick and unable to write and no longer earning royalties. He turned to Hollywood’s film industry. He died at   forty-four a modestly paid Hollywood screen writer of mediocre movies. Many critics consider his The Great Gatsby the great American novel many writers have striven to write. The Great Gatsby surprised the literary world by being more substantial than anything Fitzgerald had written before.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

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Motivating Quotes for Writers and Artists

 

  • “Painters and poets alike have always had license to dare anything.” (Horace)
  • “The incurable itch of writing possesses many.” (Juvenal)
  • “He is the greatest artist who has embodied, in the sum of his work, the greatest number of the greatest ideas.” (John Ruskin.)
  • “The excellency of every art is its intensity.” (John Keats)
  • “Great artists need great clients.” (Artist I.M. Pei.)
  • “It seems to me that the writers who have the power of revelation are just those who, in some particular part of life, have seen or felt considerably more than the average run of intelligent beings…The great difference, intellectually speaking, between one man and another is simply the number of things they can see in a given cubic yard of the world.” (Gilbert Murray.)
  • “High but not the highest intelligence, combined with the greatest degree of persistence will achieve greater eminence than the highest degree of intelligence with somewhat less persistence.” (Catherine Cox.)
  • “I think if you’re going to write, you’re going to write and nothing will stop you.” (William Faulkner.)
  • “It is the nature of man to rise to greatness if greatness is expected of him.” (John Steinbeck.)
  • “The essential factor of development of expertise is the accumulation of increasingly complex patterns in memory.” (Andreas Lehman.}
  • “Gifts like genius, I often think, means only an infinite capacity for taking pains.” (Jane E. Hopkins)
  • “Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon one can never resist or understand.” (George Orwell)
  • “It is through art and through art only, that we realize our perfection; through art and art only that we can shield ourselves from the sordid perils of actual existence.” (Oscar Wilde)
  • “If I set out to sculpt a standing man and it becomes a lying woman I know I am making art.” (Henry Moore.)
  • “The whole function of the artist in the world is to be a seeing and feeling creature; to be an instrument of such tenderness and sensitiveness, that no shadow, no hue, no line, no instantaneous and evanescent expression of the visible things around him, nor any of the emotions they are capable of conveying to the spirit which has been given him, shall either be left unrecorded, or fade…The work of his life is two-fold only; to see, to feel.” (John Ruskin.)
  • “I am just a man in the position of waiting to see what the imagination is going to do next.”(Saul Bellow.)

Rainbow in sky with clouds above a thick row of trees and water

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

 

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Four True Close Calls

My Life in Jeopardy Again

I’ve had numerous close calls,
Starting in childhood when the fire
Department rescued me
And the neighbors stood
On their porches and cheered,
Then being saved from
Falling off a mountain cliff.
Then many other close calls that make my
Wife shudder to hear me talk about.
I could write a book about close calls.

 

When You Grow Up In Chicago

Chicago is the home of great
Financial institutions and universities, but
City at nightWhen you grow up in Chicago as I did
You coexist with gangsters. You know their
Names and nicknames and you
Read the papers about them and hear about
Them, or they live in your neighborhood.
Chicago is the city of neighborhoods.
I dated a famous gangster’s sister–a lovely girl–
But her family lived in shame. Her brother was
Slain because he double-crossed other gangsters,
His body found bullet-riddled as double-crosser’s
Bodies usually are.

 

Here are four close calls I’ve had.

 

In a North Side Chicago Bar at Two A.M.
Gangland Killer

In the bar at 2:00 A.M. on the fading
End of a magnificent summer night that had been warm
But turned pleasantly cool like a breath of October
Were four people who had nothing in common:
A waitress, a bartender, a drunk man, and I.
The waitress and I were twenty-two or three then,
She was pretty, her complexion as fresh as clover.
Her periwinkle blue eyes made you recall a sky you once saw.
Both of us were as care-free as the magic of our youth,
She younger than wherever her life would lead, I not yet
The writer I would soon be. We never knew each other’s name.

She was fearless when she said to
The surly drunk man everyone all night had been afraid of
And kept their distance from because he seemed to be
A dangerous man, “Sir, I can’t serve anyone who has
Had too much to drink. Do you understand? ”
She had manners. She was a nice girl.

The drunk man then spit in her face and I
Went over there and chastised him, saying to him
That he must apologize to her,
That in civilized society you don’t spit on people–I said,
“That’s something everybody’s supposed to know,” and he
Cursed me and growled that he now intended
To kill me.

Pissed, I stood in front of him and said,
“Go ahead pull out a gun right now
And shoot me.” He cursed me again and furiously
Stormed out the front door. Then the bartender
Said to me that I had picked the worst possible man
To antagonize: “When he said he would
Kill you he really could. He is a murderer.
He tortures and kills people. That’s what the man does.
That’s his profession. This is serious.
He’s in that car at the curb waiting for you to
Come out. If I were you I wouldn’t plan on
Living a long life.”

The waitress and I hugged goodbye, never
To see each other again, then slipped
Out the back door and down the dark alley
Laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation–
“How will we explain this to anyone?”–
Running for our lives.

 

Freight trainWhen I was seventeen I rode freight trains across America for six months for the sake of adventure, living the way hobos live, and had close calls daily, my life continually at risk.

 

 

Nature’s Cruelty:
The Bitter Cold of Night

Cold settles savagely on Utah’s
Great Salt Lake desert late at night.
I had reached the desert by freight train
After a scorching day,
The red sun pulsating in the sky
Like a throbbing heart. The temperature then
Fell precipitously. Then there was an ice storm.
Then nothing to warm me, exposed to the open air.
How in the unspeakable cold of interminable night I suffered,
Hoping not to freeze to death by morning and be
Found in a boxcar as stiff as a six-foot plank of wood,

 

Shot at, Chased By Dogs

When my freight train reached Kelso-Longview
The railroad police were waiting,
Holding the leash of a German shepherd
In one hand, waving a gun in the other.
Shouting and running, I, youngest, running fastest,
Hobos leaped or fell from the cars and dashed
In every direction, chased by the cops
Firing their weapons everywhere.
As I ran I laughed at how out
Of my element I was, far from Chicago, and how ludicrous
The whole scene must appear–a hundred
Running hobos and bulls, men firing revolvers,
Other men praying not to be shot,
Ferocious dogs snapping at my heels,
Shots grazing my head.

 

Milk: The Ordeal of Thirst

The freight train we caught hadn’t stopped
Going on three days and our canteens
Were empty. We were worried about water.
We had never been as thirsty.
We were losing hope. How long can a
Human live without water? When would
This train stop, free us, and let us live?

I fell asleep in the heat and dreamed
That I opened the refrigerator
At home and saw every shelf loaded
With bottles of milk.

Waterfall with water that looks like milkThen in a second dream
I saw waterfalls of milk spraying
And roaring down like Victoria Falls–
Streams of milk, rivers of milk–

An ocean of cold milk. My friend asked if I was
Still alive and I answered that I was.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“Milk.”
“Milk?”
“Milk.”

The train stopped
And I jumped off onto ground.
I found a providential water pump
And filled our canteens–the
Stream of water from the pump
Pouring over my boots.
We drank the foul tasting
Egg water and found it life-saving.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

 

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Fame is Fleeting:  Novelist Thomas Wolfe

Introducing Thomas Wolfe

Writers are always looking for material to write about. The right material is half the job. American writer six-foot-seven-inch Thomas Wolfe (1900-1938) wrote about himself. When he wrote he strove to use everything. He wanted to put all the experiences of his life into books. He might write thousands of words about a young man waiting for a train–just waiting as he recalled having once done. Every experience had to be used; nothing could be left out, a goal that was the source of his distinctive achievements and his greatest weakness, for the immensity of his goal was an impossible ambition.

Abstract painting like clouds in orange, gold and purpleAll writers are equipped with a good memories, but Thomas Wolfe’s memory was astonishing. Because of it he was able with ease to recall events, people, and places in stunning detail. That was his strength. His weakness was an inability to restrain the deluge of words that poured out of him from evening to dawn as he wrote, or when he spoke, and he simply, despite himself, had no ability to stay within the requirements of writing a saleable novel. He had no concept of how to write such a book and needed the help of his editor, the legendary Maxwell Perkins of Scribner’s, who at the same time was the editor of Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald, two other difficult clients.

The manuscripts Wolfe turned in to Perkins were of enormous lengths, twice as long to War and Peace. They required tens of thousands of words–or hundreds of thousands–being cut. But Wolfe, being told to go home and cut fifteen thousand more words, might go home and add twenty or twenty-five thousand. Wolfe would sit looking at the manuscript with no idea of what to do to shape it into a novel that could be sold at a book store. The only way Perkins could get Wolfe to stop adding words was to take the book away from him and send it to the printer without Wolfe knowing.

 

A Sketch of Thomas Wolfe

Thomas Wolfe was the most naïve and trusting man on earth and wanted everyone to be his friend. His belief in hard work was almost holy. He wrote all night, each night producing thousands of words on large scrolls of newsprint that he dropped on the floor for an assistant to try to paginate.

He was a big man in many ways, not just in his physical size, but in terms of his ambitions, his memory, and the intensity of his emotions. To Wolfe, the need to write–to spare no effort, to exhaust himself writing–was paramount. Whenever he was distracted from working he would fall into a black mood; then he would brood, drink, and pace New York streets all night, telephoning his friends and accusing them of betraying him.  The next day he would call them and apologize abjectly. He was governed almost wholly by his insatiable need to write.

Wolfe inherited from his father the richness, rhetoric, and music of his prose and the gusto with which he lived. His vocabulary was immense, and his ability to select from it the right word, phrase or image was, and is, unrivaled by any other writer. From his mother he acquired his enormously retentive memory and his dogged attraction to long-sustained, exhausting work.

 

Wolfe’s Most Important Relationships

Three relationships were most important in Wolfe’s life: with his parents, his lover Aline Bernstein, and his editor Maxwell Perkins (considered the best editor any writer ever had). Aline Bernstein, a beautiful, brilliantly successful stage designer and one of the directors of the Neighborhood Playhouse, had more charm in her little finger than most people have in their whole body. Wolfe met her in September, 1925 when he was twenty-five. She was nineteen years older at forty-four and a married woman. He wrote about her that “that woman would become his heart’s centre.”  It was love at first sight for both of them. Wolfe had been involved with other women, but Bernstein was the one great love affair of his life, and the influence she had on him was incalculably great.

Without her unwavering belief and confidence in him and her substantial financial and emotional support, he could never have written Look Homeward Angel when he did. She made it possible materially and spiritually for him to write it while he taught English at NYU. For six years she guided and transformed his life until 1931 when their affair ended bitterly. Often Wolfe’s relationships ended bitterly, for example his working relationship with Perkins–editor, confidant, adviser, creditor, and friend, the most important relationship in Perkins’ life.

 

A Writer’s Life Becomes More Difficult with Each Succeeding Book

After having his first book (Look Homeward Angel) successfully published, Wolfe wrote about the difficulties of each succeeding work, the travails of the life of a creative person. He wrote that the writer is alone: “At that time, among the many other things I did not know, I did not know that for a man who wants to continue with the creative life, to keep on growing and developing, this cheerful idea of happy establishment, of continuing now as one has started, is nothing but a delusion and a snare. I did not know that if a man really has in him the desire and the capacity to create, the power of further growth and further development, there can be no such thing as an easy road. I did not know that so far from having found out about writing, I had really found out almost nothing … I had made a first and simple utterance; but I did not know that each succeeding one would not only be … more difficult than the last, but  would be completely different–that with each new effort would come new desperation, the new, and old, sense of having to begin from the beginning all over again; of being face to face again with the old naked facts of self and work; of realizing again that there is no help anywhere save the help and strength that one can find within himself.”

 

Fame is Fleeting

Boat at the horizon with red sky and gold waterNo writer in the nineteen thirties–or even now–could write with the beauty of Thomas Wolfe’s prose. His reputation after his death suffered because of the perceived formlessness and verbiage of his writing in an age when critics preferred tight structure and economy of language–short sentences and short episodes, and highly-focused scenes rather than the volume and torrents of Wolfe’s  language.  Once considered by Nobel Prize winners William Faulkner and Sinclair Lewis to be America’s finest writer, and in the past extremely popular with readers and critics, Wolfe is now almost never read–unfortunately in my opinion, if one is interested in being inspired by the brilliance of written expression. Hard as you look, you will not find Thomas Wolfe–once thought a towering genius–in current anthologies of American literature.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

 

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Poetic Imagery + An Award-Winning Imagist Poem in

Many poets write poems that contain symbols, allusions, and references that carry the reader outside the poem itself to other information. To understand the poem fully you must analyze and interpret it and perhaps conduct research. Whole long essays are written on someone’s interpretation of what a single poem really means.

My poem in this blog–“Hobos in a Clearing”–is an imagist poem. I am in love with imagery in the arts. My post of that title and a related post have proven to be popular. “Hobos in a Clearing” is constructed of twenty images.

Imagist poems are different from other poems. They require no analysis to understand them, no interpretation, and no research. To find their meaning, all that is necessary is to read the poem. They are like haiku in that way, what in Zen is “a direct pointing at reality.” A tree is a tree in an imagist poem, a mountain is a mountain, and a lovely woman is a lovely woman. The tree, mountain, and the woman do not stand for or represent something else. Imagist poems appeal to the painters and other visual artists who read my blog because imagist poems paint visual pictures in words. The sense they rely on generally is the sense of sight.

Poems cluttered with numerous references, symbols, and allusions seem obscure and difficult to many readers while the imagist poem like “Hobos in a Clearing” is clear and vivid.

 

The Trip

In the summer of my seventeenth year my friend and I, being romantics and seeking adventure, left our homes on the north side of Chicago and hitchhiked and rode freight trains across America to many cities, towns, and villages from coast to coast, crossing bridges and prairies and lakes, ascending mountains, and acquiring experiences that I would in the future turn into short stories, essays, and poems.

Our First Hobo Camp

Orange campfire against a blue sky and treesMy poem describes the first hobo camp of about three hundred men we came upon, a camp looking like “the camps of infantry.” We went down the hill to meet the men, slept there a few days, ate fried beans, and listened to and took notes about the stories the forgotten men enjoyed telling.

 

Hobos in a Clearing

We reached the crest of the hill at dusk.
Below us, like the camps of infantry,
Burned the scattered fires of forgotten men,
Each a separate picture.
They lived in the open or in
The opulence of tarpaper
Lean-tos against a tree, and
Migrated as punctually as geese.
They wore black–perhaps it was
The soot of trains–
And squatted on their haunches like crickets
Beside the snapping flames.
Streams of smoke trailed off
High into the trees
And embers flickered and faded,
Flickered and faded
In the harsh bite and sparkle
Of the wind, and glowed bronze
On the men’s untroubled faces
Late into the night.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

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Comprehensive Post on the Characteristics of Creative People

I have written two hundred popular and pragmatic posts, articles, and “How To” essays for writers and artists over the past ten years.

Painting of ShakespeareMy most popular post is entitled “The Characteristics of Creative People.” The subtitle of the post reveals what is different about my approach and makes the post popular. The subtitle, “What We Learn from Writers, Artists, Dancers, Musicians, and Actors,” is my way of saying that through analysis of successful people I have known in various arts and crafts and many others I have read about and studied, these characteristics and personal qualities I describe are those that help writers and artists and others in the arts to do their best work.

For example, they helped Toni Morrison (who never wasted time because, she said, writing was the only thing she ever did) win the Nobel Prize and create magnificent novels and essays, and helped Joan Miro create in vibrant colors lovely paintings, Colorful picture of a jar with paintbrushessculptures, prints, and ceramics, and established Lynn Fontanne as a great dancer, Laurence Olivier a great actor, George Gershwin (as hard a worker as there ever has been in any field), a great composer, and so on.

They are many of the same characteristics that you and I draw upon when we are creating, and our finished work is especially high quality–our best work–thrilling us.  The characteristics tell us what artists are like and how they prefer to work.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

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More Gentle Poems by David J. Rogers

Here are a few of my recent poems on the theme of gentle poems in a troubled world.

 

Moonlight and Ice

Driving alone, not feeling lonely, I thought of the
Obligations fathers and their children have to each other.
I thought of the Japanese word On, meaning our duty,
What we owe. I was headed to the Mississippi River
Before dawn on a cold December day. Along the road
Were patches of ice, dark farm houses–everyone
Sleeping–frozen lakes, and small icy ponds.
Walking out on the sheet of ice that the Mississippi
Had become I reached a place visible in the moonlight that
I thought was right and I kicked a hole in the ice for the ashes.
No one in sight, I said a prayer aloud for my father.
How grief blurs one’s eyes and clutches one’s throat.
The sun came up as if it had risen like a golden flower from
Out of the earth. Then the landscape grew bright, ice glittering
In sunlight.

 

Pitch Black Nights

There are nights so dark
Out here on this mountain top
I can’t see anything.
But the air is alive with
Sounds I lie back, listen to, and try to identify.

 

One Day’s Peace of Mind and Heart

Could I have but one day’s peace of mind and heart
I would choose this lovely fall day with Diana.
The colors of the crowns of autumn’s trees
Are so brilliant today as to open our eyes from sleep.
As light in weight as a maple leaf a south wind
Brushes across the surface of the lake we played in
As children, rippling the water, ringing a red
Sailboat’s bell. Over us now fly six gulls
White as lilies. Their shadows cross Diana’s face.
Everyone agrees her face is beautiful,
And her gray-white-silver hair is beautiful, and
Green eyes, and the appeal of her voice, so soft,
The appeal of her kind, endearing thoughts, the appeal
Of her every quality–these things overwhelm me.

 

Images of Natural Life While Walking Through a Forest with a Friend

In the underbrush along the path we followed grew
Morning glories, wild flowers, lilies of the valley, azaleas, and
Asters. In the trees above, squirrels preened on their hind legs,
Then sprang and leaped from branch to branch. A nervous chipmunk
Made its departure into the lush chipmunk world.
A small female white-tail deer waited courteously for us to pass,
A puzzled expression in her bulging eyes, and then bounded
Free as a wind across the path. We were so close we could touch her.
Then a full-grown, majestic male with more serious eyes appeared,
Strutting across the path as though a banker.
Grasshoppers still damp with morning dew dried themselves
In the sunlight and we took care to step around them.
A yellow finch, its head bobbing, chirped sweetly. Insects
Squabbled in the air. The fragrance of clover
Was everywhere.  A wind swept across the river in front of us.
The leaves of the trees seemed to whisper.

 

Going Home the Last Time

I will go back now to where I grew up,
The place and the people,
Arriving as the sun
Sets in a perfect pink and orange sky
Above the church where my father sang.
I will smell working-class six o’clock meat and potato dinners
Down the streets and pause to watch hawks circle above
The chimney of my house
Just as another generation of hawks did in my youth.
Neighbors will trudge home from work, in no hurry, quiet,
Alone or in twos and threes with their
Crumpled lunch bags folded in their hand.
Then before leaving forever, I will sit on the stairs
Of my long-ago home listening to crickets in the hedges
Chirping their praise of summer nights.

 

© 2025 David J. Rogers

For my interview from the international teleconference with Ben Dean about Fighting to Win, click the following link:

Interview with David J. Rogers

 

Order Fighting to Win: Samurai Techniques for Your Work and Life eBook by David J. Rogers

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