Louis Roney: Write to me, sing to me

There are lots of things that we human beings do that we can’t write about either effectively or without embarrassment. If you are a writer, you should know what you are thinking — but you can’t necessarily write about it.

Ernest Hemingway told us boys, “The toughest thing is just to sit down in front of that god-damn blank piece of paper and pick up your pencil.” I guess this situation is like having your first date with somebody — just finding the right opening words is the immediate challenge. From then on human nature shifts the gears for you.

Countless books have been written about writing. Successful writers such as Mark Twain and Edgar Allen Poe did not resort to such mechanics as “learning how to perform their art.” They simply sat down with a pencil and paper — and their brains — which produced “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer,” and “The Raven.”

Shakespeare’s works have sent people scurrying to find “the people” who wrote Shakespeare’s output, since clearly no single person could reasonably have produced such a huge library of brilliant literature.

The power of words that we writers wield, and the decisions we may influence, can be scary. There may be things we say that will make you love us. And, conversely, there are things we may write that might make you want to see us behind bars. Such is the power of the press that our forefathers fought for and jealously guarded. Of course one can also simply shut up, and remain unheard, un-influential and unthreatened.

A relative of mine has intimated through the years, “I can write as well as you do.” “So write” has been my repeated reply. All I have seen up to now is some soupy, rather inane attempts at juvenile “free verse” poetry. If there is a market for such stuff, I hope my kin will sell it and enjoy a good chicken dinner!

One could suppose that we are all caught up somewhere along the way in a growing-up process that will land us a little further down the intellectual road than we are at present.

From personal experience, I can tell you that the lonely solitary invention route for writing is not only the most productive, but the one that will best keep you out of the hair of those who wish you to flop. B.w. and I recently spent a charming time with a group of friends of different ages, and my most interesting minutes were when listening to the singing of 29-year-old baritone Gabriel Preisser who wishes to make the kind of singing career I made when I was young. He is holding some impressive vocal cards indeed, and sings with elegant technique and panache. I wish him hearty good luck and success.

A singer must learn to be his own best and most ruthless critic. The singer, of course, sings only for his own ear. Standing alone on the concert stage and singing to an audience gives a singer a chance to see the changing waves of expression on peoples’ faces. A singer in a sense “woos” his hearers, and he can assess his own results by the raptness of expressions on the faces of his listeners.

Singing is a business of “giving.” And giving is famously “more blessed” than receiving. A good singer gives everything he’s got to an audience. And the audience returns his generous expression in various ways that are unmistakable. At the end, everybody should be happier and richer! What more could one wish?

About Roney: Harvard’42—Distinguished Prof, Em.—UCF 2004 Fla. Alliance for the Arts award (Assisted by beautiful wife Joy Roney)