Sometimes it takes an obituary to get a lesson on how to live your own life. After reading today's New York Times obit on humorist Art Buchwald, I feel like having a little cry and getting some fresh air, then revamping my entire MO. Everything he experienced, observed, imagined, was fodder for copy. And not just "here's what I did today, aren't I cool" copy, it was funny, generous, kind, Pulitzer Prize-winning copy.
His beginnings were difficult: his mother was declared delusional (this was back in 1925) and he never saw her after that. His father was a drapery and upholstery maker. When the Depression made it too difficult for him to support his five children, Art was shipped to the incredibly scary-sounding Hebrew Orphan Asylum (ew. Actually, it's way more - aaack.) In his late teens, Art escaped the orphanage, hitched to North Carolina, and joined the Marines.
To cut drastically to the chase, from then on his pen was his ticket to an amazing life. The part about how he wanted to be remembered as bringing joy to people's lives is … well, it's … it's a tearjerker, OK? Seriously, read the obit. If you're not moved, even if you're not a writer, you need to get away from the computer and get out more.
I mean it. Read it, then go. Scat. Skedaddle.
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