Inspired and Unlicensed
By Ty Randall
May 15, 2006

After my trip to New Orleans, I am inspired to write again. I proudly brag to friends that I am an unpublished writer. That’s really a lie, but I like the sound of it. What I really mean is an “unpublished novelist,” but that doesn’t sound as impressive.

I actually have been published before…in the Boston Globe. As a High School English class project we were forced to write letters to the editor. Mine was the only one that got published. The funny thing was, all I wrote about was how I liked some of the pictures in their paper because I liked photography and didn't know anything about writing.

I thought getting published was kind of neat though, so I tried to get something in the paper as soon as I could.  It was about 5 years later when I was in my sixth semester as a college freshman that I gave up and decided to join the staff of the school newspaper.  That’s when I finally learned that you could take pictures and call yourself some sort of journalist. After a couple years of that, they even got me doing a little writing to go with my pictures.   Unfortunately, my extreme lack of ambition disease got the better of me and knocked me out of that game just as soon as school ended.

Truth be told, I wasn’t really into the whole reporting of…well, the truth.  After my many years experience as a college photojournalist, I found that I didn’t mind so much reporting the truth with my camera.  But with writing, it was much more fun and easier to “practice my artistic license” if you will. 

Back in college I was equally proud of two little documents I kept tucked safely under my ass.  In my wallet you could find my press pass from the Society of Collegiate Journalists that I used strictly for getting into concerts for free and another ditty I picked up from Spencer Gifts, a License to Bullshit. 

The license came in handy on many occasions when I got caught up in so many lies they were like fishing line tightening around me and getting me all tangled up until I had to pull it out to save myself.  Most of the time I would try my best to control myself and only use it like an inside joke among my friends.  They would hear me laying some bull shit line on a chick to pick her up.  When it worked and we went walking out the door, I would just whisper to them, “It’s okay, I got a license for this shit.” 

Eventually I used those two little pieces of paper to do a little work, one for journalism, the other for a newly acquired hobby of writing fiction.  I found that I enjoyed writing fiction because I could take liberties with my “license” and make up whatever I wanted.  Since I couldn’t paint, I couldn’t afford all the film I wanted, and the light was not always right for photography, I ended up writing fiction in the wee small hours of the night/morning and getting out some of my creative sparks before they ignited the liquor and burned a whole in my liver. 

Eventually, I began to enjoy writing so much that I wanted to just stay home and do it all the time.  But those damn bill collectors forced me to go do things that actually paid money so I could give it all to them.  It’s such a vicious world sometime. 

One day I got hit like thousands of others.  I walked into work and found out the company was down-sizing and my job would be eliminated effective immediately.  I smiled and thanked them, went down the street and bought a big bottle of whiskey and a new computer.  As I attempted to piece all the computer parts together while drinking the whiskey, I occasionally stopped long enough to cuss out my former company and then tell myself that I didn’t need their stinking job, because now I was going to be a writer.

For the next six months I considered myself a paid unpublished-writer.  I sat home and collected unemployment and all I did all day was write, so it was like getting paid for writing even though I never had anything published.  After that long vacation from reality, I eventually had to get back to the daily grind and act like a viable member of society.  No more sitting around in my underwear, drinking strait from the bottle, smoking cigarettes, and cussing at the damn crows out the window.

I started from scratch at the bottom of the totem pole again, same career different company.  I put all I had into it to get back to the position I once had, which I think I secretly hoped would end up getting me another long laid-off vacation again.  I put my photography and my writing aside and kind of forgot about them for a few years.  And then I almost died.

I threw that in just for a little excitement in case you were kind enough to read this far.  You’ll have to sign up for the Ty fan mail to hear the exclusive, personal stories like that. The point is that I got back into my photography.  I was really planning to concentrate on that and leave the writing alone for a while, but I really have no control over such things when it comes right down to it.

My many years of retail experience has taught me that it is confusing to people when you mix certain things.   No matter how many signs you have explaining, there is always going to be someone confused because let’s face it, we all weren’t born with the same mental capacity.

It is because of that thinking that I have resisted mixing my writing with my photography, at least on my website.  I considered doing a whole different website of just my writing and I also considered not doing any writing at all and just concentrating on the photography.  But on my trip to New Orleans I met the great journalist Chris Rose. 

Chris Rose is right-on, tuned-in, and to me, inspirational.  He actually inspired me to want to write again, no matter how much I suck.

The funny thing about inspiration is that you just never know.  Just like I have no idea if I've ever inspired or influenced anyone, Chris has no idea that he inspired me.  (Chris, if you ever read this – thanks and I’m sorry.  Keep in mind I have no editor, audience, or purpose for my writing and therefore no expectations).

I met Chris in a line of hundreds of others waiting to ask for an autograph in his new book, 1 Dead In Attic.  Chris is damn good at what he does and being the experienced writer I am, I can tell.  I now take pleasure in reading his articles via the marvel of the Internet since I live a little too far away for delivery of the Times-Picayune. 

I think for me (and perhaps other writers), just the process of writing out what you’re thinking and what you’re feeling is therapeutic.  Chris probably wouldn’t be able to survive in hell and hang out on the stoop talking about the evil elephant if he didn’t have his writing to keep him sane.  His wife wonders why he tortures himself like that.    I suppose we do what we have to do to survive.  Chris does what he does in New Orleans, I’m doing what I have to in my own part of hell...New Jersey.  I have a new press pass now. I just wish I could find that license I used to have.
-Ty

To read Chris Rose’ column, go to www.NOLA.com/rose.  Ty highly recommends it.  You can see a photo of Chris at the signing mentioned above in Ty's Jazz Fest album in the [Ty Gallery].  To see more that Ty took on his visit, you’ll have to buy the photo CD. If you missed the limited-time offer, contact Ty for a copy.

To read more of Ty's writing, you'll have to let him know you would want to because he's still not sure about mixing. Tell him what you think or join the “Fan club” for updates.