Many months ago I gave the members of my small, yet resilient Writers' Club a small, yet resilient task - write about thine self! I issued this challenge in the most regal and compelling means I could what with my sore throat, limited lozenges and lack of any natural regal-ness. True story - I was once voted least likely to become king by my grade 3 class in elementary school. But there my writers' club sat, looking at me, then looking away and then looking back again in suspiciously coordinated fashion almost as if to check if I was a figment of their collective imaginations. I wish! And they seemed to be considering my proclamation, my challenge, my desire to make them write or else why do we call ourselves a writers' club, when maybe a sitting club would be more accurate. Before you laugh, a sitting club would be a wonderful idea what with all of the free time the youths of today enjoy and how proficient at sitting they are. Now you may laugh.
I wanted to challenge my club in a way I had never challenged them before (seeing as I had never challenged them at all, that seemed fairly safe). I also wanted them to write and breathe and explore the depths of their humanity in some order; maybe doing all three at the same time if they are feeling particularly cocky and aren't operating heavy duty machinery at the same time. I wanted them to write for themselves, but also for me, as I wanted to learn about what made each of them tick and whether any more of those products were still available at low low prices. Now, I know how this sounds as I did read it aloud, record it and play it back numerous times while enjoying a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice natural sugar at all - I, a hyper-controlling-verging-on-megalomania-but-falling-disappointingly-short writing club organizer, convince my writers to write about themselves only to make intricate and private lists of their strengths, talents and weaknesses just in case that information becomes extremely necessary at some point. Yes, I know exactly how that sounds.
Anyways, the bell sounded and our meeting ended and we went our separate ways. A small part of me felt sad, sort of how a robin must feel when he just can't catch a worm or catches the worm and celebrates just a little bit too veraciously only to realize that the worm was actually a stick. A little known fact: I often compare my own feelings to those of birds for reasons that I'm not able to fully articulate what with my current self-imposed word limit or shaky mental state. As the last student left, I also felt particularly inspired to write and I practically sashayed back to my office (practical sashaying and actually sashaying are as diametrically opposite as you, the reader, chooses to imagine - if you want to envision me actually sashaying while alone in my office, please do! It's my present for you), plunked myself down with the care of a lumberjack, and started typing words like they were going out of style which is much harder than it sounds as that is a very precise means of typing and it is just so challenging to nail.
I just couldn't wait to write about myself as both an example and a cautionary tale for my students. As I began to write I was nearly overwhelmed by emotions. To call how I felt "excitement" would be totally correct. To call what I felt "schoolgirl giddiness", again, would be embarrassingly apt. To call what I felt "a clear sign that my thyroid was acting up again" is yet another example of why I should upgrade from the current quack of a doctor I see whom I only continue to see for the discounted pate. I specialize in cautionary tales, by the way, both in my writing and in my choice of pants. Yes, I felt that if I wrote about myself in my typical style which blends equal parts humour, gravitas and what members of my family playfully refer to as "evidence for the prosecution" that I would inspire the other writers to tell their story or at least "tell' "their" "story" if that made them feel more comfortable. As the leader of our club, I want the other writers to be as comfortable as possible, even going as far as to force them to sit on heavily padded chairs for hours at a time while I fan them with illegally imported leaves of a banana tree.
I wanted to challenge my club in a way I had never challenged them before (seeing as I had never challenged them at all, that seemed fairly safe). I also wanted them to write and breathe and explore the depths of their humanity in some order; maybe doing all three at the same time if they are feeling particularly cocky and aren't operating heavy duty machinery at the same time. I wanted them to write for themselves, but also for me, as I wanted to learn about what made each of them tick and whether any more of those products were still available at low low prices. Now, I know how this sounds as I did read it aloud, record it and play it back numerous times while enjoying a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice natural sugar at all - I, a hyper-controlling-verging-on-megalomania-but-falling-disappointingly-short writing club organizer, convince my writers to write about themselves only to make intricate and private lists of their strengths, talents and weaknesses just in case that information becomes extremely necessary at some point. Yes, I know exactly how that sounds.
Anyways, the bell sounded and our meeting ended and we went our separate ways. A small part of me felt sad, sort of how a robin must feel when he just can't catch a worm or catches the worm and celebrates just a little bit too veraciously only to realize that the worm was actually a stick. A little known fact: I often compare my own feelings to those of birds for reasons that I'm not able to fully articulate what with my current self-imposed word limit or shaky mental state. As the last student left, I also felt particularly inspired to write and I practically sashayed back to my office (practical sashaying and actually sashaying are as diametrically opposite as you, the reader, chooses to imagine - if you want to envision me actually sashaying while alone in my office, please do! It's my present for you), plunked myself down with the care of a lumberjack, and started typing words like they were going out of style which is much harder than it sounds as that is a very precise means of typing and it is just so challenging to nail.
I just couldn't wait to write about myself as both an example and a cautionary tale for my students. As I began to write I was nearly overwhelmed by emotions. To call how I felt "excitement" would be totally correct. To call what I felt "schoolgirl giddiness", again, would be embarrassingly apt. To call what I felt "a clear sign that my thyroid was acting up again" is yet another example of why I should upgrade from the current quack of a doctor I see whom I only continue to see for the discounted pate. I specialize in cautionary tales, by the way, both in my writing and in my choice of pants. Yes, I felt that if I wrote about myself in my typical style which blends equal parts humour, gravitas and what members of my family playfully refer to as "evidence for the prosecution" that I would inspire the other writers to tell their story or at least "tell' "their" "story" if that made them feel more comfortable. As the leader of our club, I want the other writers to be as comfortable as possible, even going as far as to force them to sit on heavily padded chairs for hours at a time while I fan them with illegally imported leaves of a banana tree.
The writers sat at around the round table - we had started the year off using a rectangular table and had to switch for geometrical reason. The students looked somber, although my glasses were quitwe smudgy so all bets were off. I so badly want the bets to be on for a change at some point - don't get me started, or go ahead and get me started if it makes you feel like a big boy now. My glasses, in case you didn't know and how would you, are perpetually smudged which starts to feel like a conspiracy after a while especially on those "fun" days when I wake up feeling super paranoid. Once the students were all seated and the "hellos", "what ups?" and "could I have a refill, oh wait a second, this doesn't look at all like the diner I usually frequent on Tuesdays at all" were out of the way, we started our meeting which usually involves a pounding of a gavel, a call to order, a squeeze of a citrus fruit and the release of exactly two pigeons.
I pulled out my computer with as much flair and suspense as one could without risking bodily injury and proceeded to open it, turn it on, wait for a while for the login screen, open a browser, find the document and then, after loudly and erratically clearing my throat multiple times and then almost literally drinking some water, I spoke the first word of my work - it made for quite the compelling five minutes and judging by their reaction, I briefly considered quitting my day job and moving east. I also considered ceasing reading at that point as they seemed to really appreciate my throwing-caution-to-the-wind use of the word "When" as my opening salvo and, honestly, the rest of the piece went significantly and purposely downhill from there anyways.
But I stood, paced around, braved the elements and read like there was no tomorrow or possibly I was reading like my shirt was on fire or, in hindsight, it could have just been my seasonal allergies. I read as if my life depended on it which was highlighted by perfect grammar and diction with the only negatives being my jumpiness at any sudden noise and my inability to stop drooling. After reading my soul-searching piece about myself that was a little too heavy on the actual searching for souls as well as being as tell-all as I could manage without infringing on any copyrights, I sat back and waited for both the accolades I so badly yearned for as well as for one of my students to follow suit.
Silence ensued. No one else wanted to share. I inquired as to why and was met with more silence, only this time accompanied by wide-eyed looks that some would most likely compare to those of deer who are transfixed by oncoming headlights. I, for one, have ceased all expressions involving deer. It was long overdue. Finally, I was able to squeeze it out of them (no actual squeezing of any kind took place as someone forgot the oranges, again) - they felt that people would be "disgusted" by both their writing and themselves as revealed in the writing. I wondered aloud if that was a tad harsh and that they are almost definitely better at writing than they are giving themselves credit for and that, even if it wasn't amazing, that it is almost physiologically impossible for a listener to be rendered disgusted unless the writing was utterly, completely, graphically and realistically gory which coincidentally describes many of my more pleasant daydreams these days.
But, try as I might, there was just no sharing that day. The students left our meeting one by one much as they'd entered only facing the opposite direction this time. I sat there feeling like a failure, not a complete failure, no, only a very precise and unique type of failure as a writing club leader who had just been unable to inspire his members to write about themselves. As I wondered where to go next and what to do once I got there seeing as I was on a tight, self-imposed budget and waist size, I was flooded with even more ideas for things to write about myself. Ideas, if you were wondering, flood out of me all the time, which is easily one of the top five things I like having flood on me. Fake pig's blood is last. Don't ask. I alternated between wanted to smack my hand hard in frustration against the newly painted wall to hear the unique sound it would invariably make against the recently dried paint and doing some research to see who painted said wall so that I could pick up the phone to congratulate them on quite the good job.
The students just found the task of writing about themselves so difficult, while I have never found writing about myself hard at all, and writing on myself is even easier still (though harder to explain to my wife). For as long as I can remember (which is not saying much), I've been able to sit down, or stand in an attempt to appear taller, and almost literally pour my body and soul into everything I write (note: do not try to actually pour your body and soul into anything unless you have a large amount of Pledge on hand). I'd call my writing "no holds barred", but we'd all know I was lying as there are always some holds that must remain barred (it's far safer that way). I once tried to write on someone else and, hmmm...how to tell this story without sharing too many embarrassing details...let me put it this way, I wasn't allowed to have ice cream for a week.
How am I any different from my group of students, I wondered, aside from me being one person with one set of legs and them having collectively many more legs? Well, I am an adult, or more accurately adult-like or adult-ish. I've lived and loved and removed lint from the dryer - once, wonderfully, all at the same time. I've had experiences, worldly at times, and I've gotten in touch with myself but only while wearing a hazmat suit. I've taken the cliched trips to get to know myself, followed by trips where I tried to forget all that I just learned as it was way too horrifyingly real and should have come with a disclaimer and free nachos. I had reached the mountaintop, yodeled for a long while until the next group got sufficiently bored waiting for their turn to yodel, and then came down the other side a changed man - still a man, in case you were always curious - who knew a thing or two about things.
That must be it, I am just become so comfortable in my own skin (thank you, Dr. Francis!) that I can say or write just about anything about myself, no matter how potentially damaging or stomach-upsetting or obviously-money pandering that I want. I write, I lean against the wall (trying to avoid sliding down the wall as that is hard to explain to my kids why daddy can't stay vertical without their help) and I attempt to capture a smile that in no way is to be confused with smirking as I just don't smirk. The students, on the other hand, are adorably concerned with "how people see them" which explains the rise in camouflage sales these days and is just a part of growing up. When we are young we are often hyper-sensitive to how we come across and writing feels so permanent what with the supposed infinite storage space that Google offers these days. If we document something then it becomes real while if we refuse to write anything down, ever, then no one can point accusing fingers or sticks used to clean fish tanks at us claiming they "know" us.
Even though it is easy now, it wasn't always easy, to write about myself without worrying about what people would say or wonder or huddle in poorly-lit corners whispering about (which only draws more attention by the way). I guess, over time, as I've grown and matured and needed a strong prescription, I've become an open book. Here's how I think it happened. Initially I wasn't a book. Then I slowly became a book (I'll spare you the sordid details). Now I'm an open book except on cold winter's evenings, when I more closely resemble a pile of old clothes. And this transformation will happen for the young writers in my club as well. They too will mature and open up. They too will find themselves and feel the need to write/whine about it and not only when a confession is forced out of them. They will reach a point of self-realization and discovery where they will be able to share with a frankness that is so refreshing it will feel like a light mist has been sprayed on us all. Though they weren't read for my task at the moment, one day they will be and it will be glorious. All I ask for is a simple thanks or a super-complex and well-produced thanks if they have enough time and resources.
That must be it, I am just become so comfortable in my own skin (thank you, Dr. Francis!) that I can say or write just about anything about myself, no matter how potentially damaging or stomach-upsetting or obviously-money pandering that I want. I write, I lean against the wall (trying to avoid sliding down the wall as that is hard to explain to my kids why daddy can't stay vertical without their help) and I attempt to capture a smile that in no way is to be confused with smirking as I just don't smirk. The students, on the other hand, are adorably concerned with "how people see them" which explains the rise in camouflage sales these days and is just a part of growing up. When we are young we are often hyper-sensitive to how we come across and writing feels so permanent what with the supposed infinite storage space that Google offers these days. If we document something then it becomes real while if we refuse to write anything down, ever, then no one can point accusing fingers or sticks used to clean fish tanks at us claiming they "know" us.
Even though it is easy now, it wasn't always easy, to write about myself without worrying about what people would say or wonder or huddle in poorly-lit corners whispering about (which only draws more attention by the way). I guess, over time, as I've grown and matured and needed a strong prescription, I've become an open book. Here's how I think it happened. Initially I wasn't a book. Then I slowly became a book (I'll spare you the sordid details). Now I'm an open book except on cold winter's evenings, when I more closely resemble a pile of old clothes. And this transformation will happen for the young writers in my club as well. They too will mature and open up. They too will find themselves and feel the need to write/whine about it and not only when a confession is forced out of them. They will reach a point of self-realization and discovery where they will be able to share with a frankness that is so refreshing it will feel like a light mist has been sprayed on us all. Though they weren't read for my task at the moment, one day they will be and it will be glorious. All I ask for is a simple thanks or a super-complex and well-produced thanks if they have enough time and resources.
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