Writer's Block

I am a prolific writer.

My father is so proud.

For years now, every chance I get, ideas just flow out of me like I am a faucet or a hose or some other instrument that water can gush out of. I sit, I pause for dramatic effect and then my fingers dance all over the keyboard often creating words and other times allowing the spell check to work it's wonders. It's never been hard for me to think of what to say or how to say it or even who to whisper it to on warm summer evenings in dark alleys. 

My problems (or at least the ones pertaining to writing) have always been finding enough time to write as well as picking and choosing what to write about when time presents itself. There is usually just never enough time and I've been meaning to complain to someone about this for a while now, but I'm always just too busy and unshaven. Time, as someone wise once said in an all-together-way-too-condescending manner, is fleeting as is money, chocolate sprinkles on my daughter's ice cream cone and the sands of youth in the hour glass that is life.

And when there is time to author a new piece of writing, it's not like I can just drop everything (especially when transporting miniature glass or porcelain figurines as I often am) and write. I have to cook, bathe, exercise and groom bonsai plants in that order. And when there is time? Well, where four hours could easily be filled, I often have to make do with less than one and am forced to almost literally throw ideas at the screen (making sure said ideas have wiped their feet at the door first).

I often feel like a hydroelectric dam (for reasons I contractually am not able to expand upon at the moment) in that I have so many ideas and thoughts and drafts and ideas for what to do with that huge block of feta cheese occupying prime real estate in my fridge and just a small chute for all of those to come out of. I like to call the chute "Fred", while my friend Fred is wondering how to feel about that.

The types of pieces I love/am compelled to write naturally change as time goes on. Sometimes I try to resist change and other times I just wear tighter shirts which, oddly, has the same desired effect. Sometimes I write about ridiculous scenarios or relationships; other times I want to discuss aspects of my work and then there are the other I write to give all of the voices in my head a turn before they fly south for winter. Pieces vary from the super short to the grossly long with each type occupying a special place in my heart - I believe it's the left valve.

But, as I have said and am running the risk of repeating myself which is good as I am trying to live more risky (or was that risque) in my 40s, I have never had nary a problem of knowing what to type. My desire to maul readers with my writing is akin to how a bear desires to maul my readers too, if given an opportunity (are you free next Thursday?). The only times in my past when I just couldn't produce creatively were when I was so tired or so hungry or so...let's just say that straight jackets are not my first choice of writing attire.

Until it happened.

I'll never forget where I was at that moment, as it just happened a few days ago and I was at home and I live there and it's just so easy to remember and would be more of a concern if I forgot. Don't get me wrong, I forget tons of other things, just not this; not now, not here, not with all of those hungry mouths depending on me.

So, one day, at a regularly scheduled time, I sat, opened my computer, scratched a few places on my body, barked inspirational slogans at myself in the mirror until I began to weep uncontrollably due to the sheer amount of inspiration as well as how angry I seemed in the mirror. And then I began to write.

Except I didn't.

I kept starting first sentences that were amazing in their horribleness. I kept coming up with ideas before berating myself for how mundane and simple and lacking any "funny" they were. Other times a seemingly "bad" idea could be turned and twisted and played with, sort of like diapering an infant or an older child if they are still having "issues". But that day? I just sat there, intensely staring at the screen almost as if I was pleading for the screen to do something about this. But screens are notorious for being silent witnesses, and deep down inside I knew that.

I sat there. Frozen as if an ice queen. Damn soothsayer! I looked at my ghost-like reflection in the white word processing screen and wondered how my life would be if I really was that white. It's not as if I wasn't excited to write. It's not as if I had anything else better to do (something my loved ones are always reminding me of). And it's not as if I didn't have tons of drafts in various stages of completion that would have loved to have been worked on (I like to see my drafts like little children that need to be fed or like cubes of cheese that need to be eaten or even like small little half-child/half-cheese creatures that are super fun to play with until summer hits and then they are at serious risk of melting).

As I tried to get started I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into a hole of my own creation (little known fact - I am a veritable virtuoso when it comes to digging holes). And then it hit me (with it being my hand, or at least I thought it was my hand)! This was entirely my fault, just like it was my fault those tomato plants died in my garden when I decided to withhold their water as some sort of social experiment. I have, at the moment, between my two blogs, well over 100 drafts and it's getting out of control and I obviously need some sort of intervention or support group or a good spanking (hopefully, due to a busy schedule and lack of funds, all at once would be ideal).

Maybe, just maybe, I have so many ideas and so many drafts and so many allergies that I have hamstrung myself (which is quite different from all of the times when I hammed myself - it takes so much scrubbing to remove the smell of cured pork from one's hair). Once it hit me, it was all so obvious! I had fallen into the most obvious trap, or more accurately, I had fallen and the obvious trap had been left out on the floor when someone should have just cleaned up after themselves. My inability to focus on one thought or piece at a time had contributed to this state.

But, it wasn't all my fault (it never is, I'm always telling my gerbils - there is no way I could have gnawed all of that plastic on my own). The rapidly vanishing time, the rapidly decreasing dexterity in my fingers, the rapidly increasing weight of expectations to "blow people away" and "use proper punctuation" and "cut out all slurs" have all played a role as well.

How I yearn for the days gone by where huge expanses of time combined with the relative youth and naivete of 2014 as well as a diet consisting of huge amounts of insoluble fibre! Back in the days when writing was something I "did" instead of something that is "done to me". Back in the days when I could be happy with a "good" idea that was "mostly" funny and "sort of" sensical. Back in the days when boys would be boys and Tommy was just being Tommy and feedback rolled off my back (never hurts to ask for feedback to be inserted into a cylindrical tube first).

As I sat there on that fateful day and all of these thoughts crystallized in my head (note to self - think less sharp and pointy ideas next time) I discovered a resolve that I thought was unachievable. This resolve shocked me and threw me for a loop, which is not nearly as impressive as it sounds as I am almost always mid-loop.

I stood, as I had stood many times in the past (only this time how I imagined an important executive or circus clown would stand) and then I sat, as I had sat many times in the past (only this time with a certainty that the chair was real) and then I started writing, as I had written many times in the past (only this time with a verve and panache from an era gone by). 

The block was smashed to smithereens. I was back. A wry smile crossed my lips and, unlike a regular smile, I allowed it to linger for a moment. Was I ready for this? To be unleashed creativily? To be unchained (figuratively this time) mentally? To be unbelted as belts just don't go well with track pants? Yes, I was ready. I flexed my fingers, took a deep breath, and then plunged headfirst into the abyss.

So Many Ideas, So Little Time

I have lots of problems (stop nodding your head!), but thinking of things to write about just isn't one of them. Sure I will go through short periods of time where I just can't think of something witty or brazen or intelligent enough to say which is akin to having periods of time where I just find socks so unwearable and funny (you want actually want me to put those on my feet?!?!?). Everywhere I look, everything I see and every person I meet and am tempted to either tickle or high five or buy broccoli from gives me endless ideas for characters to create, plots to thicken or soapboxes to mount (a dying art).

I could just sit there in some public place, minding my own business, eating jar after jar of pickles or honing my miming skills and transcribe the actual words coming out of the mouths of the people around me (just not babes, I never take words from babes - it seems cruel, for some reason). The pieces of writing that stem from these jewels almost write themselves with the word "almost" being fairly generous and wholly inaccurate.

So yes, thinking up topics or opening lines or a funny character or a wacky scenario for a short story or a recipe for new soothing balm is the easy part. The challenge for this writer is actually finishing the story or piece itself while the fire still burns inside (completely an expression for those unsure of any experiments I may be forced to participate in with my chemist of a wife). I will have these days where ideas almost literally shoot out of me like bullets or freckles that have just had enough already.

It is almost hard to contain myself as I am stuck standing in a yoga class or sitting in traffic or paying my overdue library fines for a book that I never even opened. I must look somewhat crazed/overstimulated/in need of a heavy duty tranquilizer when my brain is full to the brim of writing thoughts that are ready to bust out and escape from the prison of my mind which, if I'm being totally honest, is more of a day spa.

Those moments, and they are plentiful, when I am unable to create the moment I am smacked upside my head with a thought are painful (you have no idea) akin to someone continually and repeatedly squeezing lemon juice into my open wound no matter how many times I say "please stop dad". I'll attempt to put the ideas on an endless loop running in my brain so that I can reproduce them when I'm able to. By the way, endless loops don't get anywhere near the amount of appreciation from the general public that they deserve. There I said it.

But then when the moment finally presents itself and I'm either able to take out my laptop or my phone or my pad of paper or my Exacto knife, and I am able to furiously type/write/engrave my new, brilliant ideas the release invariably leaves me as a puddle of emotions and sweatpants on the floor. Once the ideas are out, I do feel a small amount of remorse as my brain feels a tad empty and in need of some new furnishings like a fig tree or an antique globe that will just sit there gathering dust.

Many days I will open and start 3, 4, 5 new drafts in this blog. New post, new post, new post I continually click with a gusto that is quite cute and endearing I often tell myself. I'll start a new post, pause momentarily full of something approaching pride and then, using my unique, improvisational style of typing, I will insert a short, grammatically-weak title followed by a line or phrase or two that will help me remember the quote unquote brilliant idea that I currently have inside me, just in case I don't actually have the time/energy/artistic flair/alone time at the moment to expand upon it.

These new posts will each be created enjoying their brief time in the sun and then, then they will sit in my "drafts" list of my blog like monks in some far off monastery who believe that some head monk is going to pop in at any moment and check up on them to make sure they are "behaving properly." As each successive new post is started and each old draft disappears further and further down the list inevitably being banished to a second page and out of sight, a small part of me feels sad. I believe it's my right ear.

Why can't I finish what I start? (allergies)
What am I afraid of? (bears)
Why can't I focus on one thing and one thing only? (genetics)
 Why do I insist on asking myself series of questions instead of actually accomplishing something? (ouch)

It's just so easy to start things and, despite appearances, my intentions are good. I mean so well when I sit in front of this screen and make click clack sounds with my fingers on the keyboard as well as with my mouth to the great enjoyable of absolutely nobody who has ever heard them. When I create new posts I fully intend to finish them to the best of my ability, your honour. No part of me is just "creating to fill quotas" or "keeping busy to stay off the streets" or "avoiding doing the dishes". I would love nothing more than an extra hug, but not the limp-obviously-tortuous-for-you kind as well as to have zero drafts.

That's right you heard me or read me or read this sentence that I am typing or all of the above if you are looming over my right shoulder as per usual. I don't want to win some prize for amassing the most incomplete drafts because I am fairly certain that I created that prize in my own mind and, because of that, it is most likely not being awarded anytime soon unless I do all of the legwork. If I opened up my blog one day and saw no orange words "draft" next to any blog posts I'd be as happy as a little boy who has been given some unstructured time and permission to dedicate some of that time towards achieving happiness.

Therefore, the question still begs to be answered - why? Why create series of drafts? Why allow myself to keep creating new series of drafts when other perfectly new series of drafts already exist and they are still in their original boxes? Why don't I force myself to break out of this rut/routine/ritualistic hamster wheel like exercise that is all my own creation when I know what I know and can't unknow no matter how much milk I drink? I guess I am comfortable, or as comfortable as one could be given our family decision to lower heating bills. I am also not one to complain unless given some rewards for complaining. This method of writing is the devil I know and I go out of my way not to anger or frustrate or ruffle the feathers of that devil (yes, he/she is feathered and of an currently-undetermined gender).

And maybe, just maybe it is all part of the creative process. That's right! Maybe I must create 5 never-to-be-finished-or-even-touched-or-looked-at-again drafts in order to create one stellar (read: serviceable) piece of writing? Possibly. Maybe all of these drafts is my modern style of brainstorming where I throw things at the proverbial wall and see what sticks, which is much less expensive and time consuming to clean up than my previous methods of throwing actual things at actual walls and then having no one raise a finger to help with the clean up. Maybe I must create many many drafts that will sit there and be replaced with newer shinier models that make one want to laugh derisively at the silly old drafts whom no one in their right mind would want to touch with a ten foot pole (who owns such a pole, I've always wondered, what are the most common uses of said pole and where would you store it?). Maybe I am lost in the forest, figuratively of course.

I'll occasionally look at old drafts and wonder what was wrong with me when I thought up that idea? I'll make a face like when I go to friend's house for dinner and they are attempting to serve me overcooked cabbage or expired dairy products. Could I, someone I think is fairly funny (we share a good laugh now and then we do), have actually thought of that horrible and disgustingly boring and pedantic idea on my own? No! I must have been forced/commissioned/promised free movie tickets to create that crap. Or, it is just evidence that I continue to grow and evolve over time and become the writer I was always destined to be. Like a toddler learning to walk or a driver learning to drive or a baby bird learning to fly only to realize that "why fly?" as I can just sit here in this reasonably comfortable nest and my mother will come back and chew up my food for me.

Sometimes, late in the evening, when everyone else is asleep or mysteriously out of sight, I'll open these old drafts and read the writing within them and shake my head disappointingly at what I see. Did I actually believe those were good enough ideas to release to the hyper-critical public? Didn't I recognize the sheer level of retribution and raw-egg throwing people are capable and able to afford given the uptick in our local economy? Or was I writing out of spite in quite the same way that I exercise and select slippers?

But, if I only had more time to write the situation would be so different. I honestly believe so. Old drafts would be edited, improved and read the riot act (riot acts, by the way, are very long and are supposed to lull the listeners and intended-rioters into a trance like state where they are easily put to bed afterwards without dessert). New ideas wouldn't just sit there, but they'd be tossed to-and-fro, coddled and swaddled and bathed in a warm bath rich with Epson salts and lavender oil. If I had the time, my numbers of drafts would remain in the single digits (it's literally approaching 100 right now), thus allowing me to cut down significantly on all excessive number typing in the short term. With drafts being finished and posts being published I'd achieve my goal of being a well-oiled machine or at least a more-oiled-more-machine-like reasonable knock-off of a human.

And yet, more time isn't coming down the pike anytime soon (nothing is - should call a guy about fixing that pike sometime). Life is busy and there is just only so much time to creatively write unless I was to decide once and for all to stop attempting to groom myself. Or if I was to quit my job, bid adieu to my family and live in the hills with the mountain goats and write (I'm not sure why that is the place I always escape to in my writing-more-often fantasies, sounds cold and rocky which are my two least favourite types of real places to visit)?

But instead of worrying about finishing all the drafts or cutting back on the drafts or placing my wife's hand in a bowl of cold cereal while she is sleeping, I must focus on the positives. Instead of dwelling on what I can't do (juggle) and what I don't have (access to juggling abilities), here I am. In the flesh, covered by a thin layer of whispy hair (and clothes! Don't worry, I'm wearing lots and lots of clothes, mismatched, but fully clothed), busy, full of ideas, equipped with fingers and keys to type with those same fingers as well as keys to lock doors with. Ideas will continue to come into my brain, gather and mill about and, after a process similar to steeping or roasting or decaying, they burst out into the world for all of you to read. As my grade 3 teacher always said to me when I was about to go home "if it ain't broke, don't fix it". In hindsight, she was pretty weird.

Why Won't My Kids Just Get Along?

"She punched me!"

"Get her to stop staring at me!"

"You should give her consequences!"

"I wish I didn't have a sister!"

Once again, in the blink of an eye, yet another peaceful afternoon has dissolved into war.

I am the father of two young girls and my wife and I are so amazingly fortunate to have these two cute, funny and wonderful girls, but I'd be lying to you if I said it was cute, funny and wonderful all the time. After careful consideration, I decided not to lie to you...again.

Most of the time we have so much fun together and, as I have written in the past, I will miss these days tremendously when the girls are grown up. My two girls spend so much time together and generally get along really well. They create intricate games of make believe and could spend days on end at the beach, in the backyard or at the local park as if joined at the hip. Each other's partners in crime, they are super silly and funny together and can get so crazy and full of laughter as they cackle at something random. Or they can easily spend quiet time together like just before bed lying next to each other on the couch quietly reading without a care in the world or playing with their large stuffed animal collection or helping me prepare dinner. As I said, a huge amount of the time, they are best friends as well as sisters.

Except when they aren't.

At the drop of a hat and for no obviously good reason, they fight. One moment they are the closest of sisters and the next, they are pinching and pulling and smacking and kicking. I'll look over at them on the rug and they are playing a game and having a great time, then I'll look away and, in a heartbeat, I hear yelling and screaming and crying. And it is totally random and unpredictable much of the time too - one second, no issues and literally seconds later one is crying and the other is screaming, and both are wanting dad to punish the other.

I have spent so much time wondering and exclaiming aloud in varying degrees of frustration the age old question "Why can't you just get along?1?!"

When things are going well, it all seems so easy, eerily so. They are usually so well-mannered and caring, which elicits responses from passersby what wonderfully polite kids they are, complete with a nod towards the parents who made it all happen. When things are going well, a monkey could parent them, and not one of those well-trained monkeys either, a regular old plain one. I've been known to take a step back and give myself multiple pats on the back for yet another day of incredible parenting. Which are not to be confused with the pats on the back that I get for being a good boy. 

I love when they get along, but those times also have a slightly-unsettled, calm-before-the-storm feel to them. I'm often reminded of what a fellow teacher told me in my first week of teaching all those years ago after I complained about the challenging behaviours in one of my classes - "if your classes were all easy all the time, they wouldn't pay you". To which I replied "we are getting paid?" I was so naive in my youth.

As much as I like to believe that my dream of us spending all of our time dancing together with flower crowns of posies in our hair, surrounded by birds chirping, harps playing, bunnies hoping and plentiful free high-quality sushi, I know that just isn't real. It's probably impossible for any number of people, no matter how much they adore and love each other to get along all the time. Especially when those people spend disproportionate amount of time voluntarily confined in a relatively small roofed shelter. I blame our roof for lots of stuff. 

We could be easily confused for the most loving, caring family in the world, especially if the viewer is easily confused at the best of times. Until something goes wrong, someone is tired or somebody decides to bother the other as a form of sport or leisure activity or way to pass the time until dinner is served. Now, we all have our bad days, our overly sensitive moments, and our fleeting thoughts of running away to join the circus (do people still do this, and if so, approximately how much running is involved?). 

We have all spent considerable time and therapy hours wondering how we got here - trapped in a small townhouse with a large mortgage surrounded by crazy animals and Barbies. We have all had those moments where we miss our single days with huge expanses of free time where the toughest decisions revolved around how much chocolate should one unshaven man in his 20s consume while watching hours of basketball in his underwear or if I should go to the gym before meeting my friend for coffee or after seeing a matinee. 

Don't get me wrong (unless it brings you pleasure), I love having kids - I often tell people, a bit too aggressively at times, that fathering my children is easily the best thing I've ever done, even if I don't totally understand the intricacies of the science behind it (I feel the same way about wireless printers). It's just that when you have a headache and the kids are attempting to bounce each other off the walls against their will like some sort of game of European Handball and you have to rush to prepare a dinner that neither will eat when all you want to do is hide inside the linen closet, I sort of long for a simpler existence. 

And, if I allow myself a moment of selfishness (each Thursday between 4:00 and 4:15pm, to be precise), haven't we parents earned plenty of stress-free weekday mornings, peaceful afternoons and easy bedtime routines? Yes, we have! In our day, we changed hundreds of absolutely disgusting diapers; we treated dozens of a-little-too-much-information rashes on nether regions; we have cooked meal after meal after meal when all we wanted to do was curl up in a fetal position in the corner of the laundry room (it's a great back stretch). And do we get thanks for all of this? Yes, if you consider the girls pulling each other's hair, occasionally wishing for a different set of parents and piercing each other's skin count with an ever-growing list of objects (they do in my books).

Or maybe it's all our fault (stop nodding your head!). Nobody trained us to be parents. It's not like we had any special qualifications or degrees to prepare us for all of this. I still remember returning home from the hospital with our first born and looking everywhere for an owner's manual. Sure we read books (or more accurately, skimmed through books to look at the pictures  -so that is what a C-section is!?!?), did Google image searches (it's research, sicko!) and hung around other parents at the playground who looked like they knew what they were doing all the while attempting to not appear too creepy. But in the end, we just figured it out, worked hard and did our best (I recently decided to get a t-shirt made saying "I'm doing my best!" in large letters). But seriously, I believe we've done a good job, but then again, that could just be a result of years of brainwashing - thanks mom!

But we are trying to pull off something quite challenging - spending a lot of time together as a family in this day and age of smart phones, YouTube and Netflix. It would almost definitely lessen the strife and stress and in-fighting if we interacted for only a few minutes a day. But, like war heroes, we parents are constantly having our family do things together and we are literally in each other's faces all the time, in the most positive way possible. Both my wife and I come from families that believed in regularly scheduled and regimented family time - eating pancake breakfasts together, playing games together and shopping for discount sporting goods together. Like many of you, I spent hours as a teen dreaming of future family dinners full of laughter, witty retorts and tofurky. I never thought I'd be a dad compelled to write blog posts about my kids not getting along. That would have been a very precise, odd and ahead-of-one's-time thought to have back in 1987.

Maybe the sheer amount of time the girls are "forced" to be with each other naturally produces some meltdowns? Possibly it is like we are trying to operate a nuclear power plant and no matter how adept my wife and I are at running the power plant (I took notes!), as we all know, there are bound to be horrible, horrible environmental disasters. Maybe brutal sibling conflict is just unavoidable, and instead of trying to avoid it as we have been (again, remember, no parenting training at all) we should embrace it in all of its loud, screaming glory? Instead of getting frustrated and raising one's voice with demonic anger and becoming a part of the problem, I should sit back, relax and light a cigar and enjoy the extra musky masculinity juxtaposed with the youthful cries for help.

Another truth in all of this, is that we are often toughest on those we love. For example, I am a strict taskmaster with all of my cousins. No one gets off easy. The girls are always well behaved at school and we receive glowing reports of how helpful, lovely and nice they are when not around us. I want to reply to the teachers "what have you been smoking?", but then I remember that I really don't need to know the answer to that question anyhow. Many of us operate with the mindset that our loved ones will always love us unconditionally no matter how crappy we treat each other. I blame Adam and Eve for this misconception (I blame them for everything). We also know that we can't treat friends and acquaintances and Social Studies teachers the same way. So, when we leave the house, we put on a happy face, draw pages of happy faces to show our teacher/boss/parole officer or just "pretend" to like everyone. And then after a long, exhausting, full day of "acting" nice to everyone, we let it all out at home.

My wife and I were initially quite worried that they would act towards others as they did with one another, but, aside from a few tough days, they have always been able to be civil in public and reserve their emotional moments for mom and dad to deal with. Now, I'm not suggesting this is totally a conscious decision, because that would require a whole lot more consciousness then our family is currently capable of. Mornings and evenings are the worst times for the two girls as far as getting along with each other is concerned because that is when they are the most tired, and when the most tired, the least good at biting their tongue or turning the other cheek or some sort of expression involving one's elbows. Not that I love this, but I'd much rather them be difficult with each other around me and easy for all other adults and kids, because it is contained and, when necessary, I can just hose them off (when I finally get that fire engine hose installed in our backyard). 

Due to my wife changing careers and my always having summers off, the three of us - myself and my kids - have spent a lot of time together - getting ready for school in the mornings, at dinner and bedtimes and throughout weekends and school breaks. I drive them to dance classes, practice squash and piano with them and spend hours on the floor playing games. I'm teaching them how to cook, helping them with homework and have been reading them bedtime stories since they were babies. So, having spent so much time with the two of them, I can see that each possesses an intricate knowledge of each other's weaknesses. They know each other's sensitivities inside out; the buttons to press, the feathers to ruffle, the chalkboards to scratch with their nails. As close-knit sisters it's as if they each have a Ph.D in the other's emotional states, detailed blueprints of the weaknesses in their defense strategies as well as having the code to access the nuclear missiles needed to start World War 3.

But, even though the know each other as well as any two people could, and though they can get to the other in ways no one else can, they absolutely love each other. So, back to my original question, why can't they just get along? Why must they sprinkle in these seemingly random annoying moments of vindictive knit-pickiness? Why can't they remember, just when they are about to hit, bug, annoy, ruin, scratch, rip, hurt, break something the other cares about or owns, that this is their only sister in the world whom they were just laughing and playing with? My wife and I have pondered these questions for hours, with no great answers. We've learned over time some strategies for mitigating the disasters and how to apply timely and meaningful consequences that have an impact. We've also discovered the wonders of purchasing large vats of industrial strength glue. Don't ask.

One hope I have is that they are always close and are always friends. It means a lot to me and I believe that it will happen. And there is some progress, if one looks closely enough and chooses to ignore other details. As the kids age, that they are slightly more receptive to advice and teaching and figuring out more proactive ways to cope when the other starts frustrating them. Not that it is easy. Just as I started writing this, the younger kid decided to would be funny to break the Lego house of the older one without asking, so the older one decided to scribble all over a beautiful drawing the younger one spent a lot of time on. And they both ran to mom crying.

I'll miss this one day, right?

Writing About Yourself

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. 

So, the days flew by or possibly I was flying or just running really fast while the days stood still. As a young boy, I often tried to fly by running around in my favourite pair of black shorts while flapping my wings and screaming at the top of my lungs, "I'm a bird". It's always been interesting to me how certain cute things we enjoyed as a child become significantly less cute so abruptly on your 21st birthday. Anyways, the next thing I knew, it was Tuesday again and our club was reconvening. The next thing I knew after that was the answer to a joke my daughter told me that I finally understood ("sheep") and the thing after that was not to pour salt into my open wound on my finger, no matter how amazing and therapeutic my wife tells me it will be. Is it just me, or does it always seem to be Tuesday?

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.