“Yeah, But . . .” (Or, Fighting Back Against the Self-Doubts That Keep You from Writing)

Imagine this scenario.  You’re out at a restaurant with some friends–people you haven’t seen in a while.  You’re catching up, swapping stories, sharing the happenings of the past few weeks.  The food arrives.  Not bad.  Not bad at all.  Good conversation.  Good food.  A fine evening.

 

And that’s when it happens.  Two tables down, a young couple are eating their meal, their eyes darting to and fro from their plates to their two young kids, back to their plates, back to their kids . . .  Speaking of whom . . . the kids are antsy, hyper, fidgety, their half-eaten meals picked at but no longer being touched.  You overhear some of the chatter–the parents telling the kids to keep quiet, the kids snapping back, eager for a verbal sparring match.  The young couple appear tired, exhausted even, while the kids are endless, boundless energy.

 

It makes you wonder.  What’s the backstory?  What was their week like?  What lies ahead?  Why even bring the kids along–why not get a babysitter instead?  You observe the couple again–the color of their hair, the shape and contours of their faces; the dimple on the man’s chin–such a prominent feature, it is easily observed from two tables away.  There is a tension, too, subtle, beneath the surface, something undefinable yet as real as the food on their plates.

 

As your friends talk, your mind wanders.  You nod at the right moments, your facade of listening holding steady, for now.  But you are fully absorbed in the scene you are watching–so much so that you begin to thread a story.  Something about the man’s demeanor, his shifting, nervous eyes.

Does he have a secret?  Yes!  He’s doing something illegal at the office, where he works.  But what?  And his partner?  Does she know?  And what is her secret?  Options form in your brain, scenarios play out, possibilities, threads, plot points, character flaws, character attributes . . . until, like a switch being turned on, a novel idea has formed.  Motivation.  Secrets.  Shame.  Guilt.  Triumph.  It is all there, formed from the ether, waiting to be written.

 

You feel an urge to tell your friends you need to cut your meal–and conversation–short.  You have to go home!  Begin writing . . .

Yeah, but . . .

The words come, unasked for, unwelcome.  But they are there, like a rude interloper, ready to take down your enthusiasm.

Yeah, but . . . what do you have to go on?  Your idea is flimsy, unformed.  You don’t have one-twentieth of the plot you need to begin a novel.  Who are you kidding?

Yeah, but . . . the job you have concocted for the man is lab technician for a chemicals firm.  What do you know about technical subject matter like that?  And the woman, in your hot-off-the-mental-press story, is a lawyer.  What do you know about law or the nuances and rhythms of a lawyer’s day?

 

And the kids . . . you don’t even have any kids.  How can you write about parenthood?  Being a father?  A mother?  You’re out of your depth.

These doubts and questions and a hundred others cascade through your mind like a runaway locomotive, poking, taunting, ripping holes through your narrative, just minutes ago birthed in a wild, feverish bout of inspiration and excitement.

 

Yeah, but . . .

******************************

Every writer deals with this, at one point or another.  For some reason, our brains, our thoughts, turn insecure, throwing up roadblocks and coming up with reasons not to pursue our story.  We each have defensive mechanisms hardwired into us, seeking to protect us from harm–real or imagined.  The thoughts that bubble up are like an overbearing taskmaster hell-bent on keeping us locked in our predefined and safety-ensuring box.

 

So . . . how do you break out of it?  How do you find the inner strength, confidence, and conviction to push through the yeah, buts?

One way is to turn them around, reverse them.  So, you don’t know anything about a lawyer’s day?  So what?  Yeah, but . . . yeah, but . . . I can do some light research.  I can talk to Jennifer, who is a lawyer.  Ask her about her job.  I can read other books that feature lawyers.  I can also understand that it’s not rocket science!  I am not writing a technical manual on lawyering.  I am writing a novel where a character happens to be a lawyer.  It’s not a treatise.  It’s a story.  I don’t need to know everything.  The same goes for the lab tech.

 

As for kids and parenting . . . I was a kid once!  I had parents.  Again, I am not writing a parenting how-to.  I am writing a novel.  And, at its heart, a novel is a work of art exploring the human condition–things that are universal to us all.  Don’t get tripped up in the weeds.

And plot?  Knowing what will happen on page 207 ahead of time?  Who wants to know that?  Sure–I need some sense of direction, some sense of where I’m going.  But I don’t need everything mapped out, to the point of precision.  Again, this a novel, not a technical manual.  A large part of the writing process is exploration as you go.  Allow that room to exist.

 

So, yeah, Mr. “Yeah, But,” two can play at that game!

Full disclosure–I have been snagged by the “yeah, buts” many times.  I certainly have not conquered this beast.  And over the past couple of years, I have been in something of a creative drought, so my battle with the “yeah, buts” is especially fraught right now.  But I feel like I’m turning a corner, and good things are ahead.

No question about it–the “yeah, buts” are a difficult issue for any writer.  The best way to counter them, I have found, is to “yeah, but” right back.

After all, you have stories inside of you.  They need to be let out.

 

Thanks so much for reading!

–Mike

 

 

 

 

Yeah, but . . . (more objections, then segue to general yeah buts then my own writing slump then how to overcome them end

The Quiet Blog

It is hard to believe I began The Eye-Dancers website nearly twelve years ago.  This blog has seen me through many life changes, some devastating heartbreaks, a career change, two novels, and, lately, a bit of a writer’s drought.  Through it all, I’ve tried to come up with new and interesting ideas to write about, and it has been a joy to share my musings with all of you.

I am still here, and intend to stick around as long as I can.  But, of course, it is obvious that The Eye-Dancers website is not what it used to be.  When I began, way back in 2012, I thought I’d just write a few posts promoting the then-new Eye-Dancers novel, and then leave blogging in the proverbial rearview mirror.  But a funny thing happened along the way–I fell in love with blogging!  I enjoyed the platform to talk about my novel, about writing, creativity, some of my favorite movies and TV shows, stories of my life.  I treasured the online friendships I made with all of you, and I kept going.

 

For a while, from 2013 through maybe 2017 or 2018, this site was a vibrant, popular place.  I put an enormous effort into posting multiple times per month, and I spent a lot of time each week visiting others’ blogs and delving deep into the wonderful WordPress community.  Some of the posts I published in those years garnered many hundreds of Likes and dozens upon dozens of comments.  Those were heady days, and I greatly enjoyed them.

As time went on, though, and with a career change in late 2019, where I started working for myself as a professional editor–something I still do full-time–the ability I once had to spend vast amounts of time on WordPress took a major hit.  As the months and years went on, my publishing rate on here dwindled and dwindled, finally cratering at once per month, which I am still maintaining.

 

Some might wonder why I am still here at all.  After all, I’m not here very much anymore and post only at the aforementioned frequency of once per month.  And yet . . . even with the sharp reduction in activity, sharing my thoughts with you is something I still love.  There aren’t as many readers of The Eye-Dancers blog anymore–not even close–but I deeply appreciate those of you who have stuck with the site through all these years, and who still pay a visit once a month when I post.

And while this site is now a soft, whispering echo of what it once was, like a carnival during the offseason, the crowds thinned, the rides quiet . . . it still stands.

I am still here.

And I am so thankful you are, too.

 

Thanks so much for reading!

–Mike

The Gift of Bad Ideas

Recently, I took a cross-country drive.  Well, half-cross-country–driving from Vermont to Nebraska and back.  (I’ll be doing the same thing in a couple of weeks!)  Except for some stressful situations driving through Cleveland in a rainstorm and driving through Chicago in bumper-to-bumper traffic, it was a nice drive.  (Remember, I live in rural Vermont, where you can drive for miles sometimes without encountering another car–I am not used to city traffic!)

 

It was fascinating traveling along the slowly shifting landscape. From the mountains and forests of New England to the rolling hills of New York State’s scenic Mohawk Valley, to the woods and farmland of western New York and Ohio, the farms of Indiana, the rolling prairie of Illinois, the cornfields and wind turbines of Iowa (there had to be a thousand wind turbines there along I-80!), and finally the windswept, dry plains of Nebraska.  It was a journey.

 

Along the way, much of the time, I didn’t have the radio on–or anything else, for that matter.  (Sometimes I did, of course–it was a 28-hour drive one way!)  But for good chunks of time, it was just the silence of the interior of the car and the rhythmic beat of the tires on asphalt.  In such an environment, especially in the wide-open spaces of Iowa and Illinois, the mind has a tendency to wander.

 

Story ideas bubbled up from my subconscious.  I’d look at a wind turbine or a farmhouse off in the distance, isolated on the prairie.  I’d observe the neighborhoods of cities and towns as I drove through them, imagining the people there, the lives they live, the dreams and goals they aspire to.  The tragedies they face.  The loss.  The joys.  All of it.  And things would happen in the folds and crannies of my brain.

Several story ideas emerged.  It didn’t take long, though, to realize they weren’t any good.  Even if a premise had merit, the particulars were all wrong.  Oftentimes, there weren’t any  particulars at all–just random thoughts and plotlines zigzagging this way and that, unconnected, discombobulated.  Idea after idea swam into my head, like a school of minnow darting about in search of food.  The “food,” in this case, would be a fleshed-out story.  Alas, one never came for the duration of the drive.  Only the random, scattered ideas, bouncing around like Ping-Pong balls, hopping, skipping, jumping, and, ultimately, running away, back into the creative ether from which they came.

 

You might think I am disappointed, looking back, that none of the ideas were workable.  Not so.  Because even bad ideas bring with them a moment of jubilation, a species of excitement.  When an idea first hits, in those first few seconds–you don’t know if it’s good or bad, workable or unworkable.  That comes later–after you’ve mulled it over for a while, seeing where it leads, and realizing, it doesn’t lead anywhere!  But in the beginning, when it first arises, it is the be-all, the alpha and the omega.  It holds infinite promise.  It can take you anywhere.  It brings with it excitement and anticipation.  Every time.

 

And so–a drive full of bad ideas?  That equals a drive full of thrills (the good kind) and interesting moments, of discovery and hope.  The result of those ideas being the trash heap of the idea slush pile doesn’t matter so much as the fact that the ideas came at all–they entertained and, even if briefly, demanded attention.  It’s like exercise, too.  Even bad ideas exercise the creative muscles.

And so, when I drive back across half the country in a few weeks, I will once again welcome all the bad ideas I can come up with.  And who knows–maybe one of them will turn into something special.

 

Thanks so much for reading!

–Mike

The 30 Percent Rule (Or, Cut, Cut, Cut!)

Back when I was in college–more years ago now than I care to admit–I had a verbose writing style.  It didn’t help that I was taking a course on Victorian literature, either.  I still enjoy the great Victorian novelists–don’t get me wrong–but clipped and economical, they are not.  This all came to a head in a writers workshop I took my junior year.

 

The professor, a tall, thin, meticulous man, was the physical embodiment of clipped and streamlined.  He even talked that way–his syllables somehow shorter, quicker, like a race car crisply rounding a turn.

“Show.  Don’t tell,” he said, over and over during that workshop.  Students would cringe at his red marks in the margins of their stories.  “Why do I need to know this?” he remarked on one of my stories regarding the physical description of a character.  “It is not germane to the story.  I don’t care.”  He didn’t mince words, and he didn’t worry about stepping on feelings.

 

“Cut, cut, cut,” he would say.  “The first draft is just that–a draft.  And generally a poor one.  Sloppy.  Cut 20 percent of your words from your first draft.  And then, during your second draft, cut 10 percent more.  That gets you to 30 percent.  You should always aim to cut 30 percent of the fat from your work.”

I wanted to debate him.  Not all first drafts are the same!  Some are a mess that might need more than 30 percent of the words cut.  Some are so poor, they need a complete overhaul.   Others, meanwhile, are already quite polished, and perhaps need only a small percentage of words removed.

“No,” the instructor said when another student pressed the issue one morning.  “Thirty percent.  Always.  Even if your copy is clean and you don’t need to remove 30 percent, do it anyway.  It is good process.  Good technique.”

I struggled in that workshop.  And did I mention I was reading the Victorians?  That did not help matters.  But as the semester wore on, I did indeed cut 30 percent of the words from every story I wrote for the class.

************

Looking back on it now, my feelings about that class and that instructor haven’t changed too much.  I never like to adhere to strict, one-size-fits-all writing rules.  Every writer is different.  Every style is different.  We each have our own voice.  I don’t believe it is good practice to pigeonhole writers or hand down edicts from on high, dictating how the creative process should proceed.  You might as well attempt to grab the wind or grow flowers from computer monitors.  It is far too rigid a rule.

 

But the spirit of the rule has merit.  Yes, every writer is different.  Even the masters can be polar opposites.  Compare a Hemingway to a Bradbury, an Elmore Leonard to an Arthur Conan Doyle.  There is no one way to write well.  That said, cutting at least 10 percent of words from first drafts is probably a reasonable goal for all writers.  Because there is no denying that first drafts need work, and nine times out of ten, the bulk of that work requires cutting and deleting.

 

“Don’t tell me the moon is shining,” Chekhov once said. “Show me the glint of light on broken glass.”

 

And if you can do that by eliminating 30 percent of your words, that is spectacular!  But 10 percent will do.

Thanks so much for reading!

–Mike

 

A New Year . . . and a Writing Resolution

Admittedly, I have never been one to make New Year’s resolutions.  Generally, for me, the first day of a new year comes and goes, with little–if any–fanfare.  But this year’s a little different.  My creative output has been quite small the past couple of years.  After The Eye-Dancers and its sequel, The Singularity Wheel, I simply wasn’t struck with many ideas that jumped out in front of me, demanding my attention.  On the rare occasions when they did happen, they had only temporary appeal before fading away, like background music you slowly walk away from.

Until this past week.

It was the way it often happens–sudden, like a bolt of lightning in a cornflower-blue sky.  Unasked for.  Unexpected. As I was taking a walk (something, by the way, that I’ve often found to unlock a helping of creativity), I had an odd memory come to me.  Ninth grade, years ago.  A different century.  One day in science class, we had a substitute teacher.  I still remember his name–Disraeli.  And that’s exactly how he referred to himself–not “Mr. Disraeli.”  Just “Disraeli.”

 

He eschewed the regular lesson plan that day, and instead quizzed us on riddles and mind-teasers.  He offered puzzles, multiple-choice philosophical questions.  He even read from his own books–passages that he believed to be enlightening.  And they were.  He didn’t seem to care about the syllabus or what we’d been learning about in the weeks prior.  He just took his day and taught what he wanted.  I never saw him again.

But he left an impression.

From that memory, a story idea emerged–at once related and unrelated.  The idea also revolved around a high school substitute teacher–but this one is an English teacher.  Call him Mr. Robbins.  He, too, ignores the lesson plan on his one day teaching a particular class.  It’s ninth grade, a snowy day in upstate New York.  The students are feeling lazy, unmotivated . . . until Mr. Robbins asks them a probing question.

 

“Are you alive?”

Some of the students pause, briefly, then shrug.  Others laugh, thinking it’s a joke.  But one student–call him James–sits there, rapt, listening to the substitute teacher’s lesson.  It’s not a question James has ever asked himself.  But he’s a cerebral introvert, enjoys reading, thinking.  He’s all ears.

Mr. Robbins carries on.  He explains that our lives–if we are lucky and not stricken by poverty and oppression or war and famine–are generally spent on mundane things–getting up in the morning, brushing our teeth, eating breakfast, doing homework (which elicits an understanding groan from the class), finishing chores, going shopping, riding the bus, getting stuck in traffic.  On and on.

 

But there are moments–graduations, weddings, reunions, deaths, first loves, a game-winning home run–that stay with us, where the stakes rise, the importance magnifies, and our brains tell us, even at a subconscious level–to remember.

Do we, though?  Yes, we remember bits and pieces.  But, even with life’s monumental moments, there is much we forget.  And the mundane things?  They come and go like the wind, like breath on a cold morning, here one minute; gone the next.  So much of our existence is forgotten–almost as though it were never lived at all.

 

And so, Mr. Robbins asks again, “Are you alive?  Really alive?  If you forget your life away?  If nothing lasts in your memory aside from a few cloudy details here and there?  Is anything real?”

He really has James’s attention now.  The ninth grader hangs on Mr. Robbins’s every word.

The substitute teacher then explains a method he’s devised–a way of capturing memories, moments, as they happen–recording them on paper in such a way that, ten years hence, twenty years, thirty years, forty–you can reread what you wrote and the experience will come crashing back to you like Niagara Falls.  By this juncture, the majority of the class is fully tuned out, openly talking amongst themselves, not worried about what a zany substitute might do to them.

 

But James listens.

Mr. Robbins carries on, making eye contact with James several times, as if understanding he has a serious acolyte, someone in the sea of freshmen before him who might learn and practice and realize.  He explains that, as soon as possible, within minutes of the moment you want to memorialize, write it down.  Capture it while it’s fresh.  But don’t write like a standard journal entry.  No.  Write in a structured way, detailing what happened, factually and specifically.  The time frame–how long it took.  Who was involved–what were they wearing?  What did they say?  Facial expressions?  What perfume or cologne were they wearing?  Where were you?  In a public place?  Describe it!  As many details as you can.  In your house?  What room?  What time was it, exactly?  Were there dishes in the sink?  Was the TV on in the background?  What was it playing?  Essentially, a detailed record of events, capturing everything–every detail.  No matter how minute, how seemingly insignificant.  Leave nothing out.  Anything can be a trigger later on for the brain, for the subconscious to remember the event you are chronicling.  One detail can serve as the lead domino that, when knocked over, slams into all the rest, allowing the memory to come alive decades later when the entry is read.  In this way, you can capture moments of your life–they can be big or small, singular or mundane.  If you want to memorialize what you had for breakfast and how you feel on a given day, do this same process.  It will stick.  It will work.

 

And then, after you record every detail you can possibly think of, then, at that point, write how you feel.  What is it about this moment you are capturing that sticks with you?  What effect does it have on you?  Write that down.  And then–you have it.  As much as you can remember something years later . . . you will remember this.  Your vivid writing of events and your immediate reflections afterward, etched on the page, will preserve as much as is humanly possible.  Like an heirloom, an organism preserved in amber, it will remain, able to be called to the surface of your conscious mind whenever you read it.  Do this with enough life events and you will leave a preserved record–not so much for others (though they would certainly be able to ascertain much from your detailed accounts), but for yourself.  For your ability to remember and recall.

 

To live and not to forget.

Such is the story idea I have.  Essentially a journey into what makes a life a life.  What does living mean?  Why do we remember what we remember, and are we more fully alive if we find a way to vividly remember more moments of our lives.

I surely won’t finish this novel in 2024.  But I’ll start it.  And make a memory.

 

Thanks so much for reading!

Mike

Thankful . . . for Ideas

In this season of Thanksgiving, I am thinking of things to be, well, thankful for.  One is power–electrical power!  The other night, Vermont was hit with a heavy, wet snowstorm, and we were “in the dark” for over thirty hours.  Nothing makes you appreciate heat, running water, and lights more than the sudden absence of the same.  So, now that things are back up and running–yes.  Very thankful for them!

 

But the topic I’d like to discuss in this post is something else entirely–ideas, the process, the unfinished product, the development of a seed into something more.  Obviously, as creatives–writers, singers, dancers, visual artists–the finished product matters.  You don’t want to spend three years writing a novel only to have it come out hopelessly flawed and awful.  But sometimes, I think, we tend to get too caught up in the outcome–what others will think of what we’ve done, how many copies it will sell, what kinds of reviews it will get, and so on.  Again, those things matter, clearly.  But they are not why we create.  They are not why we write and paint and sing.

 

We create because we love to do it.  Because there is something inside of us, innate, that will not rest until and unless we do.  We create because, when the process is stripped away from outcome, it is fun.  And it is what we are meant to do.

Think about those moments when an idea strikes.  You could be taking a walk, in the shower, washing your car, mowing the lawn, playing catch with your kids, sitting in the waiting room while your oil is being changed at your local garage, watching a football game, eating breakfast.  Literally anything and everything.  That’s the beauty of it.  Ideas come when they come, unasked for and unplanned.  They hit suddenly, abruptly, often with enough force to make you gasp or exclaim, “Wow.  Where did that come from?”

 

Indeed, where do ideas come from?  No one knows–it can only ever be speculation.  I believe ideas exist outside of ourselves, like cosmic confetti swirling around the atmosphere, pixie dust that, every now and again, descends onto us, and it is our responsibility, and choice, to accept the gift.  Because that’s what ideas are–a gift.  From the muse, a creator, the universe, the whims of time and place.

 

Once an idea strikes, once you begin the process of bringing that amorphous jumble of energy into something tangible and finished, something to share with the world, there will of course be periods of frustration, writer’s block, questioning, doubting, and then editing and revising until you can’t stand to see what you’ve written a second longer.  (This will pass, eventually.)

 

But the creative process is also replete with countless new ideas, smaller ones, things that add muscle and sinew to your literary skeleton.  That writer’s block mentioned above?  It, too, shall pass.  An idea will come again, and the quandary will be solved.  Idea upon idea upon idea . . . until the work is written, the song is sung, the picture is painted.

 

It is an ongoing process of discovery, exploration, full of aha moments and a sense of wonder.  Why rush it?  Why look ahead to the end?  Enjoy it!  It is a gift.  A treasure from the universe to you.

And that is something to be thankful for–any time of the year.

 

Thanks so much for reading!

Mike

(Another) Unscary Halloween

Last year at this time, I wrote about going contrary for Halloween.  Instead of Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees and zombies and werewolves and vampires and ghosts and ghouls and Vincent Price and the undead and mummies and monsters and things that go bump at 3:00 a.m., I decided to swim against the current and spend the spooky holiday with lighthearted, comical fare.

 

And this year . . . I will do it again!  Maybe we can start a movement, a trend.  Unscary Halloweens!  For me, 2023 has been a hard year, and the last thing I want to do is watch a horror movie or a violent TV show.  No.  Give me something fun and light, something that puts a smile on my face.

The difference between last year’s unscary Halloween and this year’s version of the same?  Last year, I sampled an assortment of comedies–a couple of different sitcoms, some old Tonight Show interviews, a few scenes from my favorite funny movies.  But this Halloween, I will be more targeted, more specific.  I will narrow it down to a single old show–The Honeymooners.

 

For whatever reason, I have always loved The Honeymooners.  It aired many years before I was born, but that doesn’t matter.  There is nothing like the black-and-white presentation, the live TV aspect of the show, where, occasionally, the actors flub their lines, the genuine, unstaged reaction of the live studio audience, the hilarious comedy of the show, the often heartwarming (if formulaic) endings.  It’s a simple show, the majority of which takes place in the small kitchen of a Brooklyn apartment.  But the simplicity adds to the warmth and the humor.  Also, as a student of history, including pop history, all my life, I enjoy watching a live television show from the mid-1950s.

 

Throw in the incredible cast, with Jackie Gleason, Art Carney, and Audrey Meadows, and you have a sitcom for the ages.  It was a trendsetting series, leading directly to The Flintstones.  And the dynamic between the loudmouthed but lovable Ralph Kramden (Gleason) and the innocent, childlike Ed Norton (Carney) paved the way for many future sitcom characters and relationships.

 

Which episodes to watch?  That is the question.  Maybe “The Worry Wart,” where Ralph is sent a notice from the IRS about his tax return and Norton is there to help him.  One of the funniest episodes in television history.  Maybe “Young at Heart,” when the gang goes roller skating, trying to relive their youth.  Maybe “Twas the Night Before Christmas,” where Ralph ends up being ashamed of the present he bought his wife, Alice, only to learn, at the end, that he is the gift she cherishes.  Or maybe “The Golfer,” where Norton (who knows nothing about golf) tries to teach Ralph (who also knows nothing about golf) how to play the game–right in the tiny Kramden kitchen.  Or perhaps “The $99,000 Answer” in which Ralph prepares for a game show where he selects the category of popular songs by studying virtually every piece of music ever written ahead of the show, only to be stumped when his time arrives for real.

 

Or maybe all of them!  Maybe, just maybe, I’ll pop some popcorn (old school, on the stove top with real kernels and real butter), sit back, and watch half a dozen episodes.

 

Let the rest of the world watch horror movies.  I’ll be enjoying one of the best sitcoms in television history, on a spook-free Halloween.

Thanks so much for reading!

–Mike

With My Back to the Class (A Moment Remembered)

When Mrs. Northrup asked me to stay after class, I knew something was up.  But what?  I hadn’t done anything wrong.  At least not that I could remember.  Worried, my mind raced feverishly, like a top spun out of control, trying to figure out why she wanted to see me.

 

“Michael, I know you’re shy,” she said once the rest of the students were gone.  Now that was an understatement.  I wasn’t just shy; I was the shiest kid in the class, by far.  Mrs. Northrup was a veteran, though–she had taught first grade for decades.  My older sister and two older brothers had been her students several years earlier.  As had many others.  She had a reason for saying this.  She had something planned.

I remember the late afternoon sunlight filtering in through the windows, dust bunnies swirling in the air.  The janitor, Mr. Thompkins, was out in the hall, sweeping the floor.  At that moment, I just wanted to go home.  It was a Friday; the weekend was here.  I knew my mother would be waiting out in the parking lot.  Hopefully Mrs. Northrup wouldn’t keep me long.

 

“You’re one of my best readers, you know,” she said.  A compliment!  So maybe I was in the clear?  “And I know you might not want to, but I feel it would be good for you to read aloud in front of Mr. Johnson’s sixth-grade class upstairs.”  With that, she handed me a single piece of paper, old-school typewritten words printed on the page.  I can’t recall what the words were, or what they were from.  That detail has been swallowed up by the gulf of years.  But I do remember thinking that page looked like it would take a long time to read aloud in front of sixth graders!

 

Mrs. Northrup smiled.  “First thing Monday morning, after attendance, I want you to go up to Mr. Johnson’s class, by yourself, knock on his door, and proceed to stand in front of his class and show them how well a first-grade student can read.  Okay?”

I nodded.  But I felt the panic rising.  I couldn’t imagine reading in front of students that old.  Heck, I couldn’t imagine reading in front of students my own age!  Why was she doing this?

“I think it will be good for you,” she said.  “It’s time to break out of your shell.”

Well, actually, I liked my shell.  It was snug and warm in there.  I was perfectly comfortable, thank you very much.  But I didn’t say any of that.  I just swallowed hard and nodded again.

 

“Run along, now,” Mrs. Northrup said.  “You have a big day on Monday.”

As I left her classroom and passed Mr. Thompkins out in the hall, I wondered how it had all come to this.  Five minutes ago, I was looking forward to a fun weekend.  Now I was dreading the passing of time.  I hoped Monday never came.

But it did, of course.  It did.  And, true to her word, Mrs. Northrup directed me to Mr. Johnson’s class after roll call.  She even made a big deal of it by telling my classmates.  Ugh.  Was there a hole I could fall through?

I still remember exactly how it felt climbing the stairs to the second floor that day in old Abraham Lincoln Elementary School.  With each step up the stairs, it was like I was nearing my execution.  The paper Mrs. Northrup had given me on Friday–the one I needed to read to the sixth-graders–was in my hands.  I held on tight, as if the paper, the words on the page, might imbue me with strength and quiet my fears.

And then, there I was.  Outside Mr. Johnson’s sixth-grade classroom.  His door was half-open.  I could see the room full of students.  Big students!  Sixth-grade students.  To my six-year-old mind, they looked like giants sitting there, waiting to judge me.

 

Mr. Johnson spotted me outside his doorway.  “Michael!  Welcome!  We’re expecting you.  Mrs. Northrup tells us you have something to read to us.  Come on in!”

I felt an urge to flee, to just turn around and run.  But a few weeks earlier, Mrs. Northrup had asked me to do something I didn’t want to do (the specifics of that request lost to time), and, instead of doing it, I’d pretended to get sick and went to the school nurse.  A few minutes later, Mrs. Northrup was there, in the nurse’s office, telling me to get up and come back to class–she knew what I was up to.

So, this time, I was stuck.  I couldn’t try something like that again.  Mrs. Northrup was strict.  I didn’t want to be relegated to her dog house.

 

I looked into the room–it appeared cavernous, an educational Grand Canyon, filled with intimidating big kids who were all looking out into the hallway–at me.  So I did the only thing I could think of.

 

I entered the classroom, with my back to the class, sidestepping in like an acrobat on a tightrope.  I affixed my eyes to the blackboard at the front of the room.  Behind me, I heard a couple of the sixth-graders giggle.  Mr. Johnson looked at me from his desk.  Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw him smile.

 

And then, I proceeded to read my paper from beginning to end.  I read it to the blackboard, my back to the class.  And when I was finished, without pausing for a single second, I sidestepped out of there, my back to the class the entire time.  I never once faced them.

From there, I went back to my first-grade classroom, where Mrs. Northrup greeted me.  “Bravo, Michael!”

I didn’t tell her what I’d done.  That I hadn’t faced the sixth-graders.  I just went back to my desk.

When my mother picked me up after school that day, she asked me how it went.  I just said, “Okay.”  I had read to the sixth graders, hadn’t I?

That evening, after supper, Mrs. Northrup called.  My mother talked with her for just a couple of minutes.  About halfway through the conversation, she burst out laughing.  Mr. Johnson had clearly relayed my performance to Mrs. Northrup, who was now informing my mother.  Who then told my father and siblings.  After a little while, the entire neighborhood knew.  I didn’t mind.  The story became something of a legend in my family, like a treasured heirloom.  “Do you remember the time when Mike . . .”

 

I think back on such moments now with a sense of nostalgia, a deep appreciation for what was–for family and childhood and memories.

Little things.  Just random memories.  Experiences from our youth.  Quiet moments.  These are the kernels of stories, of songs and poems and novels.  We don’t need to write about “big” things or earth-shattering adventures.

We just need to tell our story.

 

Thanks so much for reading!

–Mike

Precious Moments, Precious Memories, and the Love That Binds It All

Time–the meaning of it, the concept of it, the passing of it–has been on my mind of late.  Memories.  Moments.  Days that come and go, like smoke on the wind, like vapor.  The transitory nature of our lives.  The inexorable passage of years.

This month, I lost someone unspeakably dear to me.  It is hard.  Life will not be, cannot be, the same.  It happened fast.  One moment, they were there.  The next, they are gone.  A dreamlike mist has descended over many of my senses.  Past, present, and future all merge into one, a coalescing of time and space and matter.  I reach out to touch a memory.  It is there, real, actual, and yet immaterial.  It slips through my fingers like a lake breeze.

 

Time is an illusion, the concept of it a construct of our need to place order on the infinite, the divine, the universal.  Certain memories from decades ago feel as if they happened last week; while some memories from last week feel decades old.  There is no ticking clock at the soul level, no segmentation of hours and days and weeks and years.  There is only a long, flowing undulation of experience, meaning, and love.

 

Indeed, it is the moments of our lives that matter most, the people and places we connect with, the memories we establish and cherish, and hold onto like talismans of the soul.  These are eternal.  They are stored away in the secret recesses of the heart, there to be called upon whenever we think of them, and oftentimes when we don’t.  They can rise to the surface of our consciousness at the most unexpected of moments.

Sometimes these memories, these moments, are painful.  They can elicit a longing, a crying out, a lamentation.  But I have learned that they are precious.  They are what makes us, us, and they are to be cherished and nurtured like the gifts they are.

 

For me, I have always needed to write things down, to preserve them on the page (or the computer screen).  Real-life experiences are often sifted through the mill of the creative process, emerging in stories and characters and scenes and lines of prose that pour forth from the subconscious.  This will be no different.

In the end, it’s all about love, I think.  That’s what makes the memories so alive, the emotions so overpowering and enduring.  It is love that defines us and shapes us.

“Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself,” Khalil Gibran wrote a century ago.  “Love possesses not nor would it be possessed.  For love is sufficient unto love.”

 

Thanks so much for reading!

–Mike

Gym Class Dread (Or, Silver Linings in the Discomfort)

It’s a funny thing.  My junior-high and high school physical education experience is now decades in the rearview mirror, from a previous century, no less.  And yet, those memories of 1980s and 1990s gym class are still vivid.  Some of the most enduring school memories I have stem from PE.

 

Admittedly, some of them are good.  I was heavy as a teenager, and I didn’t play on any of the official school teams.  But I was surprisingly good at sports–probably because I had two older brothers, and I always wanted to keep up and compete with them.  Out of shape?  That I was.  But I had my skill sets!  And every now and again, I would overcome the gym class nerves and excel.  There was the time I played goalie in an indoor soccer game, and there was a substitute teacher that day.  I was diving and jumping and making improbable saves.  When one shot got through and the other team scored, the sub teacher came up to me and asked my name.

 

“Mike,” I said.

“Well, Mike,” he replied.  “You can’t save ’em all.  You were great today!”

Obviously, the positive reinforcement of this stranger, who I’d never see again, resonated with me.  I still remember it decades later!

There were other high points, too, scattered through the debris of PE memories, pearls amidst the wreckage.

The trouble was . . . gym class psyched me out.  I hated three-quarters of the activities we did.  And when we played a sport I wasn’t good at, I dreaded making a fool of myself.  The instructors, too, always made me nervous.  You never knew what they were going to do.  One of them even used to loosen his sneakers and kick them at us.  Another one would make us do calisthenics for half the period before we played any sports.  I usually approached gym class with dread.

 

Nothing was worse, though, than square dance.  Every year, usually in late winter, we’d do square dance for a couple of weeks.  The teachers would bring the boys and girls together, line us up opposite each other, and have us choose partners.  Well, when I was sixteen, no girl wanted to dance with me.  I was overweight and had acne.  It was mortifying.

To make matters worse, the teachers would break out an ancient (even for back then) record player.  I hated that record player!  It was the same music they played every year.  I’d have nightmares about it.  I can still hear the performer on that record–a guy trying so hard to sound cheerful, telling us to “face your partner,” “swing her round and round,” and “do-si-do.”

 

There were times when the dance called for us to switch partners midstream, and the girl I was switched to usually rolled her eyes and made it clear she didn’t want anything to do with me.  I often wished a hole would open up right there in the gymnasium floor, and that I would fall through it straight to the center of the earth.

 

The gym teachers were oblivious.  They smiled and clapped and tapped their feet on the floor.  The period would last no longer than forty minutes, but it felt like ten hours.  And yet . . . and yet.  I welcome these square dance memories.  Along with all the other memories from PE that are cringe-worthy and embarrassing.  Why?  I suppose because they re a part of my life, an aspect of my adolescence.  They played a part in shaping the adult I would become, for good or ill.

And maybe (probably), they keep me in tune with being a teenager, with growing up, with the awkwardness and social angst of adolescence.  Perhaps memories like these help me to get inside the head of the youthful protagonists I write for.  One can only hope!

 

Also, my next writing project will be a collection of personal essays, a trip down the proverbial memory lane, if you will.  I’ll be culling and cultivating experiences I had growing up and writing them down.  Childhood memories, teenage memories, take us back decades (well, some of us).  They consist of events that formed something in us, something strong and enduring, at the core of our being.  Remembering them, writing about them, sharing them . . . maybe that can cultivate a feeling of community, of oneness, of togetherness.  Maybe that’s what writing is, or should be, at its heart.

An outlet available to each of us where we express ourselves, who we are, what we believe, and hope it touches at least one other person who reads it.

 

Thanks so much for reading!

–Mike