Source: sparkiepop
Days of Me.
I submit to you a fantastic poem by my friend and mentor, Stuart Dischell. This sums up how I feel pretty much every day of my life. I always have a feeling that the old me was the best and the current me is not so great, however wrong that may be. In fact, I know it is wrong, but I can’t help feeling it.
What you should do, though, is go out there and buy whatever you can find of Stuart’s. You won’t be sorry.
Days of Me
When people say they miss me,
I think how much I miss me too,
Me, the old me, the great me,
Lover of three women in one day,
Modest me, the best me, friend
To waiters and bartenders, hearty
Laugher and name rememberer,
Proud me, handsome and hirsute
In soccer shoes and shorts
On the ball fields behind MIT,
Strong me in a weightbelt at the gym,
Mutual sweat dripper in and out
Of the sauna, furtive observer
Of the coeducated and scantily clad,
Speedy me, cyclist of rivers,
Goose and peregrine falcon
Counter, all season venturer,
Chatterer-up of corner cops,
Groundskeepers, mothers with strollers,
Outwitter of panhandlers and bill
Collectors, avoider of levies, excises,
Me in a taxi in the rain,
Pressing my luck all the way home.
That’s me at the dice table, baby,
Betting come, little joe, and yo,
Blowing the coals, laying thunder,
My foot on top a fifty dollar chip
Some drunk spilled on the floor,
Dishonest me, evener of scores,
Eager accepter of the extra change,
Hotel towel pilferer, coffee spoon
Lifter, fervent retailer of others’
Humor, blackhearted gossiper,
Poisoner at the well, dweller
In unsavory detail, delighted sayer
Of the vulgar, off course belier
Of the true me, empiric builder
Newly haircutted, stickerer-up
For pals, jam unpriser, medic
To the self-inflicted, attorney
To the self-indicted, petty accountant
And keeper of the double books,
Great divider of the universe
And all its forms of existence
Into its relationship to me,
Fellow trembler to the future,
Thin air gawker, apprehender
Of the frameless door.
Wowing the ladies since 1976
Walking through the Charlotte airport this morning, I was reminded of when I brought a girl here for a date in high school. This was way before 2001 when you didn’t need a boarding pass to get through security. I brought her (and thankfully I can’t remember the poor girl’s name) to have dinner with me in the Cheers restaurant.
I know now how sad that sounds.
Several years ago, there were Cheers restaurants in airports capitalizing on the popularity of the show. Big Cheers logo out front, hardened likeness of Norm perpetually at the bar. The food was standard airport fare, so I’m not sure why I thought it was so special that someone else would want to share the experience with me. But I did.
Lame, lame, lame.
Thankfully, the Cheers is long gone and there is some kind of taqueria or something in its place. But the memory of my ineptitude remains.
Writers’ retreats and other excuses.
I was thinking last night of all of the excuses I have made to not write in the past. These are some of the best ones, and sadly, they are real:
- I need to rent office space first. It’s tough to find seclusion and silence at home, so if I could just find some vacant office space for cheap, that would be the catalyst for the greatest, most dense piece of literature since Moby Dick.
- I need to buy a laptop. I have an iMac at home, and I have a laptop for work, but it is just for work. What I really need is a laptop dedicated to writing. I think these used to be called typewriters. But I want something a bit more portable.
- I should drop a couple of grand to go to a writers’ retreat in Cape Cod or something. One of those where failing MFA grads like myself go to congregate with other struggling nobodies and pretend we are back in grad school. That would totally do the trick.
- If I could just reorganize my home office, my thoughts would bond together like J-B Weld and everything would make sense. The only thing needed to open the door to inspiration is organization.
- I’ve got to do more research. How can I possibly write a novel set in the late 1860s unless I read everything possibly written during, about or referencing that period in history. I can’t. And so I continue to buy loads of reference material I never get around to reading, and thus, can keep telling myself that I haven’t done my research yet and shouldn’t start.
These are just a few of the many excuses that have since GONE BY THE WAYSIDE. This morning, the baby woke up at 4:45 and wouldn’t go back to sleep. Before, I would have gladly used her as a scapegoat. But now, this is not an option.
Get out there and write, you knuckleheads. A great tweet I read a few months ago from Judd Apatow:
“@DapperDanMan34: @JuddApatow Mr. Apatow, what advice would you give an aspiring writer?” Write man write! Writers write. Go deep.
It really is that simple. Stephen King has a great book, On Writing, and the message really boils down to this: if you want to be a writer, you must write. Stephen Dobyns in Best Words, Best Order? Same advice. This is simple stuff, people. YOU MUST WRITE.
SANTA CLAUS CONQUERS THE MARTIANS. Watched this with the family this weekend. It is the most awful, and therefore the BEST, holiday film we’ve seen.
I’m not lazy.
I always thought the reason I’m not writing much anymore is because I am lazy. I tell myself that I don’t have time, and I never end up writing.
The truth is I’m always busy. It is not often that I am just sitting around procrastinating. I’m either at work, or when I’m not at work, I’m a dad and husband. All of these jobs require long hours, focus and commitment.
The truth is that like most people, I’m afraid. I’m afraid to fail. I’m afraid to spend months of my time writing utter tripe. I’m scared even though I know you have to spend your time writing pure garbage to get enough material to coax out the good stuff.
I am really good at setting up plans to write. I tell myself I will get up before my wife and daughter each morning and write for an hour (never happens). I tell myself I will stay up late and write (never happens). I tell myself I will go somewhere during my lunch break and write (never happens).
And so all of this failure to even begin a project makes me feel like more of a failure. So I want to say it definitely now: I AM DONE WITH FEAR.
Screw you, fear. I am going to write and if I fail I will fail proudly with at least some creative product in my wake. I’m not going to fail having produced nothing.
When I was a kid, snow was THE BEST THING IN THE UNIVERSE. Now it is just a nuisance.
Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not. There is nothing more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not. Unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not. The world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.
“I had a lot of options open. Everybody does.”
As I begin forgetting, I grow thinner.
Sadness is five pounds, pleasure three.
When I am done, I will be light or air:
something to see by, the draft that shuts the door.
