Maps & Legends

My friend John says nice things about me for some reason. I wrote about how I can't imagine hot to write a book. John wrote back with a post on his blog entitled The Compulsion. And now here I go again. You can eavesdrop on our conversation. We don't mind.

The last paragraph of John's post begins with this line that got me started:

I'm sure all of this sounds preachy and kind of sanctimonious. Take it for what it's worth."

John, it's crazy how often we excuse ourselves for having opinions about writing. You did it by saying that you haven't been published. I do that too. I say, "I'm a writer but not a real writer," because I just have a blog and write every day. I think this comes from a lifetime of English classes in which we've elevated the writer. We have for so long read writers who are far removed from our experience. It makes them feel otherworldly and that they are capable of the impossible.

I was reading The Sun Magazine and found two unbelievably good stories by a woman who, I saw in the author bios, lives in Central New York. Turns out I could walk to her house. (Don't worry. I have no idea which exact house is hers and only know because she told me that she is in the vicinity. I'm not a stalker!) She's an ordinary human being who lives just like I do. The difference is that she has had her words in print. That is seemingly miraculous but not a miracle and not the work of anyone but one of us mere mortals.

All we do is return to the work again and again.

I like what you said about goals bringing on regret and self-loathing, not much else. Scott Adams (a turd of a human who nonetheless has this good idea) says that "goals are for losers." Working toward a goal means we have failed at reaching it so far. So even when we're doing the work, with regard to the goal we are in failure. Maybe we achieve a goal, but that achievement often feels like a failure because there is no end. There's just the next thing. Focus on the goal also takes away from focusing instead on the work and the reward of just doing the work.

I'm thinking of Dani Shapiro who has been on the best-seller list for the last few weeks. I'm sure she has wanted to be on the best-seller list, but I doubt that was her goal or that she had any goal other than to do the work, become a better writer, tell her story, and do some more of the work. That's the returning that both of us are talking about. It's a circle of returning to the work rather than some kind of straight-line goal.

You mention that you're notoriously lazy. I wonder how often you were told that as a kid. I heard it a lot and read it on my report cards as "Brian is not working up to his potential." That sort of thing sinks in and sticks with a guy like me. It's about time we both said, screw that. I'm finding lately that when I feel lazy there's a reason and I'm trying to go with the feeling not to indulge in indolence but to see what not doing anything has to offer. This seems at least slightly better than beating myself up about it. I know you're not beating yourself up too much, but just for kicks count the number of pages you've written and see if you know ten other people who have written as much. Then go back to writing. Or, the hell with it, skip all the counting and just write some more.

There are road maps and we can use them without having to think about destinations and goals. My current map is like some pre-Columbian map where there's this mysterious section far from home that is blank except for a drawing of some sea monster and an ominous line about the edges of the known world. I can never fold those maps up again, so I leave them spread out on my floor or tacked to the wall, reminders of where I want to go and all the possible routes that could get me there. Stare at them long enough and the squiggly lines of rivers, roads, and borders almost resolve into letters, words, and a story.

Thanks for writing that post, John. You're a good guy. Write on.

Day One In The Schools

I remember my first day at Eagle Hill Middle School, a place I didn’t want to be. A new school was nothing I wanted. No, I wanted to be back in the small parochial school I had attended since kindergarten, but Dad had bought a funeral home and so we moved to the suburbs. I entered Eagle Hill about six weeks into fifth grade and everything about it seemed wrong. It felt especially wrong to be walking through that strange and giant place. I was scared.

When I got to Mrs. Maloff's fifth grade class and suffered being introduced to the class, I put on what I hoped was a brave face. I couldn't let anyone know how terrible I felt. It felt imperative to fit in from the get-go even if I could tell that they all dressed differently and soon learned that most of them had been together since pre-school. When the teacher asked me to sit in a certain chair, I did. As the class got to work, I did the work too. In math class the teacher handed out multiplication practice. I finished that sheet in a minute. These were the choices I made in order to let them know I was serious, someone to notice and appreciate. I wanted to be someone with whom to be reckoned and so I played that role.

Today is Mikael's first day in our school. His dad didn't buy a funeral home or move him to the suburbs. Mikael was sent to us from his home school for various reasons, none of them especially good, and because we are the school version of the Island Of Misfit Toys. When he came to my classroom from social studies I saw a red welt over most of his forehead. I knew a lot about him from just that.

I'm no Sherlock Holmes but have been doing this alternative education thing with at-risk kids long enough to have figured out a few things. It wasn't abuse — those marks are usually hidden and kids cover them well. No, I thought, he's a sleeper. He came in and moved toward a chair without making eye contact. I went toward him slowly and at a slight angle, held out my hand and said, "I'm Brian." He muttered his name, limply shook my hand for a second, then sat at a desk and put his head down on the table. His hood was up and I saw his hands under the desk pull the strings tight and closed, leaving only his forehead exposed and resting on the desk. He folded in on himself and went to sleep or pretended to.

Ever seen a turtle go into its shell?

I don’t know exactly what to expect of Mikael, but kids react a couple different ways to traumatic changes such as coming to a new school. I showed off my abilities. Mikael went into hiding and hibernation. We both announced ourselves on entering the new classroom and both wanted people to think that they should take note of and not trifle with us. We both were scared. I'm fifty years old, so I can admit that. He might need a little while.

What do you do with a kid like this? Well, first you realize that there is no kid like this but there is a kid doing this. It's an action, putting his head down, done by a person I don't know yet. I nodded a lot, gently invited and cajoled him to join us, then let him be. He kept his head down and went to sleep. My goal was to be a ghost in this situation, to give him nothing against which to push back. I will wait and see what he decides to do, how he wants to present himself, and who he might be. For the first day I was content to have him head down, showing me that I can't make him do anything.

It’s not my place to make him do certain things, act in any one way. That’s up to him. I invite but don’t have the power to make his decisions. I'm curious what his decisions will be and how long he'll let that red welt announce how he is.

Let's Just See What Happens

Keep going. Don't quit five minutes before the miracle.

The first part of that is the title of Austin Kleon's new book. The second part is my paraphrase of a Dani Shapiro idea. I like both thoughts and how they fit together to inform what I'm doing and trying to do.

Last night's sticky note, a reminder to myself and a start my morning pages, says: The slow work. Just keep doing it and believe in the worth of what I am writing. It's easy to forget that the tiny thing I do today adds to whatever I did yesterday and will be followed by what I do tomorrow. I forget that, especially when I want to be published and successful in this writing thing. Successful? Isn't this successful? Does making money equate with success? If money is success, I may be out of luck. A friend wrote me that "Trying to earn anything from memoir is...well, possible. But it helps if you were raised by religious fanatics in Idaho and wound up with a degree from Cambridge." My degrees are from Onondaga Community College, SUNY Oswego, and Radford University. I grew up in Syracuse. My parents were not fanatics about much of anything. I'm so screwed.

What I'm doing now, writing on this blog, sending out an essay or two, earns me no money and likely won't for a while. I have very few followers on the Twitter account I set up only for writing and connecting with writers. I have just over fifty people subscribed to the blog. These are the facts of my networking efforts. But that is less than half the picture.

I have been writing every single day. A lot of writing. It adds up. The effect is cumulative.

Just now I went out and shoveled the driveway and sidewalks for the second time today. The snow is still falling. I may go out later and clear it again. Then tomorrow morning there will be more snow and I will clear that. The snow will keep coming until it isn't coming any more and we see and feel spring. Each time I clear the driveway is one more push to keep things orderly, to keep going, knowing that the miracle of spring is only minutes away if I squint at my watch just right.

Do Tell

Most of what I thought I was keeping private I've really been keeping secret. The former is keeping confidence for the sake of others, not revealing something because it would be a burden for them. The latter is hiding. I'm speaking here of the secrets and privacy of the self, myself really. Secrets can be valuable when carried for a loved one. Secrets kept about myself seem less so. Also, privacy, like solitude, feels healthy and good while secrets, like loneliness, mostly do damage.

Don't worry though, I'm not about to reveal my deepest secrets here today. That's another kind of burdening that does damage. Instead I'm looking to consider the effects I'm feeling of having let go of a couple secrets.

Start easy with one I've talked about before: I'm quitting my job after this school year. That's the sort of thing I would usually kept to myself worrying What if my employer and colleagues find out? What if I change my mind? Fearing these things, I have the habit of making such decisions but keeping them secret. Privacy isn't motivated by fear, but secrets usually are. My habit says, don't tell anyone.

I bucked that habit and have announced the decision and then some. The effects help me see the value of going public. I have been surprised by the support, suggestions, and gratitude with which my announcement has been received. I expected it to be a burden to others, but it turns out to be a type of kindness.

It has been kind to me as well. There have been other times I've said I need to quit my job, but that was only my inner voice echoing inside the empty warehouse of my skull. I kept it secret because the idea felt shameful and made me seem weak. Transforming the secret through telling, I felt lighter and open to ideas. The secret had me thinking I had to go on until retirement. Telling others had me feeling the truth of it.

A second example. At my in-laws, talking about my job, I said it was making me sick. To show I wasn't just whining, I let go of a secret: I'm 219 pounds, technically obese. My mother-in-law was shocked and did not want to believe. No way, she said. That's not possible.

I never want to reveal that I'm fat. It's embarrassing and feels like failure, a lack of will, and weakness. Being fat is something I keep secret out of shame. This is what I've learned. That's my habit.

Saying it didn't change my weight but I felt lighter, less trapped in my weight or held down by it. Letting go of the secret I found that no one reproached me. There was no shame. There was understanding and I felt good.

My recent experience has been that sharing secrets is strengthening. Still, I resist the urge to share because shame, the heaviest of weights, feels so crushing. Shame drives my habit of hiding, of keeping secret while claiming privacy. The habit is so strong it overcomes most logic and experience.

Of course it matters how the secret is told. It's no surprise that telling honestly and in straight-forward fashion without hoping to elicit any response, least of all shock is best. I didn't want to shock my mother-in-law. Instead, I wanted to share something and help her understand how bad my job has become. I told her about my weight not to say, Look at me! but more to offer, This is me. Here I am. I was giving instead of asking for something. For me, that's a radical approach.

There are implications in this for writing. When I tell of my job and weight, I'm not looking for a result, effect, moral, or even an ending. There is no moral. I don't know how the story will end. It's a thing in process. I tell the story without drama or effect and go forward in the belief that someone, maybe me, might benefit. Secrets are hidden stories. Telling in the right amounts — and here there is a border to explore — is good for all.