Writer, not

Nothing but heaven, if you happen to be a mass-transit geek, like me. Or a fan of Boardwalk Empire, like me.

From the archives, a favorite essay of mine, which I like to pull out and share when spring finally arrives in New England.

On the Nature, and Persistence, Of Stuff

Spring cleaning is nearly done (alright, maybe not the windows), but this year I took additional steps to shake out the debris that seems to accumulate in my home, car, and office. This is a phase I seem to go through every couple of years, or, as happens in much more dramatic fashion, when the larger events of life occur. Moving, buying a home, starting a new job, all of these have been catalysts for a turn-the-place-upside-down-and-shake-out-all-the-junk kind of cleaning. This year it was a job change, a new office.

Having to pack up my belongings from five years’ occupation of an office inspires the questions: What is this? Why do I have it? Do I need it? Do I even want it? Is this thing even me, anymore?

From the office, pounds and pounds and pounds of paper, into the recycling bins. Journals, magazines, and reports, many never read (recycle). Manuals for software I don’t even own anymore (same). Six(!) coffee mugs with the company logos (washed, then back into the lunchroom cupboard for company guests). Plasticy office desk-organizing things that seemed so cool at the time, but linger, unused (back to the supply closet).

From there the triage spread home, and got harder. Books I’d bought but never read (shameful! Off to Goodwill. And let’s remember to go to the library before the bookstore, shall we?) That striped shirt that I’d literally never worn (more for Goodwill). Large stacks of glossy this-old-DIY-home-fixer-upper-handyman magazines (Hmm, tough one. Kind of still-me in a wish-I-was-Norm sort of way, but then not really. But I’ve read, and read, and re-read them all. Perhaps donate them to the library?) The tools that I’d accumulated, partly inspired by said magazines? Well, they’re dormant, but let’s keep those for now.

Bills, receipts, catalogs, statements, junk mail. Piles on my desk. ATM receipts from a year ago, still in my backpack. Things set aside to filed, but left unfiled, and frankly never deserving to be filed. How does so much accumulate in one household?

Out. All of it. Shred the confidential material, then all of it into the recycle bin.

And then, the really tough decisions.

Boxes of photographs, taken with my father’s 40-year-old, nearly broken, occasionally operable Hanimex camera (hmm, probably still have the camera, too). Boxes of photographs, from my starving grad student, brooding, twenty-something, misunderstood artist phase. Photographs, usually in black and white, of the same subject, sometimes ten or more prints, taken using different vantage points, apertures, exposures and filters. The same wagon wheel. The same lonely bench. Far less compelling now than they seemed twenty years ago. All in a box, and for a good reason, as I’d culled, framed and scanned the few good shots, years ago. One last review to ensure there is still nothing worth saving, and into the recycling bin, box and all. And the camera, assuming I find it? Let’s try Freecycle. Maybe there’s a collector of East German relic cameras out there somewhere.  [Note:  in fact, there was.]

Next, writings. Truly awful attempts at poetry and fiction. Ideas for fragments of paragraphs of chapters that never did become a novel, or short story, or even, if I’m to be honest, a halfway decent paragraph. Another manifestation of the brooding phase(s). Really too embarrassing to merely recycle, let’s shred these first. Quickly.

Harder still, notebooks. Some going back to freshman year, written in a teenager’s hand. Two courses on a near-extinct, mainframe computer language, APL. Drafts upon drafts of my thesis. Reams of computer printouts and plots. And an immense binder, 300 pages or more, of hand written, yellow lined notes, all from a single course that, more than any other, never found any application of any kind in my life. Notebooks and binders and stacks of paper that have survived at least five moves over the last twenty years—why? Notebooks, paper, and loose leaf pages, all of them, into the recycle bin; the binders I’ll donate to my sons’ grade school.

Where did it all come from, and why has it all lingered so long? Acquisition represents the attempt to fulfill a need or desire, a decision made. Accumulation, whether in clothing, gadgets, books, papers, receipts or email, represents instead a decision, belayed. An ingrained and decisive Puritan ethic (I will surely make good use of this on my next project), becomes a lingering worry (what if I might need this someday?), becomes a stagnant, stuck pile (I just don’t know what to do with this now).

Piles become boxes, which then get put in the closet or under the eaves, an expense of time and effort to avoid the weight of choosing: does this have value and meaning in my life, yes or no?

Going through this process is like snapping the sheets when folding laundry. Forcibly shake out what doesn’t belong, and smooth what remains. There is great satisfaction in deciding to decide, in actively defining what is merely stuff, and what is instead precious.

And more so when none of it hits the landfill.

When I’m out of ideas, it’s time to open the wallet and support those in need.  What else can I possible say or write, other than to please slap the trolls out there who are talking about karma and Pearl Harbor.

Donate to the American Red Cross.

It is worst every year about this time, when settling in to that long slog that doesn’t end until sometime in March.

…I still see things that are not here. I just choose not to acknowledge them. Like a diet of the mind, I just choose not to indulge certain appetites…

– Russell Crowe as John Nash in the movie, A Beautiful Mind

Crowe was speaking of schizophrenia, which tormented Nash for much of his adult life. In the present, personal context, this quote encapsulates my own experiences battling depression.

Appetites—for certain music, certain movies, certain books (#saddestbooks), even certain memories and patterns of thought—must be denied, at least until better times, and better frames of mind:

The Grapes of Wrath (on my Bucket-of-Shame list)? Not now. Maybe in the summer.

The Road? Oh god, no.

Look at those rejection emails, again? Most unwise. Resist.

The soundtrack to Blade Runner? No. Never again, actually.

Anything (truly, anything, with or without homeless puppies in the background) by Sarah McLachlan? Right. Out.

One might imagine writing would be difficult in this frame of mind.  I answer, yes it is, particularly for a work that is already in progress.  Productivity drops.  Focus dilates, and dissolves into lost, opaque thoughts.  On occasion, I’ll be inspired to start something wholly new, which usually results in a hideous short story (or hideous blog post) of self-centered, self-righteous whining.

And every time, I say to myself, I thought I had outgrown this.

I’ve blogged about this before, but somehow forgot to post the actual story. The Green Bike Stories was a flash-fiction anthology published by Six Sentences.  My entry appeared on page 40, and is shown below.

The Green Bike

I had loved that thing, for it carried me well, and far. Black aluminum frame, carbon fiber rims, and racing groupset, our miles together numbered in the thousands, each summer flashing by in a colorful lycra blur. That is, until not long after I turned forty. Then it would no longer carry me rolling through a century, preferring instead to suck me rearward and then drop me from the paceline, letting those younger punks steam past me, grinning. It is a lawn ornament now, with a wire basket and pansies overflowing, painted the ugly color of mint from handlebars to chain and treads and stem valves.

That’ll show it.

I was most fortunate last week to win (first time ever!) a flash fiction contest sponsored by writers Jennifer Hillier, JB Lynn, and  Joann Swanson, who collectively blog at Killer Chicks.

The challenge of their contest was to write a short story of 150 words or less, using the words killer, chicks, and Halloween.  You can see my entry here.

My thanks to the very generous Killer Chicks, and my congratulations to the other contest winners.

The Trick-orTreat for UNICEF merit badge, via Merit Badger.

A True Story.

1970 or so, and I am still new to the trick-or-treat thing.  My parents brought me in to town so I could trick-or-treat (fireman’s uniform, I’m pretty sure), with some friends of the family, all a little bit older than me.

We ascended the stairs to our first house, rang the bell, and called out:  Trick or treat!

An old man opened the door and said, “Trick!”

The rest of the gang responded with a dejected “Awww!” and turned to go…leaving me standing there, not knowing what to do.  Seems I didn’t realize that not giving me candy was even allowed in the rule book.

Still standing at the door, I held my little orange cardboard box up to the man.  UNICEF.

And he felt so guilty, he went back inside to retrieve his wallet.

Here is a piece of flash fiction (of six sentences) published several months ago at Six Sentences.

On the F Line

There were two latches on the subway window, but I could only reach one. Stopped in the East River tunnel, we were, all of us, wrapped in overcoats and wool, unable to make even that small amount of room needed to simply remove a layer. But two latches, moved simultaneously, would allow the small vent to tilt inward; then we, some of us, at least, could stop re-breathing our neighbors’ muggy exhaust.

A normal New Yorker—no, not me—uncomfortable and hot, but by birthright, confident in voice, and unaware or uncaring of impact, would simply reach for the latch, and shout over the heads of others: “Hey buddy—you—help me with the window.” But after many stale moments, it is in fact my hand that acts, moving through space, stretching to grasp and open the latch, while I look downstream to see another anonymous arm slowly reaching out, to take the second latch in hand. Heroes of the moment, we silently exchange a glance, and the most subtle of nods—perhaps we would become friends.

I saw Jonathan Franzen at his reading at the South Church in Portsmouth on Friday. Yes, he was great. I frankly wasn’t enthralled with The Corrections,but now I’m wondering if I should go back for a second read. And yes, I did get a signed copy of Freedom.

Favorite quote of the evening (regarding his preparation for writing Freedom):

I put eight or nine years into preparing to strike quickly.

My thoughts exactly.

Janet Reid was so kind as to mention the local bookstore, RiverRun, where Jess Walter (THE FINANCIAL LIVES OF POETS) and Sean Ferrell (NUMB) will give readings on Thursday (as in tomorrow) night.

Oh, and some guy named Franzen (like I need to say the title?) will be in town on Friday.

Yes, I am lucky to live here.