Questions on Writing

 

I’m not sure how I became a writer.

 

I didn't keep a journal as a kid. I still don't. I write a lot of my thoughts down, of course, but I'm kind of glad I didn't then. I can't imagine how silly it would seem to me now.

What was it like when the most important side effect of breaking my right arm was having to learn how to masturbate left-handed? …When my biggest concern was the giant zits that tragically appeared on my forehead overnight? And why did it always happen on a Monday or Tuesday? So I had to walk the school hallways for the rest of the week with Krakatoa erupting on my face?

 

Even when I realized I was good at this writing thing, I didn’t start with serious subjects. I had done bits and pieces for the local newspaper, but my first real writing job after college was in sports.

 

That’s when I discovered sports writers are assholes. I try to refrain from lumping an entire group of people into one derogatory category. But in this case, they deserve it. So I moved on to other things.

 

These days, when people ask me what I write, and I say, “Mostly creative non-fiction,” I get the most puzzled looks. “What does that mean? What do you actually write about?” 

“Well, anything I want.” 

That doesn’t seem to help. To most people, “anything” apparently means “nothing.” 

It reminds me of one of the early episodes of Seinfeld where Jerry and George Costanza are discussing how to pitch their show idea to NBC. 

George says: Everybody's doing something. We'll do nothing. 

Jerry: So we go into NBC, and we tell them we have an idea for a show about nothing. 

George: Exactly. 

Jerry: They say, "What's your show about?" And I say "nothing." 

George: There ya go. 

After a long pause, Jerry says: …I think you may have something there. 

When they say nothing, though, what they really mean is… everything. Everyday life. 

And it’s a little frightening that many people think it’s acceptable and possibly accurate to describe their daily existence as… nothing. If you don’t think something interesting happens to you almost every day, you might need to consider making some serious changes. 

But it’s more likely that you’re just not paying enough attention. 

I have written about watching a family with two young children become homeless, and then, months later, seeing them regain their footing – with help from the community they lived in.  This was a black family in a very white community. That story gave me hope. For a while.

I have written about a young woman at a bar who briefly left her own drunken birthday celebration to sidle up to me, a complete stranger, and tell me her mom had died years before… on her birthday. 

That was fifteen years ago, and I still think about it. 

I have written about karaoke and cover bands. About music, in general. And my involvement in the business. Which meant… writing about drugs, of course.

 

I have written about irrational fears. And rational ones. About happiness and heartbreak. About the incessant urge that creators have… to create. 

I have written about the time I was sitting in a coffee shop next to two women in their sixties when a news story came on the TV saying researchers, using stem cells… had made artificial sperm. One of the women was absolutely incredulous. And I don’t think she realized how loud she was when she said, "What? There’s no shortage..." 

Aren’t there moments that touch you? Moments that make you think? Moments that cause you to react in unexpected ways? Moments that make you laugh, or make you teary for reasons you can’t explain? 

 

One evening during my usual wanderings I noticed an older gentleman sitting in a car by himself watching the sunset over the Indian River. It was a nice little park with a boat ramp and some picnic tables. And the sunset was gorgeous as it often is there. Then I noticed a breast cancer awareness sticker on his rear bumper – you know - one of those pink ribbons. And around the license plate was a frame promoting a nearby hospice care center. And I realized that those two things were probably related. And that probably explained why he was alone.

 

One time, right on the heels of a passing hurricane, I drove out to the coast to see the damage. The weather was still bad - way worse than weather you'd normally drive in, but I was restless. Just before I went over the causeway bridge, I noticed one small man fishing off the long concrete pier. I stopped to watch and there was something about the way he was dressed and the urgency of his actions as he repeatedly cast and reeled. And it dawned on me that if he didn't catch a fish, he wasn't going to eat that day.

There’s a story in each of those moments. 

 

You can’t make this stuff up. Or, should I say, there’s no need to make this stuff up. It’s there. Everywhere. Every day. If you look for it. 

 

Until the last couple of years, the only fiction I'd ever written was on my tax returns. But now I dabble in fiction, too.

I’m willing to admit that the present reality is rather fucked up. So, it’s tempting to invent an entirely new one. But many fiction writers go on to create make-believe worlds that are even more fucked up than our own. 

I see no sense in escaping my own hell to visit one that’s even worse. 

I think I started with fiction because I go through these periods of self-reflection. And it's possible that's why I started writing in the first place. I had questions. Lots of questions. I thought they'd be answered, one by one, as I grew up. But I was wrong. Every time I answered one, another one came along. Sometimes they came in bunches.

Everything, of course, leads to the one big question: What is the fucking point of all this? WHAT is the point?

 

Then you wonder… Why is it that mankind has to try to find some meaning in life? I'm pretty sure cockroaches don't do this. Although, maybe I'm underestimating them.

How did I get to the point that, when I meet some wonderful woman, and have a nice conversation, I stop myself? I go no further. I walk away, thinking... no, she'd just break my heart anyway, if it wasn't already broken.

 

For me, I think writing – any kind of writing - is a process of trying to answer questions. But I’ve now realized it might be hopeless.

 

What if I’m wrong about the big question? What if there is no fucking point?