Passing Dirty Notes-I Don’t Think Hemingway Started This Way.

You will be happy to know that no one dies in this blog post. My first posts had to do with Father’s day and the 5th anniversary of my fathers passng. Then there was the death of Nora Ephron.   A good friend asked that my next post be about kittens and pudding. So naturally this made me think of sex and writers block.

 My purpose for this blog was to get me writing again. We have all heard of “Writers Block.” It takes many forms, for many reasons. For me I think, at least in some small way, It has to do with a girl named “Ivana.” She was my high school sweetheart.  Her name wasn’t really Ivana, but I always wanted to date an Ivana and figured this was my chance. “Ivana” was a nice girl. A VERY nice girl. So nice that most boys knew she wouldn’t do what most high school boys hoped most high school girls would do.  Her parents seemed thrilled with my interest in their daughter, since no one else had shown much. Let me be clear. I was no steal. My last girl friend was in elementary school. She ate her boogers like they were gummy bears on a conveyor belt whizzing by. As for me, I had glasses so thick that I could never walk with the sun behind me because I became a fire hazard. But I liked her. She was sweet. 

One day she approached me at my locker, with a look in her eyes that made me search her hands for an apple. She leaned in and whispered, “I want you to write me a dirty note that I can read in study hall! *giggle*” I looked at her. She still looked like Ca…Ivana. “But we haven’t even…You know.” I said looking down at my feet creating imaginary half moons with the tip of my hush puppies. “Do it for me!” she chanted.  I was VERY uncomfortable with this.  I liked boobs as much as the next guy. But I called them boobs. “I can’t do this!” I thought to myself. She pressed. Letting me know that this could lead to my first “payment” as a writer. “If you can write it, maybe we can do it.” she teased. This both excited and scared the crap out of me. I did it. But because I wanted to make her happy.  I used a bunch of words that I heard when I snuck into Saturday Night Fever. It is the most uncomfortable, unnatural writing I have ever done. I gave it to her as she went into Study Hall, with the singular instruction of destroying it after she read it.  But the little minx kept it. Then minx’s Mom found it. There is a story here, but the short of it is my life got a little ruined for a time. 

I have wondered recently if it’s effects were more lasting than I thought. As a writer does it affect what I am willing to put out there? Am I afraid that the voice I write in will be seen as mine, not a characters? Finding the courage to write is part of my process right now. But I should also write with faith in the reader. But above all I must write in a true voice. Even if it is fiction. Like making pudding out of kittens.  

Published in: on July 6, 2012 at 6:29 AM  Comments (1)  
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Fathers and Sons; A Story Told In Extra Innings

Welcome to the first entry of my first blog. I’ve thought about this for a long time. It was something I was supposed to do as a writer living in the digital age. It took me a while to want to do it. But I did. Then came the terrifying thought of what my first post would be. It would have to be brilliant. Right? It would launch my career and gain me a 1000 new Twitter followers. Right? As I was crushing myself under my own bloated expectations I noticed something today. The Boston Red Sox play the Chicago Cubs this Sunday. Father’s Day. I imagined my father walking over to me and taking the bat out of my hand and telling me, “let’s just play catch.”

You see the Cubs were my dad’s team. And the Red Sox became mine. I say became because I HATED baseball. My father loved the game as much as I hated it. I had little aptitude for it, but father tried to help by playing with me. He would pitch, but while he had love for the game he had no talent for pitching and I was chubby and slow. As a result I got hit in the head. A lot.

What changed? My father died. It will be 5 years ago this coming Wednesday June 20th. We were not a traveling family, and his death was unexpected and I needed to clear my head. So I decided to fulfill a life long dream and visit New England. I was to attend a writers conference outside of Boston. I had made the drive from Austin, so I arrived in Boston a couple of days early. I decided to go see a Red Sox game. If nothing else I would enjoy the historical aspect of going to Fenway Park. Somehow I thought it would mean a lot to my dad too. When the time came and I entered the gates to Fenway something magical happened to me. All of a sudden I got it. I saw the beauty where I only saw slow and boring as a child. I saw the art in those moments of breath. I became a fan. Before I would leave New England 6 months later, I would become a nut. I would attend two more games. My Texas truck proudly displays a Red Sox license plate frame in the front, and two fading Red Sox decals on the back window.

There is rareness and regret in this moment. You see the Red Sox and Cubs are in different leagues, it’s very rare for them to meet. The fact that this meeting takes place on Fathers Day both dulls and spikes the sting of this day and the anniversary ahead. When he passed I didn’t have a favorite team. but I do now. It’s a moment that I wish we could have shared. And we will. I have no doubt that my father will be watching the game Sunday. And with a much better view. I’ll see you at the game Dad.

Go Sox! And Happy Father’s Day.

I would love to read stories about your fathers today. Cherished moments. Missed moments. Feel free to share yours if you like.

Welcome to my blog. Lets play ball.

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Published in: on June 16, 2012 at 5:36 AM  Comments (9)  
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