Homework

Well, it’s strange but true that at 25 years old I’m struggling getting used to not being in school.  For the first time in my life I did not hit the books in late August or early September this year.  Well, I did hit the books, but I’m always hitting the books.  I certainly don’t have papers or tests or grades or graduating to worry about anymore, at least… or so I thought.

As I indoctrinated Danielle into the wonderful world of Californication a month or two ago by re-watching the first few episodes of Season One with her, I heard the great Hank Moody brilliantly field a question from a student who had asked whether it is fun being a writer.  He said, “No, it sucks.  It’s like having homework every day for the rest of your life.”  Too true, Hank, too true.

Alexandra said to me a little while ago as she was gearing up for her show and I envied her for her accomplishment of having a show and deadlines, “You will have deadlines yourself soon!”  Well, that did it.

At first I was humored by Alexandra’s encouragement, but then I realized, less than six months into being a writer, that at times my life will seem to suck because I have deadlines again.  The dreaded deadlines.  Writing would seem like homework for the rest of my life anyway, because I can write wherever I please (most likely at home) and I can choose to do it or not do it, and if I do it I can choose how much time and effort I put into the writing; but deadlines would make writing seem all the more like homework because then I could still choose to do it or not do it but by golly if I don’t do it I’d look like a fool. 

Some occupations other than writing and painting and such have deadlines, too, and I envy them even less than myself.  The point is, if you hate homework and are glad to be done with school, or will be glad to be done with school if you’re still studying it up, then don’t envy me.  Writing is great and wonderful because I get to say whatever the heck I want to say and other people will read it—but, then, there’s the possibility that no one will read what I have to say and I’ll fail anyway—the homework-feel of writing doesn’t much make me feel liberated and glorified like I thought I would either. 

You better appreciate my writing, then.  I don’t do this so that I can be a high and mighty writer, though that appeals to me, because the writing life simply doesn’t feel high and mighty.  Yes, I can travel and take vacations whenever I feel like it and be more free than a 9-5 worker, but if you’re a writer then you’re a writer 24/7 and thus the homework-feel can be even more oppressive than other occupations.  No, I do this to try and help people think, to believe, and to soar to better, more joyful and more content and more loving lives.  I do this because God has called me to it (I hate saying that, but there’s no other way to phrase it without explaining why I said it “this” way rather than “that” way for five pages) and for my fellow man.  You better appreciate my writing.

Harry Potter

I'm not exactly sure if this post has a "point," or any particularly good reason for you to read it, but it's important to me and important to anyone who wants to follow my about-to-be-super-famous career. 

When I was in middle school, my grandmother (on my father's side) gave me the first Harry Potter book as a birthday present.  My father was born and raised in North Conway, New Hampshire, where the Lucy family still reigns supreme, so I did not see her very often; and I've always been quite shy, even around my family, so I never really knew her well at all.  At the time the Harry Potter book seemed to be the worst present ever: clearly, I thought, she didn't know me well at all, either--I hated reading!  And the cover, never mind the title--Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone, ha!--made the book seem far more silly than I already thought all books were.  I forget who exactly induced me to read the friggin book.  Might have been my own tortured soul.  All I know is that some vague fear that my grandmother might ask me about it was the only reason I picked it up.  I figured that my grandmother wouldn't have read such a silly book, but I couldn't take that chance. 

Almost as soon as I grudgingly began reading I was hooked.  Well, honestly, I probably wasn't hooked, per se, until after the second book, but I at least now thought that reading the second book wouldn't be such a terrible thing. 

I read those first two books rather slowly but rapturously.  Once I was done with the second Harry Potter book I decided that Hermione was my favorite character (which is more true now that she was played by Emma Watson, ooo la la) and Ravenclaw was the house I'd want to be in if I were a young student-wizard.  Once I was done with the second Harry Potter book, my reading list expanded, and I began reading more quickly.  The fifth, sixth, and seventh books were all read in a day; and I started reading Terry Pratchett because the fantasy world of Discworld seemed similar enough to Hogwarts to interest me, then I was reading a bunch of comic fantasy, then I was reading Hawthorne and loving him because of all the fantastic stuff in his writing, and then I was off and running.  Since then my reading has been hopelessly expansive.

That I am now a writer, or trying to be one, must be traced through my reading back to Harry Potter.  Only by reading voluminously did I think that writing is something I'd like to do and learn how to do so.  Indeed, my world became so defined by what I read that I couldn't imagine doing anything but writing so that others may read too.  What a trip, eh?  From Harry Potter to determined writer.

I guess what I want to say here is that all people should think well on how they lift up, encourage, raise, and interact with others, especially the younger folk, and live accordingly.  After my grandmother's passing I learned a lot about her that I didn't know before, which wasn't hard considering how little I knew of her to begin with, mainly how devoted she was to teaching and inspiring others to use their minds and imaginations.  For the past few years I've also been raiding her great library.  Her spirit lives on in motivating me to write.  Her life lives on in motivating me to write.  If it weren't for her, I'd have graduated with a bachelor's in mathematics and still be crunching numbers.  I'm great at math, but boy do I hate it.  If it weren't for my grandmother, who seemed to not care that reading didn't interest me, I'd be miserably living a life that quite simply does not suit me.

Whatever greatness I may achieve through my writing must be attributed only partly to my own mind and writing skills and mostly to my grandmother.  Indeed, any great person lives in the wake of someone who cared enough to pave a way for them.  Thus, you, my reader, should take care which paths you are paving for others to follow.

I Am A Communist

The following essay was written more or less in response to the shootings in Wisconsin and Colorado.  As with most anything that a writer writes, the idea/s have been festering for a long time in my mind.  The Wisconsin shooting pushed me over the edge, though, and finally my pen moved o the subject.  The shootings in Norway, similar but worse than the one in Wisconsin, and the Penn State scandal were also definitely on my mind.  But if you were to read my half-finished manuscript for 27 Million Revolutions you'd know that my conclusion here is basically my response to everything.

I don't like publishing things on-line--I don't even like blogging, actually--before publishing for real, but I have some bits of confidence about this piece and think that people should read it.  Plus, it's timely.  After posting it here it will also adorn the sample-writing page for a short while.  You'll also be able to find it on Goodreads.  Then I will send it around to various publishers to see if anyone will publish it.  Many thanks to Danielle, my darling, for typing out what was originally written by hand.  Even with her noteworthy hard work typing it out, note that I have yet to edit any of this.  Woops.

"I Am a Communist"

I am not a Communist. I just wanted to get your attention. I am, however, an anarchist. Neither Communism nor anarchy are particularly favored here in the west, and for that reason I hope to have doubly garnered your attention. Yet the reason why I am an anarchist and can say that I agree with Marx’s ideas – freeing every individual to do what they please, within reason – though I do not appreciate the collective aspect – is quite compatible with American democracy and ideals, and why I am writing this essay, because I believe we do not give enough thought to the implication of those ideals. (footnote)

Let me begin by telling a few brief stories, at least two of which may convince you that I’m a terrible person.

In ninth grade I had an English teacher named Mr. Lewis. At least I think that’s his name. Mr. Lewis was clearly a little strange: he had a long ponytail of graying hair, weirdly large eyes, rarely did he button his cuffs so his shirt sleeves were always flailing about, and he never quite looked clean. All the same I liked Mr. Lewis. He was funny, gentle, but never took any crap, and if I paid more attention in my early years I could have learned a lot from him. As it is, Common Errors (grammar) A-F will never leave me.

One day Mr. Lewis was teaching on a book that I didn’t like nor do I remember. All that stands out to me in my memory (and I’m pretty sure this is all that I could remember of the book even while reading it) is a character named Phineas and someone falling down stairs. The book isn’t the point. The point is that while talking about something or other that might be helpful for me to know in telling this story, a student raised hand and said “Who cares about this? Some people think stupid stuff, I shouldn’t have to try and understand them or respect them."  The “who cares” is a typical 9^th grade sentiment, but apparently Mr. Lewis was bothered by the whole argument. It seemed random to me at the time, probably because of my reaction, but Mr. Lewis responded, “I am a Communist. Does that matter? Does that make me less of a person?” Yes, yes it does, I thought. I had yet to learn what communism meant, being too young to recall the shake-ups of 1991, and not caring much about the news, but somehow I knew that Communists were either silly and stupid or “just plain bad,” in my ninth grade lingo. I was appalled. Never did I respect Mr. Lewis again, though he still made me laugh and was still in control of my grades. For the final couple of months with him as my teacher, I simply could not get it out of my head that I was subjugated to learning from a stinking Communist.

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Looking back on my life, I am not certain when I became friends with Mike Rodriguez. I know that we first met in middle school when we were at some camp together or somewhere that my friends and I were playing volleyball. Mike and his friends walked to the volleyball court to play against us. I later came to be friends with everyone on the sand that day, but at the time I had no idea who any of these people were, which only made their rudeness worse. Unfortunately, they were most rude to Mike, making him the butt of jokes and often saying, “Don’t pull a Mike.” At some point Mike switched to our team but his friends treatment of him only worsened. Without even knowing who Mike was, I felt that I should protect him somehow. We haven’t talked in a long time but I know that Mike would hate me if he ever heard that I felt the need to protect him. That feeling, though, motivated me to play better for and with him. Mike and I had fun, I think, developing some volleyball chemistry together and, though I can’t remember who won, I know he and I and my friends then played well enough to give Mike some bragging rights.

Within a few years Mike and I were good friends. I’m not sure what made us friends, but I’ll venture to guess it was that we both felt respected by the other without effort (and for a while the girl we both like played us off one another). What’s funny and horrible about the friendship that we had is that, as soon as we became friends, he became the butt of my jokes. What’s funny about that is I was not, until then, the type of person to make fun of others – unless I hated them, in which case they weren’t my friends.

Why did I start making fun of Mike who, in a number of ways, was my truest friend? In Spanish class one day, our teacher, who was and is hilarious and friendly, said to Mike genially that he saw Mike and his mother exiting the Jewish temple after a service. I looked at Mike and couldn’t believe it: a real Jew! Our teacher asked how often Mike went to temple and Mike said rarely, clearly flustered and frustrated with the questions. Being the nice guy that he is our teacher took the hint and stopped asking questions – he often wanted his students to know that he was interested in their lives, but Mike was not interested. Clearly Mike was not much into practicing Judaism, though I hate that phrase taken from Catholics being applied to Catholics or Jews, but from then on I had a reason to make fun of Mike: he was a Jew for goodness sakes.

I don’t think that I had yet taken the world religion class, or world history class or whatever it was called, but even if I had, as I said before, I didn’t pay much attention in my early years. Either way, all I knew at that time and until college was that Jews believe in God but not Christ. That didn’t seem reason enough to make fun of Mike. And my parents did the best they could raising me to be understanding, tolerant, and loving rather than a judgmental bigot of any kind. In fact, I don’t think I ever thought about Mike’s being Jewish or what that meant; nor did I realize that I had made fun of him for being Jewish until after I had done so a few times. I simply instinctively knew, somehow from somewhere, that being Jewish was funny. So obviously I should make fun of Mike for it. People often say that we are afraid of what and who is different, and that may have been part of it, but my reaction and action toward Mike’s being a Jew was deeper than simply knowing him to be different. Where I got it from I will never know.

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Where I went to college there is a gas station and convenience store right next door to the dorms. I have always been an early bird -  early to bed and early-ish to rise – but occasionally I found myself up late, meaning after 11p.m. Whenever this happened I’d be hungry, because my eating schedule didn’t plan on it. One evening, then, as I sat around being hungry, I decided to take a walk over to the gas station to buy some goodies. About to stand behind the man checking out at the register ahead of me, I noted a beat-up old car pulling into one of the parking spots in front of the station.

               

Perhaps because I went to school in northern Vermont where such a sight is rare, but I was shocked to see a young black male step out of the car. Shortly after registering my shock, I observed that the young man wore a bandana and jeans falling down over his boxers. Rough-looking car, bandana, falling jeans, late at night, and worst of all, black male – instinctively I stepped back with the intention of circling around the store and then leaving hurriedly without purchasing my food. Just a couple of steps into my brilliant survival plan I realized I was being stupid. I mean, I had clearly been in line, and if I were to bolt, no matter how subtly, he’d know that I was running away and shoot me. Best if I don’t spark his ire, I thought, and if he already plans to shoot the place up I’m a dead man anyway. I braced myself for death.

It wasn’t until returning to my room and chowing down that I acknowledged how much of a racist I had just been. I wasn’t a racist and never have been, so I have ever since been ashamed of malforming a harmless young man into Satan himself.

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The latter story has often occupied my thoughts because, living in the Northeast, going to school in the Northeast, and then attending seminary in Washington, D.C., I have often heard “How can anyone be a racist?” While at seminary preparing for a trip to South Africa with some colleagues, a professor asked us to go around telling a story or two of how and when we’ve encountered racism in our lives. I told my story of the young man. To a person, though, everyone else told a story of seeing racism in and perpetrated by others that my colleagues then had to handle. For the African American students in the room that makes sense and I’m grateful beyond words for it, but I was astounded to be surrounded by twenty of the holiest and most innocent people on the planet.

Here’s the deal, folks: we spend way too much time and effort projecting the evil of the world onto others. In reality, we are a) not that much different than “those others” that we criticize and object to; b) part of the problem. Instead of asking, “How can anyone be racist/sexist?” or “How can anyone be so full of hate and ignorance that they’d shoot up a Sikh temple or a Muslim kids camp or a school or a Batman movie theater?” or “How could Joe Paterno and Penn State not have done anything?” we should be asking ourselves what parts of our nature and character must share in our disappointment in, and perhaps condemnation of, others and their actions. In so doing we will see that we do, in fact, harbor attitudes that contribute to many of the problems we see in the world around us. May the trials and inquiries occur as they will, but as a people seeking a better way forward, reflection and confession should be our preferred response.

The truth is, after all, as I hope my stories have shown, many of our instincts and thoughts are inherited from who knows where. Apparently, rather than developing a society where each individual has a right to free expression and thought, we live in a collective, albeit a disguised and faint one. Particularly as a Christian, I am not strictly opposed to collective thinking. But I am only not opposed when the prospective individuals were free beforehand.

If we do not want our society, churches, and culture infiltrated or ruled by what we deem perverse thought, then we as individuals must root those thoughts out of ourselves. We must constantly evaluate, reevaluate, reflect and confess because we may possess ideas and instincts not our own imbibed in us by some unknown and unapproved collective – yikes! We must be extremely careful with the jokes that we tell and why, what judgments we are making and why, what our instinctive reactions are and why, etc. By evaluating, reflecting and confessing, we will and must assert our own individuality and personhood.

I don’t intend for this essay to be merely about individuality. My focus on individuality and individual personhood is simply an attempt to make sense of the contrast between our holding many noble principles and beliefs yet never noticing that somehow or another we have been taught, and trained, to act and judge contradictorily to those principles and beliefs, or at least to contribute to contradictory attitudes in unseen ways. By changing our focus from others and blaming and questioning and reproaching, to ourselves in the deepest and most painful forms of reflection confession, I hope that we all can learn how to live better and better moment by moment rather than merely talking a good game. Hopefully, too, we can then embody what it means to live a good life for others to see rather than only offering the model of blame and reproach, which can only lead to varying degrees of fear and hate. Asserting our own individuality and personhood, rather than accepting whatever thoughts we seem to have learned, through evaluation, reflection, and confession will win the day. 

Stay in Michigan

If you read the history page you'll find that my stay in Michigan, which is happening right now, is the impetus for the blog.  Indeed, I have much reason to thank Joel and Megan Walther for their hospitality in letting me stay with them for a week in La Salle, Michigan, even though both are still working full-time as pastors of United Methodist congregations.  Granted, being a pastor is a somewhat flexible job in terms of when work gets done; not at all flexible in terms of how much crap there is to get done.

In fact, one of the first things Joel said to me when we were talking about my visit many months ago was, "It will be good, we can hang out and you can write."  I doubt that's an exact quotation, but the chances of his correcting me are slim.  At the time I didn't think it would be a problem if I didn't write at all for the entire week.  I mean, I've now been graduated from seminary for over a month.  You'd think that if I'm dedicated to writing and being a writer that in a month's time I would have done a lot of writing.  That's what I thought a few months ago, anyway.  Apparently I was quite wrong.

Transitioning into my new life at home, living with my parents for now, unpacking and getting used to the surroundings, was actually quite exhausting.  Depressing, too.  In a lot of ways I think the time off was good for me to rest my body and mind, which had been on the go for at least seven years through college and graduate school; that's if we don't count high school.  I certainly needed time off.  But then, the whole next year is planned time off where, yes, I will write, but I don't intend to really push myself to do much.  A month in, however, I found that I had done nothing at all, and that was disconcerting.

Hopping on a train from Boston (actually Providence, where my father works, but I don't want to confuse anyone who knows I live in the Boston area, so from now on Boston is where everything happens) into a car with some friends (Thomas and Jen James) into another car with other friends (the Walthers and Hannah Tucker) and then finally arriving many, many hours later in southern Michigan, apparently pumped my mind into action.  Suddenly I found that I had ideas, motivation, time, and support.  In the middle of all the traveling was a wedding of my friends Jake and Joanna Paysour which brought some much needed joy into my life.

All in all I realize something that many of the most famous writers throughout history have realized: travel does a writer good.  Travel, as my friend Alexandra constantly informs me, allows a person to consume new things in new ways.  Clearly consumption is an important part of an artist's life, which she and I are, or at least what I claim to be: I'm an artist by writing.  And staying in an unfamiliar place as a vacation or time to rest is also very helpful.  Away from home I feel like I have no excuse not to write.  It feels quite natural that away from home I'd be doing a lot of writing, actually.  What else is there to do?  Perhaps if Joel and Megan lived in Detroit I'd be more anxious to see the sights... though then again, I've visited Detroit before.  Basically, Joel and Megan have given me what I need to get my head in the game.

We should all thank Joel and Megan Walther, then, for the creation of yet another blog.  God knows the world needs another blog.  We should also thank Joel and Megan, though, for the creation of a blog of someone who is now finally hot on the trail of becoming a famous writer.  Here I go, folks.  Hope you enjoy the ride... and hope you keep in mind how cool it is to know someone before they become famous so you can say later, "I knew that guy before he became famous!"