One Keystroke At a Time
I've always enjoyed the writing process. The idea that you can begin with a blank slate and just create something is simply the most exhilarating thought that I can possibly have. That, of course, was born of a love that I had for reading as a child, and the simple thought that someday I might be able to do that very thing - create something out of nothing - that meant something to someone.
The best thing about all of it, too, is that you really can never become perfect at it. That is wonderful for my eat-the-whole-bag-of-food personality - which deserves a side story by way of explanation.
Years and years ago my father's cousin, Marian Fricano, the former professional baseball player, went away on vacation. He asked his teenage son to make sure the dog was fed while they were gone. Not wanting to handle the task each day, his son simply opened up the bag of food for the dog, who proceeded to nearly eat to death. I remember the story and how angry Marian was as he relayed the particulars to my father. I often think of that dog as I consider my own to excess personality quirks.
Anywho...I'm writing again, but not enjoying the process even one tiny bit. Things are going well, and I promise you that I will capture the spirit of my brother and make you laugh as hard as you've ever laughed when considering a life, but there is one other thing going on.
For the first time ever, I'm telling a story that I don't want anything to do with, and it is completely tearing a hole in other parts of my life. For years and years I've been able to leave the story aside as I've walked away from the computer. Sure it sits in your head and percolates as you do other things, but it doesn't rule the day.
Not this time. The chaos of every day life is gnawing at me. The idea that everything has to be in the perfect place before I can write is eating me alive. A misplaced shoe, a leaf in the back hall, a penny in my silver tray. It's all hammering, hammering, hammering away.
My wife knows. I know she does. I also know she understands that I'm getting there and she's supporting it, standing by it, and living through it.
Now only if I can!
The best thing about all of it, too, is that you really can never become perfect at it. That is wonderful for my eat-the-whole-bag-of-food personality - which deserves a side story by way of explanation.
Years and years ago my father's cousin, Marian Fricano, the former professional baseball player, went away on vacation. He asked his teenage son to make sure the dog was fed while they were gone. Not wanting to handle the task each day, his son simply opened up the bag of food for the dog, who proceeded to nearly eat to death. I remember the story and how angry Marian was as he relayed the particulars to my father. I often think of that dog as I consider my own to excess personality quirks.
Anywho...I'm writing again, but not enjoying the process even one tiny bit. Things are going well, and I promise you that I will capture the spirit of my brother and make you laugh as hard as you've ever laughed when considering a life, but there is one other thing going on.
For the first time ever, I'm telling a story that I don't want anything to do with, and it is completely tearing a hole in other parts of my life. For years and years I've been able to leave the story aside as I've walked away from the computer. Sure it sits in your head and percolates as you do other things, but it doesn't rule the day.
Not this time. The chaos of every day life is gnawing at me. The idea that everything has to be in the perfect place before I can write is eating me alive. A misplaced shoe, a leaf in the back hall, a penny in my silver tray. It's all hammering, hammering, hammering away.
My wife knows. I know she does. I also know she understands that I'm getting there and she's supporting it, standing by it, and living through it.
Now only if I can!
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PS your week without me is over.