Prompt 2 - First Time In Your Life

In another installment of 'What did I do in that writing class,' I'll share the second prompt and what I wrote that day. For our second prompt, we were asked to write about the first time we experienced something in our lives. I was initially tempted to write about what it's like to live under the pseudo-authoritarian regime of a thin-skinned, mysogynistic megalomaniac and Grade A pathological liar but that seemed too fantastical, too unbelievable and this was a course in non-fiction writing (and yet here we are in Trumplandia, but I digress). So I went with something I know - on becoming a dad for the first time:

I became a father for the first time 27 years ago. I was young, some would argue that we were too young to become parents. We were barely out from under our own parents' roofs. The thought of becoming a father, though, was mostly exhilarating, until the day of our daughter's birth. It suddenly became an all-consuming terror. As my wife labored to deliver our daughter that day, I was filled with an overwhelming paralyzing fear, with questions assaulting me at every moment. The pain I was feeling had to be on par with the pain that gripped my wife with each contraction. It wasn't. But doubt plagued me with each of those contractions. How could I care and provide for this little girl who was about to be born when previously one of the most pressing questions in my life had been collar up or down? How would I handle this? How was I going to care for her needs?

Once she arrived, the nurse placed my daughter into my trembling arms. I took in a long, deep breath and looked into her tiny eyes. I, for better or worse, was one of the first people she was seeing. I wanted her to know she was in good hands. As I looked into her eyes with a growing sense of awe, something in me snapped me into our new reality. I touched her little hand and said, "Hi. I'm your dad. And we're going to figure this out all together." That's been my unspoken motto as a dad ever since. 27 years later and two more children, I'd like to think I've figured a few things out about being a dad. It's still a work in progress.

I don't think I've ever been more scared of anything in my life than I was the day I became a dad for the first time. Writing about it a few weeks ago brought back a flood of feelings - fear, awe, excitement, terror, joy. The funny thing is that if I had the chance to do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing.

#storieseverywhere

Prompt 1 - Your Name

I recently wrote about my first class in writing in many years. Since that post though, I've been reading more than I've been writing. Rereading George Orwell's "1984' in our current political dumpster fire, regime, environment has me transfixed, wound up, and terrified all at once, which is never a good mix.

Taking a break from Orwell's eerily prophetic and unsettling writing, I've been reviewing my notes from that class and the things I wrote that day. For better or worse, over the course of the next few posts here in the Den, I'm going to share them with you.

In the first few minutes of the class, we were given our first writing assignment. As we would quickly learn, each assignment that day would come in the form of a prompt. These prompts were meant to kick start our thinking and writing. Our first prompt that day was to write about our name - first, middle, last, or nickname. I chose my middle name and here's what happened when I put pen to paper:

Wade is my middle name. I'm named for my mother's family. My grandfather, Mac Wade, was a sheriff straight out of an old Hollywood studio's central casting office. He was also a legendary story teller. The stories he told at one point must have been true but as he aged and retold them time and again, details morphed. With each telling, some details became more fantastic, while others simply disappeared. No matter how they changed though, it was clear that that these stories meant something to him. With each story he told, he was teaching me about the power of personal stories. Our stories are who we are and our stories matter.

Writing these few sentences was simply exhilarating. They may not seem like much but I was sitting in a class with a dozen strangers, who like me, weren't quite certain about what lay in store that day. Would the writing stack up? What if I have to read this aloud? What if I can't think of anything to write? As that first prompt was given to us, I knew instantly what I would write about and I wasn't going to worry about my writing stacking up. I remembered what my late grandfather had taught me about stories. Stories matter. It was time to start sharing mine.

#storieseverywhere

This is PRECISELY how it went down in class yesterday.

In a few posts here in the Den, I've pointed out that if I could have made a living that would have supported my family, I would have been a full-time university student. Seriously, I would never have left. I loved going to school at the university level (high school, not so much). However, after seeing my share of guys in their mid- to late-30s dragging themselves to class, living in married student housing with children in middle school, I knew the full-time student gig was not for me.

So off to the big, bad work world it was for me and there I've been ever since. Over the years, I've thought about going back to school. I'd had no advanced degree in mind. I just wanted to go back to school for the opportunity to challenge myself and learn something new. I've done some executive education related to my job and even spent some time back on campus (Cornell was pretty cool) but that's been the extent of it. I've tried to keep my writing skills up to snuff through my rantings writings in the Den and I've enjoyed that but I've wondered what more could I do to improve my writing and see where this could take me.

Yesterday, I took that first step to finding the answers to those questions. Having heard some good things about the Gotham Writers Workshop, I reviewed their curriculum and decided to give it a go. I took my first class in more than 27 years when I sat down in a one-day course called Personal Essay Writing. I squeezed (my body is not the slender temple it was the last time I was in a classroom setting) into the all-in-one desk / chair / torture device, took at my pen and a pad of paper (keeping it old school), and steeled myself for a day of learning. What a day it was!

Prompts
Structure
Voice
Pacing
Meaning
Show, don't tell

As we wrote six different times throughout the day, I was in heaven! I wanted to read everywhere one of my samples just to get the perspective of the other students as well as our instructor. I didn't because I had to recognize that it wasn't all about me. I found myself taking copious notes throughout the day and getting excited about what's next in terms of my writing and the stories I can tell. It was fascinating to hear what the other students had written. I was amazed at the skill shown as well as the fearlessness. Their stories were moving, funny, and insightful.

The day ended all too soon but that spark I felt is now growing. I'm wanting to set aside time throughout the week now to work on a prompt or two. I'm looking at other classes and opportunities to become a better writer. I'm more and more convinced of the power of stories. My new favorite hashtag comes from Gotham Writers, #storieseverywhere. Stories reveal what is common to us. They reveal our good and our bad. They reveal our humanity.

Stories are everywhere. I'm looking forward to telling a few more of mine. When will you tell yours?

In its 10th year

I was feeling nostalgic the other day and went back to my first post here in the Den - December 15, 2007 - and realized I am now in my tenth year of blogging.

I guess there's something to be said for that, right? I'll let you be the judge of what it is that should be said. Somehow I've managed to stick with this little piece of the interwebs longer than I've ever stayed with one company. We've never lived in one place longer than seven years since we've been married and yet this blog has managed to enter its tenth year.

As it enters its tenth year, I'm taking a bit of a different approach to how I post here in the Den. In the last couple of years, I felt compelled to get at least ten posts in a month. There was no reason for it other than my own self-imposed goal. That goal fell apart when I took a hiatus (thank you  obscene cruise ship internet fees) last year as the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML took a much-needed vacation. Once we returned, I found it hard to get back in the groove. None of your worlds fell apart and neither did mine as a result of my less frequent posting. So this year, I'm not going to worry about  a certain number of monthly posts. I'm going to write and post as I see fit. The content is going to change much either, so you've been warned.

One thing that I do hope will improve is the writing itself. Inspired by a conversation with two friends (one over lunch in Dallas and another while we were back in Chicago last month), I've decided to pursue some writing courses. I'm starting with a seminar with the Gotham Writers Workshop next month and we'll see where it leads. I'm kind of excited, if I'm honest.

Here's to seeing what this tenth year will bring!

Emerging

As the month of September drew to a close, I lamented that I was feeling devoid of thoughts about what I should continue to post here in the Den. I had no idea that this musing was going to turn into a month-long absence.

I'd like to say that I've spent this month off soul-searching and delving into the recesses of my mind for more content. Rest assured, I have not. I'd like to say I've taken some courses in the fine art of blogging to improve my minuscule piece of the Interweb. Rest assured, I have not.

Honestly, I've spent a lot of time lamenting the fact that now that The RM is home, I don't have that content to share. I loved those weekly updates. Loved them. Further, I've spent too much time comparing myself to other bloggers who are far better writers than I that have eloquently and passionately shared their perspectives on the upcoming U.S. presidential election / potential Civil War (thanks for that dog whistling Trump fascists). This whole thing of comparing myself to others has long been a crippling weakness for me (stories about my reacting badly to those comparisons is enough fodder for a year of blogging) and you'd think at the age of 50, I would have figured a way out of that trap. I haven't. How's that for progress?

Progress or not, it's time to emerge from my self-imposed time in the dark. It's time to come back into the light, as it were. I'm not changing the world here. This is not the place to find a cure for cancer. It's just a place where I write stuff. And it's time to write again.

Devoid

This is me and the blog right now.

Devoid.

That delightful adjective describes my current writing state. I feel like the well from which I write is empty and is wanting to say the least.

You would think, given all that's going on around us, that I could find something to write about. The recent U.S. presidential debate? Not sure I can add anything to the hysteria associated with it. Besides after my detour into Trumplandia's raging chasm o'hate, I'm sitting out for a little while. Life now that I'm 50? Nothing has changed, so nothing to talk about, at least for now. That'll change with my first yet to be scheduled colonoscopy fiesta. The stunningly patient and mighty fine SML has already thrown down the mighty hammer of opposition on my ill-conceived idea of live blogging it. You can thank her (and the anaesthetist) now or later, it's up to you.

If nothing else, at least you know now that there's going to at least one post coming about the joys of a colonoscopy. So you have that to look forward to. In the meantime, I'm going to take comfort in this  piece of wisdom for the late American poet and writer Charles Bukowski:

"writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all"

Mad at Life's Histories

Last night, the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and I gathered with other members of our church for an evening of worship and teaching. For whatever reason, and I lay that fault squarely at my own feet, I wasn't agog with excitement about this meeting. The day had been extraordinarily dreary (yeah, thanks for that Mother Nature, you never-ending shehag) and after this endless winter, perhaps one.more.day of dreary was wearing me down. So the thought of a couple hours of meetings wasn't exactly enticing.

Now, as the meeting opened, I was delighted to see the music on the program. We are fortunate to have a nationally known mezzo soprano, Tamara Mumford, in our congregation and she was a soloist at the meeting. Accompanied by a pianist and a cellist (that's about as crazy instrumental we get musically in our services, unless you count some of the organs with the fancy pants pre-recorded 'ringing bell' function), she killed it with my favorite arrangement of my favorite hymn. I am amazed by those blessed with incredible musical talent and am grateful for their willingness to share that talent. I reveled in the feelings that came along with the song. Yet, I still found myself getting distracted after that. My mind simply drifted.

It was during that empty-headed drifting when one of the main speakers mentioned 'being mad at life's histories.' That caught my attention and I immediately wished I could push 'rewind' on his full commentary. I was able to surmise that he was relating a story of someone who had been consumed by all the wrongs that had occurred in his/her life and how being mad at the past had made for a very unpleasant present. I've been ruminating over that statement - 'being mad at life's histories' - and what it means ever since.

As I've noted previously, our lives and how we live them are a series of chapters constituting the book of life that is each one of us. Not one of those books and the chapters within is the same. What happens to us in this life shapes those chapters. Thanks to things like forgiveness, we can edit some of the chapters as necessary. We can look back on those chapters and use them as learning touchstones. We should not use them as an albatross around our necks. I think that's why that statement from last night has stuck with me. There's no point in being mad at the past. By dwelling on it, we prevent ourselves from moving forward. We are no longer able to write our futures if we stay stuck on the issues from the past.

@quoteseverlasting.com

That's what is so great about these books that each of us is writing. We are writing them. The voice is yours. I'm not turning my life story over to some ghost writer in a smoky sweat shop in Manila (you think I'm kidding about that - check out how a lot of what you read in your newspaper is strung together now). I want to keep telling my story letting what I've learned in the previous chapters of my life influence my future chapters positively, not drag me down.

These books aren't 'put to bed' until our lives end. Can you imagine the library that awaits us? For a book nerd like me, it's a good thing forever is forever. That's lots of time to read all those stories.