Text and Hubris

When I was 11, I wrote a story about a dragon, a scorpion, and a young woman. It was awful in that way that all middle school stories seem to be. It was all action, no description, filled with clumsy, silly lines that kept the text from every hitting a decent stride. I loved that story, though.  I worked on it every day. It was mine. Almost twenty-five years later, I am still playing with that story. By now, it is a strange, convoluted fantasy/sci-fi epic that has changed and grown almost as much as its author. Even now, it plays out in my head in those moments before sleep or in those quiet times during the day when my mind has a moment to wander.

I wrote the first part of that story in a yellow notebook my mother bought me. I wrote in the first person and I was proud because I had just learned what first person meant. It was my fantasy journal, a mixture of pretend and creation that suited me so well at the time.

That summer of that year I went to scouting camp and I brought my notebook with me. I was promised some quiet time and I thought that I might have the chance to write. I was dreaming about being an author, someday, and I imagined that this was how they started. I was young, still thinking about options and possibilities. I forgot about the accommodations: small tents and cots with nosy tent-mates.

There was an argument between myself and another boy from my tent. I can’t tell you what we argued over. The topic is lost to me, dead. I forgot it the instant he sneered and mentioned something I had written in my little yellow notebook. It undid me in a way I never expected. They had taken my story. They trashed something that I had built and loved, and I had no clue what to say or do.

I swore at him. I never swore. I grew up in a household where swearing was unimaginable and I swore. I was so angry there were in tears my eyes and I kept swearing. My tent-mates only found this amusing but it was the most damning act I could think of at the time. I stormed off and from that point forward all I wanted to do was go home.

When I got home, I sealed that little notebook away and I never showed it to anyone. It is lost now. A victim of a childhood spent moving. I quit Scouts. I still wrote but in quiet places where my notebooks were safe.

I still fight with that angry little boy, today. He is my biggest critic. His fear and anger sits in my chest. It is an anchor. It is the reason I still do what I do instead of doing what I love. Every day, I get up and I tell the boy that we have to keep going and we do. He rails and screams and swears and the going is slow and agonizing but we keep going. He lists the failures, the falls, and all the mistakes. He mentions that camp and the sneers and I tell him I am so sorry that happened, but I can’t stay there anymore. So I wake up tomorrow and I try again. I am not sure where this ends up, but I still struggle and that must mean something.

At least, I hope that it does.

Courtney and I took the opportunity of a quiet day to visit Micawbers Book Store in St. Anthony. I enjoyed wandering the small shop and picking from a nicely curated selection of texts. As I did so, I was reminded why these independent stores are such an important part of our literary culture. It’s not because they sell books. There are a myriad of places where the sale of books, in many forms, occurs. Instead, these small stores foster community and feed the connection between the reader and the author. As we made our purchases and bantered amiably with the salesmen, I felt a bit of that connection. It was something I sorely missed.

I was spoiled in Iowa City. Prairie Lights and the Writers’ Workshop made finding the literary community in that city a breeze and the fact that I was immersed in it for much of my time at college only made it even easier. One of the major lessons I learned in my time there was that great writers come from great communities. We spend our lives learning from one another. Everything that I write is filtered through the lessons and techniques that I learned not only from incredible teachers but from fellow students as well. Without them, my time would have been sorely wasted. In a sense, I believe this is true of all art. It thrives in communities of people. It grows and evolves through rigorous discussion and critique. In Iowa City, I had that and more.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t stay there, forever. Now, that I am moved and settled in, I start again. I must find that community. My original plan had been to find it at the University of Minnesota’s creative writing program but with the move and the new job and all the chaos of the last year, that deadline slipped away. I may try next year, but I certainly don’t plan to stay idle that entire time. If I do get the opportunity to attend, I would certainly like to have a community of writers and thinkers already there to help me prepare.

Luckily, stores like Micawber’s give me an excellent place to start. Well, that and a wonderful collection of poems by James Wright and Colson Whitehead’s Zone One. Let’s just say that the visit was more than worthwhile.

If you do know of any local literary hot-spots in the Twin Cities, please feel free to let me know. I am looking forward to forging new connections and building community up here. It is always a challenge getting started, though.

For many years, I have been a bit of a Scrooge about Christmas. This isn’t out of any direct dislike for the time of year, but rather for all of the chaos and high-stress emotions that seem to follow it. Every year, all I see are people racing to fill present requests, visit family, hit the office party, cook the perfect Christmas dinner while still attempting to carry a full load of year-end work in their professional lives. With all the activity and stress, people wind themselves into a frazzled mess that doesn’t fully settle until the bitter winds of January are well in swing. Even worse, Christmas and its associated holidays tend to focus our attention on the most unfortunate aspects of our lives. It reminds us of how little we have, how strapped we are for time, and how lonely we can feel. This, it seems to me, is not the best reason to have a holiday.

All of that is true, of course. Nothing stated above is exactly news to anyone who looks around during the holidays. What I wasn’t as willing to admit, though, is that it is also a frighteningly comfortable rationalization. The plain truth is that I used to love this holiday even with all of its associated stress and struggle. Taking aim at the stress caused by season may have afforded me a position of rational strength, but it hid something deeper. For me, something had changed.

This year, as I sat in my apartment and looked out over the city, I began to realize what that change was. My epiphany was born from the fact that this is the first time in my life that I have ever returned somewhere. Usually, I just move on. Being here, now, is the closest I will ever have to coming home. Most of my childhood was spent in Minnesota. I grew up with a single mother and money was always hard to come by. Our struggles did not end with the arrival of Christmas. Nothing magically changed. Oh, we never starved and my mother was always able to get something for us under the tree, but presents were never the highlight of the holiday. Our highlights came from an entirely different source and for me, well, it’s something I never thought about before. My mother happened to be a devout Christian and she was determined that we understand that Christ was the center of the holiday. She understood that denying us Santa or cursing the secular aspects of the season would only push us away. Instead, she merely included aspects of her own that settled in next to Santa and were every bit as important to us as the Christmas tree. She treated us to a series of recorded stories about Christmas from a special set designed just for the holidays. Every night we would gather, mark down the days until Christmas and listen to another story. Then as the days grew closer the celebrations both at home and in the Church would increase. For me, Christmas meant midnight candlelight services, songs and chants, and all the assorted ritual that my protestant church felt was appropriate.

And there, there was the difference. Christmas used to be about connection. Connection reinforced through rituals that stretched back through the ages. There was meaning in that. A meaning that I had lost.

Of course, I am not the same boy I once was and while I confess a deep appreciation for the sense of ritual and history the Church provides, I cannot say I am ready to throw aside my own hard-learned lessons and return. Instead, I am seeking to reconnect with that sense of ritual. Perhaps, in this return there is also a chance at finding a way to see these holidays as a moment of celebration and relaxation. Rather than panicking about the small things or worrying about the physical pieces of detritus that fill up our lives, I am content to spend the day with my wife in quiet contemplation remembering a year that had it shares of victories and losses. I will think of my mother and my father and theirs before them. I will remember the past and welcome the future.

And all of a sudden, I am not feeling as Scrooge-like anymore.

Happy Holidays to you all!

Yes, I live. You can all be thankful! This has been a trying time, but as with all trying times, I have learned a few things about who and what I am.

Sometimes, I swing so far between pendulums that I lose focus of the fact that there is a middle ground.

That and I am possessed of too many dreams and not enough of time.

So I spent time prioritizing, and then— like some strange exhibitionist— I decided to post it. I’m posting this because many of my readers are friends with an active interest in my life, but also because I it speaks to how I think as a person and what I believe to have value. While personal, nothing here is that personal, and I welcome input on any of it from friend and casual reader alike.

The Store:

I have been dreaming about a book/game store for pretty much half my life. Of course, this store is merely a metaphor for connectivity, community, and independence. It took me almost as long to realize that. I love the idea and if the opportunity presents itself, I will jump at it. That said, there are many ways to accomplish some dreams. Most of all, I want to work for myself and maintain connection to a community of creative and active individuals. This is one of those rules in my life. A rule that’s been drilled into my head since I was a child. Things don’t matter; people do. It’s funny. The older I get, the truer this becomes.

Post-Grad:

This is the big one and, potentially, the most difficult. I would love to pursue a doctorate in Comparative Lit. at the University of Minnesota. Reading through the program was thrilling and, honestly, I want it so bad I can taste it. It can’t happen this year, though. I have 20 days to get everything in and, frankly, we are still in the process of moving. Even if we were settled, meeting that time frame would be nearly impossible. I am not sure if there is a way to really make this work. I am looking at it, though, and trying to figure out a way.

There is a low-residency MFA program through Goddard which I am considering as well. I like the fact that it requires both critical and creative work and requires a teaching practicum. I would be breaking the sacred rule of MFA programs (never pay), but in reality this would work out better financially than attending the MFA program at the University of Minnesota. This is partially a shame because I love the Minnesota program, but I need to do what works best for me in the long term. Of course, the deadline for Minnesota MFA program is in 5 days which is completely impossible.

The important thing to note here is that I refuse to give up on Post-Grad. When I went back, I said I would go through to a terminal degree and I will, no matter what. I owe myself that. What this really means is that I am looking at all options but the sooner I start a program, the better.

Technology:

I realized my error here and, ostensibly, I may still be making it. I love technology. I hate how most organizations implement and manage it. Now, I am still working for a large corporate machine in Minnesota, but I am back to working on and being paid to stay on the cutting edge of technology. Hell, it’s practically a part of my job title. I felt I was burning out and I was. I was burning out on corporate politics, on working on projects that were scrapped or never used, or even worse underfunded and still expected to meet impossible expectations. This wasn’t the technology’s fault. I don’t even really know who to blame because the same thing happened when I left the corporate world (I just got paid a lot less to deal with the same issues). I think it comes from a dysfunctional approach in how most people deal with technology. I can write pages on this and probably will at a later date. Suffice it to say, it’s a silly mistake to blame technology for the problems caused by those who use it.

The truth is, I believe in the power of technology to transform lives. I always have. Right now, we are in the midst of an ongoing battle to protect our evolving connected landscape from censorship in the name of capitalism. This is nothing new, but SOPA and its descendants must be fought not only with words, law, and protest, but with technology as well. Before my hiatus, I spoke a lot of Diaspora. They have had some struggles recently and my heart nearly broke with the news of Ilya’s passing. That said, the one thing that Diaspora has proven to me is that there are thousands, nay tens of thousands, of smart, eloquent and dedicated people who are willing to build the tech to protect against these incursions. This has not only renewed my interest and passion for technology, it has helped me focus it. I was anxious to get involved with Diaspora and was just starting to ramp up when everything collapsed in Iowa. As is evidenced by my complete silence, this shut me down hard. Now, things are starting to go the right way. I am going to get settled in Minnesota. Then I have some real decisions to make on where I spend my free time.

I am not running from technology anymore, though. I am going to embrace it as part of my final destination and a key to my creative and graduate work in whatever form that work takes.

So, there you have it. More lessons as the next chapter of my life steadily begins to take focus. Things are moving slowly but steadily and I am really getting excited for what comes next. I have a job that I think I am going to really like; school is on the horizon; and I will have a chance to write in a space that has always been good for me creatively.

All-in-all, It’s good to be moving in the right direction again.