I am unashamedly happy to be sitting right where I am, at the very beginning of my story for you. While I am likely the only one to notice the lapse, there was nothing from me last weekend. If I really cared that much, I could go back into the archive and see the last time I let an entire week go by without posting a story.
From the time I first started writing my quasi-autobiography for my grandson nearly ten years ago, I was seriously nervous about quitting this brand new discipline at the slightest provocation. Some time during the year and a half process of writing that book, I would take a night off and on vary rare occasion two days would go by, but I would become terribly nervous over the lapse.
At a very early age, I knew some kind of creative force lurked within, but I did not grow up in an environment where that kind of thing was nurtured. The closest I got were piano lessons, a parental, cookie cutter attempt at instilling a cultural sensibility, whether you gave a shit or not. My brother was pretty good, but I totally sucked and any thought of competition was miles from my mind. I quit quick.
In the world of broadcast advertising, where I did twenty years of hard time, writing always came easy, but I never thought about really writing, even though I would get occasional encouragement. “ Did you ever think about writing a book?” I never dreamt about having any kind of internal vocabulary, let alone anything at all I would write about. It was like “writing a book” was thought to be as easy as going to the bathroom. While I was very regular, I never confused the two.
Fear of dying can be a very potent motivator. The passage of time is like a boa constrictor, contorting you into spaces you never imagined possible before. I was not a kid with a good fast ball. I was both Jewish and average height, so basketball was not the pathway to fulfillment either. I was pretty smart, but the slide rule was an ancient glyph, holding secrets I could not decipher. I clearly had neither the physical or intellectual prowess to rise above the mediocre slime of my beginnings. What is a boy to do? I was really good at being popular and never really thought of it as a talent and I still don’t.
So, I had this kind of gift, enabling me to be out there. I have no idea who pulls the strings, how things happen or why they happen. I know it has to have its roots when I was a kid, or maybe I was even born with a chromosome configuration that gifted me with the ability to be out front. As youngster in the playground, I was the charity case that got chosen for either right field or catcher, even left out of handball doubles. Oh, yeah, I also forgot to mention I wasn’t a good dancer at all. Even skipping a grade didn’t seem to get in the way, though.
It has taken all these years to put me in a place where I think it is my job to share my stories and to bear witness to world events on my podcast. Now, I even get to create a wonderful example of how two guys from incredibly different places can share their humanity, crossing barriers of time, race and circumstance. Foster and Feinstein is my latest co-creation and I confess to actually being proud of it. I know it sounds crazy, but I think I was tapped on the shoulder a long time ago, whispered to in a language I was too young to understand that the time would come for me to play my own piano.
Last weekend, I was set and psyched to write another automatically, timed story and it was going to be all about fatherhood, coinciding with the Hallmark holiday. It was going to be my multi-word tribute to this contrived idolatry of the shallow, misguided myth of the Perfect Father.
Being seriously neurotic, I followed the prescribed rituals of my blog writing regimen. Over the course of two sessions, I banged out around 1,300 words on being a son to a father, a father to two sons and even a grandfather to one grandson. When I finished, I had the very familiar feeling of both accomplishment and relief. I knocked out another one and kept the streak alive.
Sunday morning rolled around and that is when I always look at what I have written for the last time and often make corrections that thankfully rescue the story from being a sloppy embarrassment. I read it and I read it again and again. I didn’t like it at all and it made me feel very uncomfortable. You know, I will effortlessly make a fool of myself in my stories. It matters to me to be honest and anything less is crap. However, I have purposely avoided drawing other people into this exercise of mine each week.
I have saved the life-support story from last week, knowing I could pull the plug once I finished this next one. In the end, I didn’t want to write about Daniel, my father, a guy I barely knew, who abruptly died when I was only nine. What right do I have to explain his behavior, because it makes for a good story? The answer for me is none. I can’t write about being a father without invading the privacy of my sons and I have no right to do that either. The least benign of the relationships is with my grandson, but the same applies to him.
I decided right then I would let the last week go by. I would vainly like to think there are countless others waiting for my stories each Sunday and this screaming vacuum would be spiritually crushing for all of them. Then, there was a part of me that felt relieved. I let this self-imposed, dumb-ass schedule go by and absolutely nothing happened. I took my Sunday motorcycle ride and went up Kokee, getting incredibly drenched on the way down.
My biggest fear has always been this writing thing of mine is kind of fake and I could just stop and never miss it, because I am not any good at it anyway and no one gives a shit. You know, while I was never chosen first in any team sports, I never doubted for one minute that I had this thing and I do. It has just taken so many years to get here. I am so grateful to you, because without you choosing me for right field, who would know I was here?
Me and You.
My podcast: Mind and the Motorcycle
https://www.buzzsprout.com/1292459
Foster and Feinstein on Youtube