10 minutes of writing each and every day.
A few days from wrestle mania and I am prepping to throw the first party I’ve thrown in years. This and the painting of a hallway has me slipping in and out of consciousness… Another night where ten minutes mean very little.
Some Thoughts:
Movement is the key. In returning to AZ I recognized the cardinal (pun) difference between here and home (NYC) is movement. In New York people live in the street. People are out all day and night moving and doing and dancing and generating that frantic energy the city thrives on. Here in a state full of sleepy bedroom suburbs a much smaller percentage of people are moving and doing. Most are trying to make it through the day in order to get to their evening shows. I fell into that trap immediately and repeatedly once I returned. In fact the only things that kept me from disappearing into my couch were the mountain of work needing to be done and, more importantly, the awareness that I was falling back into bad rituals.
Tonight I broke the spell by climbing off the happy couch and painting a wall. I’ve long discussed painting parts of the house, even going so far as buying the supplies. Putting the paint on the wall was a huge step because it meant that I started a job that needs to be finished, and in some ways that jump started me to perform other needed chores.
I no longer feel like I am on the verge of something. I feel like I’ve rolled back down the hill and have to pick myself up and start climbing again–with a different path and plan to reach the summit. I also recognize that I need to incorporate ‘save points’ into that climb–moments of pure opportunity to reflect. I’ve gotten better at it, and reflection has made me aware of a great many things about myself and my life–including the obvious need for further reflection.
But enough about me. I think it is time I got back to blogging about things that mattered a bit more than just one spry fella.
Some Thoughts:
It is still so hard to talk about sports. As a former Cyclone I wretched at the one point loss in the first round of the tourney. It hurt. That particular Cyclone ball team had the best set of match ups to get to the round of 8 and even further. Instead the team seemingly overlooked a defensive-minded UAB team whose matchup zone defense was built to defeat versatile offenses like that of ISU. What state didn’t have was a true #1 scorer who could take the weight of the game himself, and that is what beat them. Now there are 16 teams left dancing and Kentucky still looks as strong as ever.
Back to football: Rex Ryan feels like Buffalo is his last shot at being a head coach. He may be right. If he doesn’t do well then he is done. Maybe he can be DC for the Jets… Still, I don’t think it happens. I’m still waiting for an RGIII draft day trade.
Truthfully professional sports have taken a backseat to the youth sports my kids play. In fact I get to see my son play tackle for the first time in a week or so. I’m stoked to see him perform at his peak and I hope he does well. I think it is more fun to watch him and the other kids play, because there is more purity in the game at that level–from fans and from players. There is no threat of a ‘dark stain’ on the career of a player for bad behaviors or TV worthy scandals to excite.
Some Thoughts:
The following posts were written and collected from Wednesday through Monday while I was in or traveling to NYC. Despite the Emerald City’s massive wireless state, I was very mobile and unable to access the internet stably enough to post. That’s on me, but it doesn’t mean I stopped writing… Here is Wednesday:
I debated about talking about my trip. The internet is pretty clear about not announcing you’ve left your place of residence for fear of being robbed. Fortunately, I left folks behind to tend to that, so I can talk about this: US Air is the worst airline on the planet. I’m saying this knowing that Malaysia air lost multiple planes over the course of a single year. They are still better than US Air.
The airline in questions is a cheaper solution to flying across the country. Whenever possible I use Southwest. I occasionally fly with Allegiant, but in so far as customer service and flight readiness goes, Southwest is king, and usually cheap, but not when it comes to flying to New York. I started my journey at 8:20 in the morning, preparing to board for a 8:58 flight that was scheduled to land at 4:54 Eastern time. The flight was cancelled. The airline claimed a runway at JFK had been shut down and as a result our little plane wouldn’t be able to land at JFK 5 hrs later. It was a half truth. Indeed the runway was being maintained, but there were other options the airline could’ve applied.
Here’s what they tried to do: Push everyone to a flight to Ohio that was leaving 6 hrs after our original time and from there wait six more hours in Ohio for a flight that would arrive in the city at 7 the next morning. I opted for the faster and equally circuitous route to charlotte and into Newark.
The result is 13 hrs of travel and a very worn out talislegger. More talks from the road will follow.
I am a better teacher than I am today. I am a better writer than I am today. I am the person I choose to be and I am proud of that man. I believe in who I can be as much as I did yesterday and tomorrow.
Part of my new morning ritual is to write and to read before I turn to television. I noticed that while in NYC I only watched TV twice. Sure, there were shows I could’ve caught but there was no need. There is so much excitement and entertainment in Gotham that the TV becomes a secondary thing. Not so in the suburbs where outside all is quiet. It is easy to fall into the routine of watching TV on the couch and remaining there indefinitely. There are certainly enough distracting shows to keep me going–for days at a time. I suppose this is where the term binge watching comes from. I feel like cutting the cord will help me in this regard, though it means telling my kids that they can no longer ‘record’ their favorite shows. Still, they too need to develop better rituals.
For me it starts with writing and reading–putting my mind in that space where I am reminded of the power of creativity. After comes the hard work. I intend to be more devotional to my job moving forward. I am fortunate enough to work in academia and, for the most part, not to be in a place where politics rule the day. It is still about the students and the learning and giving them what they deserve. For me it is largely about delivering a experience that is engaging, enjoyable, and academically fulfilling. I haven’t hit the stride I found at my last college before that was disrupted by administrative duties. I recognize I can’t get that stride back but instead have to find a new stride that matches who I am now and how I’ve evolved my understanding of teaching and learning. It is however the essence of the goal that mattes most. I am a better teacher than I am today.
Better at most things is the trajectory I prefer to have. I feel like when a person tops out they have nothing to do but get worse or step away. I see the getting worse aspect as much in teaching as I do in sports. I’m seeing it more and more in writing, and I recognize that some of the writers guilty of it see that in themselves. You can tell by the afterwords or the shift in the bio and often even the tone of the books. It isn’t a matter of burnout but instead flameout. The fuel is less or different or not there at all. I’m not at that point. I am a better writer than I am today.
All of this becomes about choice and dedication. I am willing to put in the work and pain needed to be that guy. It is a choice and a difficult one to stick to, because giving up is easy. The TV is waiting for me outside this door and it is so darn appealing. I’m not ready to give in though. I’m still developing, still trying, and still accepting who I am each step of the journey. I am the person I choose to be and I am proud of that man. I believe in who I can be as much as I did yesterday and tomorrow.
Every trip to New York is different. Every trip is a homecoming but home is different. I am different. As I move out of my thirties and into my forties I am starting to notice the wear and tear on my body and soul; the scars that I’ll bear with me to the grave. These are the marks and experiences that make me who I am, but sometimes the weight of doubt and regret manifests physically and in that fashion (or any other truly) is too much to bear.
Yes, I wish I’d done things differently. Turned left instead of right. Loved more; deeper. Written more. Believed. However, the truth is that the exact conditions of yesterday created the me who I love today. Reveling in that love and treating myself to the belief of that lasting love is the best gift I could ever receive. That being said, I want to make some proclamations.
I am a better teacher than I am today. I am a better writer than I am today. I am the person I choose to be and I am proud of that man. I believe in who I can be as much as I did yesterday and tomorrow.
The above is my new mantra. It is not a resolution for the new year, new life, or new age plateau. It is a reflection of the person I am evolving into and the best version of myself. It is a challenge to always get better and stronger and work harder and carry a piece of that New York grind with me at all times.
Afternoon snow painted a lazy haze over the city. I was due to meet my friends on Bleeker shortly, but from where I was on 135th and fifth, it felt like I’d have them waiting a long time. Across the Hudson was the 4/5 train station which presented a faster path to where I needed to be. Getting across the hudson happens only by boat or bridge. The closest bridge waited behind a gauntlet of traffic and blustery winter wind, rain, and snow. In the world of street numbers the journey was only from 135th to 138 and Grad Councourse, a route if by land should be nothing, but the bridge and highway traffic meant it was much more.
I’ve never been ashamed of being a sci-fi writer or a fantasy writer. This doesn’t mean that people haven’t tried to make me feel that way. The majority of writers I am or have been face to face with over the years are literary fiction authors (with a gentle dusting of YA and urban poetry. Many subscribe to the real in a way that is dismissive of the unreal. I’ve written in the past about how science fiction and even fantasy are still talking about the core ideas of what it means to be a human being and deal with difficult yet everyday situations. The fact that a guy like me likes to slather assault rifles and fire-breathing dragons on top of that should only add to the complexity of the prose. Rare is the sci-fi author who slips past the gauntlet of derision and self-doubt to become accepted on both sides of the writing spectrum—both as a commercial artist who ‘writes the sci fi’ and literary juggernaut whose work is to be considered canon for all of those who want to learn about what it means to write.
As the gulf between NY publishing and smaller MFA print runs grows, I find myself less interested in debating the legitimacy of my work and more concerned with producing writing I can be proud of. Recently I produced work I was not proud of. I allowed the pallor of distraction to overcome me and take from me the joy of what I love to do most. It was a dark stain on the project and a lesson to be remembered. Writing is a joy, but dealing with the life around writing is a chore. Writing is a joy, but the politics of writing suck. Writing is a joy yet putting your butt in that chair is the hardest thing you’ll do everyday.
As I moved through New York today it occurred to me that all my references are dated. This flashed through my mind last year when I showed people the city, but this year I feel more present in the city, having time to actually enjoy it and see the changes. Not everything is grand. Little facets of my home environment have changed just enough to be noticeable and make this home world seem as though I’ve been dropped into a parallel version of Harlem. Little things like the position of the couch in the living room of my childhood home, the position of Yankee Stadium on the horizon, fences lining the rooftops of buildings that never needed fences before.
With subtle change comes the more dramatic. The cultural energy of the place has changed and in some ways faded as the people who were part of the Harlem of my youth pass on and out of the city and often out of life itself to be replaced by a series of outsiders looking to make Harlem their own and create their own history here with seemingly little regard for what came before. The sociologist in me calls it gentrification. The businessman in me calls it eminent domain—though all that is being torn down are the families and history that shaped this place. The shells of the buildings remain intact with redrawn interiors cut free of rent control and thrust into a world of pricey Manhattan real estate. As a kid I took pride in knowing I could stroll through Harlem at night. Nowadays that action has no deeper meaning than being able to withstand the winter chill.
Times and places change. People change. The worlds of childhood look smaller and more distant in the lens of the present. I cling to the memories of where I group up as I cling to the memory of who and what that helped to shape me into.