Today, as the first significant snow falls, I find myself wishing that it was July once again, that the sun was warm, that I was on the bow of a sailboat heading towards Cascais.
Summer seems so far away right now but, when I look at this picture, I can almost feel the gentle rocking of the waves and taste the salt water on my lips.
In his treatise on the power of persistence and the potential for resurrection, the philosopher Mr. Eminimen states, "Pardon me if I'm a cocky prick."
I am not an arrogant person but, when I started the Foreword program at the Loft at the beginning of this year, I told Deborah, "I don't need two years to write a book. It will probably only take me 6 months and I'm not sure what I'll do with the rest of my time in the program."
Yes, I actually said that. Aloud. The entire statement screams "cocky prick".
I was caught up in my excitement and I was naive. I thought that I would take some of the best material from this blog and tweak it here and add a few details there and then - BAM! I'd have a book.
I was wrong.
I have been working and writing for 11 months now and have drafts of a handful of personal essays. It took me two months to finish a draft of one essay. A draft. And I know that it is going to require a great deal more work. I've learned a lot and I understand now what it really means to take a piece of writing deeper, to draw more meaning from it, to craft it into something beyond a simple story. It's hard. It's daunting. I get discouraged. Somedays, I wonder if I'll ever actually finish a book at all.
Blogging provides such immediate satisfaction. I write something and people comment and I get positive reinforcement from the exchange. Right now, I am working alone. I write and I get critical feedback but it's different. It feels a little lonely.
I have always struggled to remain in the present moment. I focus on the end result. I want to skip ahead. But I can't. Every time I put words on the page, I am reminded that I have to do the hard work, that I'm the only one that can push this project towards the end I envisioned. There is no easy way out for me this time. I hate life lessons.
This is all to say that I am humbled. To quote Mr. Eminem once again, "...but from now on I'm refusing to ever give up."
“Where are you from?” This has to be one of the most frequently asked questions. It is the starting point between two strangers, indicative of the need to put us in our more literal places. Sometimes, I want to lie. I want to say I’m from Des Moines or St. Louis. I could pass as being from either of those places but could never pass as someone from Dallas or Atlanta – my accent is all wrong. Dallas or Atlanta would be the more daring choices, of course, but then I’d have to make up a story about how I lost my accent and that is just too much lying.
In reality, I can’t lie at all. When a stranger asks me anything, I answer and I tell them the truth. This is a character flaw. When I was 3 days past my due date with my first child, a stranger in an elevator asked me when I was due and I told her the due date that had passed. She asked me what the sex of the baby was and I told her. She asked me if I’d chosen a name and I told her the name. Throughout this entire conversation, I kept wondering why a stranger would ask so many questions. The bigger questions, however, is really why I would answer them.
When someone asks, “Where are you from?” I say, “I’m from Kansas City”. I let them make assumptions from that. Few people outside of the Midwest know that there are two Kansas Cities – one in Missouri and one in Kansas. Kansas City, Missouri is a big city filled with big buildings and lights and art galleries and people. You can see it as you approach it. Kansas City, Kansas is smaller and indistinct. You can’t see it from the highway. You could pass through and never know you were there.
I’m from Kansas City, Kansas. I’ll tell you that if you ask for specifics. If you don’t, I’ll let you let you place me anywhere.
