The only thing worse than a blogger is an inconsistent blogger. Shame to him who shouts to the world, “Come revel in the minutiae of my life! …but only when I feel like it…which might be every other month…but anyway… Come glory in my Minutiae! Isn‘t my Minutiae fascinating?”
A number of things have conspired to keep me from writing. There’s the standard laziness. There’s the holiday season, moving into a new house and failed attempts at other writing projects.1 You can also safely assume that every writing session must thwart the ever present temptation to pick up my book and snuggle into a chair with my fleece Mizzou blanket. I can find any number of reasons not to write, which is a little strange because I get so energized by writing that sometimes I can't sleep.
While all of these factors played a minor role in my blogging absence, I began to recognize the presence of something deeper. Something from my history with writing. You see, I loved to write in high school and early college. Poems, essays, short stories, just about anything. I’d show them to my English teachers and friends wanting editing (err-affirmation). From my junior year in high school, to my sophomore year in college my words flowed freely. I was going to be the editor of my college creative writing journal. My comp professors would use my papers as examples. I was a writer.
I’m not sure when it happened. It might have been a stinging word of criticism or the realization that I wasn’t the best writer on Emporia’s campus. I'm not sure because it was a slow erosion and not one particular incident. But over time, that deeply critical voice began looking over my shoulder whenever I sat down to write. The voice could find no humor or joy in the trite wanderings of a high school boy making his way in the world. “Is not your entire portfolio a bit like a three year old who has stumbled upon a pair of cymbals?” he would suggest in a snobbish British accent. Every time I sat down to write he spoke firmly, “Don’t you think you will read this in a year and cringe like you do reading your high school ‘poetry?’” Or, "Have you seen people react to your singing (pause with a sneer).... do I need to connect the dots for you between your singing and your writing?" The thoughts were different and biting but they seemed to follow a similar theme; “Travis don’t ever, ever make yourself look stupid.”
It’s easy to mistake pride for, high standards or fear for, other interests. And with this voice banging away at the back of my skull even journaling became arduous and haphazard. I stopped writing and I didn’t miss it.
Luckily, this past summer, on a long beautiful bus ride through New Zealand, the desire stirred once again. My wife had fallen asleep and I leaned my head against the window exhausted from the day. I remember noticing a few distant snow covered peaks. In geologic time these mountains sprung up last night while the earth slept and this somehow makes every snow cap fresh and white like it's the first time snow has ever fallen there. About this time a quiet, gentle nudge, “What about writing again?” New Zealand mountains have a way of warding off critical voices. They are not welcome there and they seem to realize it. Beauty and truth are interconnected and to be surrounded by beauty is to be surrounded by stark truth. A seasoned liar doesn't come at you while surrounded by truth, the contrast is too great. He'd be a white mouse drooped into a fall forest. Even Grandpa Hawk sees him 6 miles away for exactly what he is.
Later on that same bus ride, a movie was playing and a character shared perhaps my favorite quote. It starts simply and builds, “It's not the critic who counts...” It struck me then that I love that quote not because I’m surrounded by critics but because I longed to turn off my own critic. I wanted to tell that voice that he counts for nothing. And so with tears in my eyes and this truth echoing between the freshness of snow and peaks and sky and the truth of New Zealand's young beauty, I decided I wanted to write again. Deeper still I wanted be rid of that voice.
Paul gave that part of him a name. He called it his flesh. I think it helps to name it. It helps in differentiating lies from truth. Heart from flesh. Somehow it helps in recognizing it when it's speaking. It's easier to call someone a liar who has a name.
I've named that part, Colonel Dumbass. Not because he has reached the sort of stature or respectability given to a colonels but simply because in the world of dumb asses he is their colonel. He shouts things and tries to sound authoritarian but really he's just a scared dumb ass. Unfortunately, he had much more to do with my absence from writing this semester than all of the other excuses combined. He is the excuse that all of the other excuses look to for affirmation.
Avada Kedavra colonel dumbass!2 A killing curse in your face, how does that taste? Will I look back on the above rhyme with horror tomorrow, and a year from now, and the year after that?
Yes. Yes I will.
Author Anne Lamott3 once said, "Perfectionism will ruin your writing, blocking inventiveness and playfulness and life force (these are words we are allowed to use in California)...In fact the only way I can get anything written at all is to write really, really shitty first drafts."
The willingness to be embarrassingly awful is pure glory. So here I am, back for the last quarter of the school year, ready to rise above my list of excuses, share my minutiae, and push colonel dumbass off a steep New Zealand cliff only to land on a jagged New Zealand glacier.
Thanks for coming back. More updates about the reading adventure I am on with my students, which is still going strong.
Happy reading.
-td
1. Can't quite get a hold of my thoughts on Mizzou leaving the big 12. It's a jumbled mess that even I can't follow.
2. And did you notice I didn't capitalize your name? That's right you've been demoted below all proper nouns including Spam and University of Kansas.
3. Please read some Anne Lamott quotes. A wonderful combination of hilarity and truth.
TD...welcome back! great truth! MSD
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