“Whispering in a Well”

I'm supposed to be working on my resume, but every time I sit down at the computer to unwrap that turd and get a good whiff of it I find myself stalling.  Where to begin?  Like any strenuous exercise it's best to start with a warm up.  So I browse through my private scrap heap of ideas and spend the next hour or ten trying to frankenstein something together.  The resume will wait, some ideas will not.

When I’m done assembling I have a choice; float it out onto Facebook and hope that it slowly comes to life, or stash it away again with my collection of random ideas and misfit toys.  Either way another perfectly good morning goes by with no progress on the job front.  But not all of that time is wasted.

I write.  There, I said it.   I've been working on a short story collection for years now. Originally I thought it would contain views from my classroom.  I even had two working titles:  “My Life in Lilliput,” or “Teaching:  Redemption on Installments.”  But I don't teach anymore. For years I loved the job but for some reason I rarely committed the uplifting moments to paper.  Most of my stories were heavy stick-to-the-ribs sketches - the kind that stay with you.  

Last fall after I resigned I wrote several pieces about political extremism and the presidential election, but the news cycle moved so quickly that before I got a chance to digest what was happening, to actually make sense of it and put it into words, the rest of the world had already moved on.   Nobody wants to read old news.  Journalists can sprint from one story to the next without losing their breath but I'm not a journalist or a sprinter.  I'm more like a through hiker.  I'm slow.  And even I'm not stupid enough to put that work on Facebook.  I'd rather think the most of my friends and remain silent than have my thoughts drowned out by the  rumbling of trolls scrambling out from under bridges.

This summer Jenny and I took a trip out west and I was determined to chronicle it in more than just photographs. I wanted to bring back the stories from the road. We had a blast and as I started recording some of the highlights I came to realize something. After years of modeling writing for school children I’d  developed my own voice. I just needed stories worth telling.  Several people told me that I should take up travel writing. How awesome would that be? But that's not realistic.  It’s a little like eating Chinese food:  I enjoyed it but  was always hungry for more.  And who can afford to eat out every night?

After we got back from our trip and I finished writing my road stories I found myself back in a funk. No inspiration at home and still not ready to jump into that turd of a resume, I found myself digging through my old journals looking for something.  I knew I was mining my own slag heap but you never know when you’ll discover an overlooked diamond.  I'd settle for a few good flints.

Don’t expect to see a book anytime soon.  It may never be complete.  It’s kind of like writing a symphony that’ll never be performed; I’m writing it for myself and for now that’s enough.  It's dangerous to admit that I've got a book lurking around in this head of mine but it's there.  It’s just in very small pieces.

So what’s your story and when are you going to start to tell it?  When are you going to ditch the little Hallmark cards and actually say something authentic?  With YOUR voice?  With YOUR photos?  It’s better to say something while you’re alive.  You’ll be a lot longer dead . . .