Artistry With Words

“Hey, Bill, there are a couple roofing tiles about to fall off the garage roof.  Any idea how that happened?”

I had a real good idea how it happened. I had kicked them loose while jumping off the garage roof, something I was forbidden to do.  I knew it, and my dad, who had asked the question, knew it.  The only question remaining was this: do I tell the truth, and risk punishment, or do I try to b.s. my way through it, and risk worse punishment?

I knew I shouldn’t do it.  Hell, I’d been punished for doing it in the past.  But it was so much fun, climbing up on the roof and then jumping over to the neighbor’s yard, pretending to be Superman chasing the bad guys.  It just seemed, at the time, to be worth the consequences.  Facing my dad’s question, and his stern look, I was beginning to question my choice.

Grounded for a week . . . not bad . . .  could have been worse . . . could have been much worse . . .

I’ve always been that way.  Risk is usually pushed aside in favor of the experience.  It probably explains why I’ve had so many jobs.  Sure, it would have been nice to work at the same place for forty years and collect a great retirement, but at the same time it would have been dull as hell.

It also explains why I’m a writer today.  The safe bet would have been to remain a teacher until retirement, but eight years ago I laughed at the same bet and declared to all the world that I was a freelance writer, hear me roar!!!

And it all worked out, and one reason why it did work out is because I trust in my abilities.

I’m not sure what the central message of this post is. There are several, actually.  Maybe you’ll find one which speaks to you.  In the meantime, I have more roofs to jump off of.

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

Tags: writing tips

No talent there . . . or is there?

I’m adopted!  Many of you knew that already, but for the sake of this post I needed to repeat it here and now.  I’ve never known who my biological parents were.  I was adopted out of the foster system when I was nine months old and that was that.

About a year ago I did that DNA testing thing with Ancestry.com.  I wasn’t really looking for a connection to my biological family, but I was curious about medical history since I’m rapidly approaching seventy and, well, you know.

For the next few months I heard from people who might have been fourth and fifth cousins, so far removed from reality that I couldn’t get excited about it. Time passed and so did my interest in the process.

Then one day I heard from a woman named Rose and according to Ancestry.com we are first cousins.

Now we’re getting somewhere!  First cousins . . . that’s close enough for some serious information.

Emails ensued and information was finally discovered.  My biological mother’s first name was Dollie, and she lived in the Brinnon/Shelton area of Washington State, about twenty miles from where I sit right now typing out these words.

Dollie gave birth to me in 1948.  She was twenty at the time. I was declared legally blind by the family physician, and for whatever reason I was placed in the foster system, where I remained until nine months when my adopted parents, Dale and Evelyn Holland of Tacoma, adopted a blind kid and gave him love.

Dollie died in 1968 at the age of forty from acute liver disease.  You can probably read between the lines and surmise that Dollie was a heavy drinker.  I had an older brother who was in and out of prison.  I had a younger brother who died in a motorcycle accident when he was twenty.  Not much is known of my biological father, and I had a sister who seems to have slipped between the cracks of time.

It appears my biological family was a troubled group which was chased by tragedy.

I, on the other hand, grew up in a loving household and was given every opportunity to thrive.

As a footnote, I gained sight three weeks after being adopted.  The legally-blind kid saw for the first time, and what he saw were the faces of two people who loved him.  Can you imagine adopting a special-needs kid back in 1948?  Yep, some special kind of love right there.

REFLECTIONS

I don’t know how I feel about my biological family.  I’m sorry their lives were so turbulent.  I’m grateful as hell that Dollie chose to put me up for adoption.  It was the right decision for me and that’s for damned sure, and I hope it was the right decision for her.  I certainly have no negative feelings about my biological mother. She did what she felt she needed to do, for whatever reason.  The end result was me, here, now, typing away in the midst of a life I love.

The winds of fate!

I haven’t sorted it all out yet, but I do know this is a missing piece to the mystery of who I am today.  Someone once asked how it is I write so easily, and so realistically, about the dark side of human nature.  Perhaps that dark side is part of my DNA.  Perhaps I was saved a dark outcome by a simple wind of fate.

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

Tags: writing tips

So there I was, at the Farmers’ Market last week, setting up my tent, and the market manager walked by.  I asked her who was playing music for the market that day, and she told me some homeless guy who plays the cello.  She had met him downtown and invited him to play for us.

My first reaction was OH MY GOD!  What in the hell is she thinking????

I am ashamed of myself!

The guy showed up fifteen minutes early, lugging his backpack, which must have weighed seventy-five pounds at least, all his worldly possessions in it, and carrying a cello in his free hand.  I went over, introduced myself, and showed him where to set up.

Fifteen minutes later he began playing music from the angels.

For two hours he played classical music, and to say he played beautifully would be a disservice to him.  It was the first time in over a year at that market that I saw people stop what they were doing and just  listen to the music, and after each song he received heartfelt applause.

I am ashamed of myself!

I made an assumption, and I admit that to you all.  I assumed since he was homeless he couldn’t possibly be any good, and that assumption made a complete ass out of me.

I’m not sure what the hell I was thinking.  I’ve written countless articles about the plight of the homeless, how that social ill affects people in all walks of life, but at that one moment, in that one situation, I tossed aside all of my righteousness and embarrassed myself.

Mea culpa!

I am a writer.  I consider it my job to reflect real life, to tell stories which cause reflection, and to be as honest as I possibly can be.  And that’s what I’m doing now, at this moment, to all of you.

Telling it like it is!

TEASER

I have a name for you: Dollie Mae Priest!  I’ll explain the significance of that woman next week…anyone care to guess beforehand?

No talent there . . . or is there?

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

Tags: writing tips

Randomness . . .

I talked to a guy at last weeks’ farmers market who served in Vietnam.  We talked for a good five minutes.  It was fascinating, hearing about the war from a soldier who was there, rather than from some talking head news person who is regurgitating old articles.

He was fine talking about our government, the waste of it all, and the one thing every soldier had in common with all other soldiers, the all-consuming desire to stay alive, but his eyes clouded over when he talked about the fire fights, the brutality of it all, and the killing, and he became deeply saddened when he talked about the distrust for a young child who walked into camp, sadness because they couldn’t trust the child, did not know if she was armed and meant them harm, or just lost.

That shit is real!  That is the human connection that great stories have. As writers, we need to listen to those stories, absorb them, and never let their humanness escape us when we are writing.

I was reading a post on Facebook from a young single mother of two.  She was talking about the struggle and the feelings of inadequacy, the worries that she was not doing a good job of parenting, not providing all the things her daughters needed. It was a heartbreaking post, and it was more poignant because she is a former student of mine.

That shit is real!

I spend a lot of time observing people.  I always have.  The difference now, as opposed to when I was younger, is I engage with those people now. I want to know more.  I want to hear their stories.  The more engaged I become, the more they are willing to open up, and selfishly I gain from each story because I am a storyteller, and I want my stories to be authentic.  Their stories help me, and similar stories will help you.  I’m not just talking about fiction writers.  Non-fiction writers can benefit as well.  We need that human connection in our writing.  Otherwise we might as well just write for Wikipedia.

I cry much more now than I once did.  Ask my wife if this is true. I cry watching television shows.  It bothered me at first, but now I embrace it.  It means I’m becoming more connected with what is real in life.  It means I am becoming more human. It means I have gained empathy, and I am fine with that.  At the risk of sounding like a love child from the 60’s, we need more love in this world. We need to make more connections and not fewer.  What was that line from that old song by Pink Floyd . . . two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,” or something like that . . . that perfectly describes so many people, lonely, agitated, confused, desperately in need of human contact but unsure, unaware, unwilling,  or unknowing in how to make it happen.

“Nowhere Man, please listen, you don’t know what you’re missing . . . “

Random thoughts . . .

Bill

“Helping writers to spread their wings and fly.”

Tags: writing tips