It Would Be So Nice If I Was Here

Some years ago, I was at a party with a former fiance^* discussing future plans with my mother's cousin, regarded as an aunt by my brothers and sisters as befits the relationship she and my mother shared.  This aunt of mine was often the only person in the room to cut through the fat and get down to the meat of the matter.  We told my aunt that we were putting off our wedding until we'd saved enough money.  "There's never enough money," she countered without pause.  "Never."  She took another drag from her cigarette and added, "Now that that's out of the way, what's stopping you?"  She'd rolled right over our roadblock and now expected us to charge forward without delay.  This same aunt, as my family became adults and parents and homeowners themselves, grew into a confidant for the rest of my siblings.  I didn't have her phone number.  It's not that I didn't like her or wouldn't have spoken to her, it just never occurred to me to wonder what she'd think about a situation.  I think she found me inscrutable anyhow, she rarely addressed me in person without someone else there, as though she thought no matter what was discussed, she'd better have a witness.

The look my aunt would get in her eyes, the narrowed stare as though hoping to adopt x-ray vision and look right inside my head for clues, is a look I've seen many times in my life.  I don't think I'm particularly mysterious.  In fact, I've often shown my cards and blown whatever advantage I've had over others, choosing to disclose rather than withhold and finding afterward that I wished I'd been a better puppet-master.  I've been labeled publicly as arrogant, and I've been told I'm the most modest person folks have ever met.  I've been both uncaring and incredibly giving.  Aloof, friendly.

The true answer probably lies somewhere in the middle, but in looking back on these opinions, the more negative the opinion of me, the more extroverted the opinion-holder.  Those who hold court wherever and whenever just don't get me, because I'm their polar opposite.  Don't get me wrong; you can spin me off into the lengthiest of ramblings if you push the right button.  The problem is, people don't always find the right button, and when they have, sometimes they'd glanced it with their elbow as they were passing by on the way to what they really wanted to discuss.  I'm not an all-topic conversationalist.  It's not that I don't have an opinion.  It's just that I don't assume you'd find my opinion interesting enough to discuss, and the reason I think that is because much of the time, I can't find your opinion interesting enough to discuss.

Don't confuse this with misanthropy, although I'm guilty of having momentary ambitions toward becoming a misanthrope, particularly on the 6 train when standing between a music lover with $2 earbuds and someone using their cell-phone to seed their contacts with their mundanity.  It's just that small talk, the mother tongue of social engagements, is pointless torture for me.  If I ask you about the weather, it's because I want to know whether one should put on a sweater before leaving the house.  I'll make the attempt to pick up your loose threads of chatter; I'll tell you what I've heard from family in the southland about current weather trends down their way that may turn north, I'll chime in about the latest movie I've seen if it relates to your anecdote about seeing last weekend's #1 hit, I'll compare music libraries and try to get you to divulge the one song on your iPod you wouldn't want your friends to know is there, and I'll gladly discuss your kids and their activities, mainly because I'll want to discuss my kids and get my brag on (my kids are pretty awesome, you'd brag too).  But if I walk into a room and there's a spot where everyone is gathered to hear what that one guest is soapboxing about, I'm going to get within earshot to make sure he's not saying the building is on fire and we all need to get the hell out, and then I'm going to find the crudité.  

I've always been that person that at first wondered why people didn't think the way I did, then tried hard to think like they did and finally tried to be comfortable with my own way of thinking.  I didn't put a label on myself, I've been mislabeled enough to distrust the very idea.  However, my wife stumbled upon an article that's eight years old, yet speaks to me as if written this morning.  Rather than slapping me in the face with shame, the article let me know it's not some personality defect to not love to be surrounded by people at all times, that this isn't some bad mood to get over.  The article also intimates that while people who think the way I do are in the minority generally speaking, we're in the majority in creative fields.

Society is dictated by those with the biggest mouths.  That's not me.  That won't be me.  I'm not an extrovert.

I'm an introvert.  It's not an obscenity, not an insult.  My brain fires a different way and allows me to do different things than most people do.  I think writing is one of them.  It was certainly a comfort when I was younger to be able to sit and write for a few hours, write assignments, stories, essays.  Adults aren't "supposed" to do that.  We're not "supposed" to go off to another room and be creative.  We're not supposed to be contemplative, to sit quietly.  We're supposed to be sociable, go out to a club, go to the movies, gather our friends for a beach bonfire like some goddamn beer commercial.  Clearly the philosophers of old were wasting their time, they should have been shaking their booty instead of sitting on their ass, thinking.

The bottom line is this: Everyone gets a fair shake from me.  I have made it a tenet in my life for a long time to accept people for what and who they are, because I truly believe you can't change people, they're always going to turn out to be what their chemistry and upbringing has made them.  There are always exceptions, but let's be honest, how many exceptions do you see on a regular basis?  That's why they're called exceptions.  So, everyone gets a fair shake from me.  If we become friends, that's terrific.  If you think I'm arrogant or aloof, you'd better have hard evidence, because telling me what I'm thinking ain't gonna cut it.  You're not going to read my mind if you don't understand the language.

^{* About that former fiance - It struck me as I typed that phrase that you don't really hear people talking about failed engagements all that much.  I mean, they happen, I'm not that unique. I guess it's the stigma we usually pin on failure, like you must have done something wrong in order for the relationship to have gone south.  The only thing I did wrong was get engaged to the wrong woman.  Failed marriages you hear about, sure.  What was I supposed to do, get married and then find out she'd been unfaithful?  I guess that's another way I've been thinking differently than most people.}

Can't You See I'm Workin' It Out?

I used to host a show on my college radio station dedicated to showtunes.  It ran on Sunday nights and had been running for years, so it had a great following with lots of requests.  I'd get a call every week for "Workin' It Out" from They're Playing Our Song, the musical that starred Robert Klein and Lucie Arnaz with a book by Neil Simon, lyrics by Carole Bayer Sager and music by Marvin Hamlisch.  I had heard of the show, but hadn't seen it or heard the album until that first call.  With a three hour show to fill each week, I was happy to play a song from that listener's favorite show each show.  In the song, Klein is working on composing a song while Lucie Arnaz is trying to collaborate and juggle her personal issues at the same time.  Hey, I never said the inspiration for this blog was original.

When I was blogging over at The One Year Push, I had an interaction with a reader when I'd pretty rashly decided to stop blogging and whined about not having reader feedback in a long while.  That reader said a few things that struck me personally, and I copped to the criticism because he/she was right, I didn't have the right to whine about not getting feedback when I wasn't showing much progress in my goals.  I wasn't progressing, and the blog showed it.  I went on with it a bit more, changed the storefront and tried some more without pressuring myself to post on a regular basis.  Up until a few months ago, that's where things stood.  I'd taken a break from blogging and from writing, thinking perhaps that I'd be better off then at focusing on work and family.

You can see this coming, can't you?

Nope, it didn't work.  I didn't feel the fulfillment I'd feel when reading back a scene that had just burst out of me.  I'm not going to find much fulfillment at work (yeah, who does), but I do at home, my family is incredible and is the driving force behind me getting back to writing.  Plus, someone I'd worked with in the past has become a producer and has been encouraging me to give him completed work to show to his partners.  He's just read a treatment I've written and liked it a great deal.  I've got other ideas I'd left in the dust that deserve better treatment, so I'm brushing them off and writing new treatments.  Aside from my old colleague, I've got a few other people in the industry I haven't shown any work to, so once I've got a block of items to be read, I can go to them as well.

I'm more hopeful than ever that I can make an honest run at this.  I just have to keep myself pushing harder than before.

Maybe it's good that it doesn't make sense, because what if it did?

Life is what happens when you plan to keep blogging.  My initial interest in keeping a blog was to write about keeping balance between work, family and writing.  While I hope I've been good at keeping my family as the major priority, work has been unrewarding lately and I haven't been able to concentrate to write much (more on that some other time).

My son is now six and my daughter is three.  To say I'm enjoying them would be an understatement.  I'm an unapologetic enthusiast, the president of their fan club.  I've been involved in scouting with my son, even volunteered to lead his den and just spent more time than intended building his pinewood car for the pack's annual derby.  My daughter treats each moment like she's Auntie Mame, living to the fullest extent she can muster, always smiling, talking, laughing.  We're having a great time.

My wife has a friend, someone who'd been in the same field as she, who also has two kids roughly the same age as ours.  I've never met this friend, never met the kids or their father, either.  It will sound odd to you, but today I am thankful I have not met them.  I don't know what they look like when they smile or laugh.  I don't know how tall they are, how they line up walking together as a family.  I don't know where they go to dinner all together on those nights when they're all out together and it's suddenly too late to go home and cook.  I don't know how their voices sound, whether they find themselves joining in when one of them hums a song.

I'm glad I don't know them because right now they are experiencing a pain I never want to know.  They've lost their six-year-old son, lost him after four years of incredible bravery and heart as he fought against an equally incredible and aggressive cancer.

Six-year-old boys aren't supposed to fight cancer.  They aren't supposed to inspire strangers with their fortitude.  They are supposed to play dodgeball and video games, build a race car with their father.  Little sisters aren't supposed to wake up one day without their big brother, go solo in their childhood where once there was a partner.  Parents aren't supposed to plan memorials for their child, they're supposed to plan where their child will spend their school day.

This does not make sense and it will go on not making sense.