What you have to know about me is that
I have no (expletive deleted) idea how I do what it is that I do for you.
From my notes, Friday, April 16, 2010, 11:39 p.m.
The whole idea of speaking in front of people who had come to Wayne College in part, at least, to listen to me talk about the creative writing process was mortifying. Being invited to be part of the Seventh Annual Writers Workshop was such an honor and, let me be frank, it was a good feeling to know that I was wanted.
Again.
Having been, essentially, unemployed since the fall of 2008, I had become kind of used to the notion that what I am -- a first-person narrator who tries to connect with readers Ill probably never meet -- was an anachronism.
A freak.
An abandoned relic of an art whose time, in this era of social networking, had surely passed.
But it was as if, though, by invisible hands, my heart was resuscitated. I came back to life that morning in a place 770 miles away from the coastal town in which Ive lived since before the millennium turned the tattered page and home became almost a foreign concept.
To find myself back -- and invited -- was a reality thats taken me a few weeks to wrap my head around as memories and impressions have slowly, ever so slowly, percolated and simmered.
Thank you.
Those were the first words I heard as I arrived.
Can you imagine that?
Were so happy you came.
Are you grasping it?
Youre so much taller than your picture in the paper.
Well, not much I could do about that, standing six feet, five inches.
Its so great to meet you, finally.
Now, as it has always been, a writers ego is a fragile, towering thing and it can be reinforced (or crippled) with a handful of words.
When I was back home, however, mine was fine, full of sustenance and -- despite the unseasonable chill and my lack of socks -- heart warming.
The day before my presentations and, actually, the day before that, I had spent a lot of time trying to finalize the outline of what it was that I wanted to say to those who would be in attendance. I fretted and I studied. I polished and I perfected. I wished for guidance as I groped for wisdom.
I know you, a former colleague and good friend had said, months before. Youre going to worry and worry and then worry some more.
Then what? I asked.
Youre going to knock em dead, he said. Just like you always do.
I was scheduled to talk twice, both times for 75 minutes.
Both before noon.
Faithful readers might recall that Im a vampire when it comes to nighttime versus daylight. Its very unusual for me to crawl into bed before 4:30 in the morning.
And I had to be at Wayne College at 8 a.m.
That Friday night, which I spent at the home of Frank and Judy Hostnick, I just couldnt seem to relax.
Relax, said Frank, whod run the journalism program at Wooster High School for many years. Youre going to be fine.
Judy, whod ironed my black shirt for me, advised me to enjoy the homemade spaghetti she and her husband had prepared.
Franks own tomatoes, she said. Home grown.
And it was so good.
But late that night, after Id finished my notes and with the seminar mere hours away, I finally got it.
I could be myself, I could talk about writing, I could make clear the importance of inviting a reading audience into your work, I could speak on the crucial decision not to be afraid of criticism, I could -- indeed -- try to instill in those whod come to listen to me the importance of their own voices.
This was never about me.
This was about those good people who cared enough to make me part of their lives.
When I woke up around 6, I showered and shaved, put on my chosen outfit -- black shirt, blue jeans, sneakers and no socks (wearing a Beatles Revolver tie) -- and, after having a glass of orange juice, drove off from the home of my gracious hosts and found my way to Wayne College.
That April 17 was a cold, cold day ... and I was grateful for having brought along my Ocracoke Island zip-up sweatshirt, with a hood that came in handy as the vagaries of an Ohio spring blossomed.
By the time Id greeted my escort/sponsor, the wonderful Orrville poetess Emily Curie, and said hello to Jack Kristofco, the workshop wizard in charge of everything, I was ready.
Ready to listen, mostly, even though I (to my own ears) talked too much.
Ready to offer, as much as I could, insight and wisdom and honesty.
Ready to connect, as best I could, with a roomful of writers, each of whom had stories to share and gifts to be honed.
Ready to be a part of it all.
I had worried, from sometime around the first of the year, that I wouldnt be selected.
And then, after I had been asked to participate, that Id mess it up.
Now, a few weeks down the road and having heard from so many who attended my classes, I think I understand what it is that happened.
I was walking on the beach the other day, just trying to keep myself upright as the onshore wind blasted me and the mercury hit 90 or so.
It was great to be back home, I said to myself, and the best part is that the connections still there.
Lucky, thats what I am.
And tomorrow, Im going to plant some flowers that will make my wife smile.
To read more Life Lines, visit Mike at www.Wayne BargainHunter.com.
