Perforation Problems

Somewhere in my house, maybe in a box in the attic, is a tape recorder with an hour of my great grandma's voice. A few years before she died, I decided in the middle of one of my obsession-with-genealogy phases that I wanted to make a record of what she knew about our Irish ancestors, one of whom had stowed away on a ship during the potato famine to make his way to America. I remember putting the recording aside and thinking, "This is important – I'll want to keep this." Having a record of Grandma T's voice seemed precious even while she was still there. And yet somehow I've let it get stowed away in a box in the attic. It's depressing to think of how many stories get lost, either diluted by time and memory, forgotten, or made inaccessible once we're gone, locked in the shadows of our brains without any way out. My grandpa tells me stories all the time – he's an amazing storyteller, with the knack of making you see what he saw and hear the voices...

I've been a part-time city dweller for about 5 months now, and I gotta say, except for the driving back and forth, it's pretty much the best of both worlds. When I'm in Cincinnati I spend my days working in coffee shops, meeting my friend on the corner to walk to the gym, taking Clyde to the dog park, playing trivia at our regular weekly spot. It's easier to be social in Cincinnati, especially for our normally not-so-social selves. We have a group of friends there with whom there's no pressure to be polite or pleasant if you don't feel like it. Hanging out or getting dinner isn't a big deal because you can just walk a couple blocks from your apartment or stop by somewhere after work – it doesn't mean taking up your whole evening. And the city throws interesting things my way almost every time I step out on the streets – two little girls on Orchard Street screaming an unharmonious version of the "Doe, a deer" song from The Sound of Music, a home...

It's a little crazy how writing can be so satisfying and yet so tedious and wrenching at the same time. I'm sitting here in a cafe in OTR, drinking a latte and trying to ignore that there's a cold draft coming in from the window next to me. I know that – logically – there are moments during the winter months when I'm NOT freezing. It hasn't even been THAT cold this winter so far. I just can't remember that most of the time. The cold feels like a constant fog soaking in my fingertips, my shoulders – even my nose when I'm trying to sleep.  Today I tried to stop by a store I'd briefly talked to last summer about carrying Olive & Clyde cards – I'd gotten myself all psyched up, prepared what I was going to say, packaged cards to show the owner, even gotten some prepared for retail display in case she was up for taking cards now. But what happens once I walk downtown? The store isn't there anymore. So now I'm writing in a coffee shop instead...

Something I'm realizing tonight as I write, here at 3:23 in the morning on a random Tuesday, while Michael sleeps in another city: There's something about 3:23am, something quiet and still that lets your brain work, and you start to see that sometimes what you're writing about ends up not being what you're writing about at all. You've heard people say that before but it's never actually happened to you, until now. And you're still so, so far away from what you're writing being a finished product, and you're still worried people will hate it or hate you for writing it, but you also start to realize it doesn't matter. Right now, in the moments before you get too sleepy to make any more sense, you don't even care about it being published or that anyone ever reads it. That's not even the point. The point is that you're bringing it into being and in the process you're unearthing pieces of yourself that start to make sense. And now ...

Sarah and I are about halfway through our cheese enchiladas at the Mexican restaurant in Fountain Square when I hear someone tapping on the window next to our booth. I am immediately on guard and ready to pretend like I didn't hear it, just like I pretended I didn't hear "Girrrlll, somebody's been eatin' some cornbread" on the street in OTR last week. I keep my gaze focused on Sarah as she talks. Her words slow almost infinitesimally until finally she gives in and looks at the tapper, and I have to give in, too. There, standing at the window is a man maybe in his early 40s, wearing a bright yellow windbreaker and holding the handlebars of a bike. He points at Sarah's food and then at himself, and then makes motions with his fingers like he's putting food in his mouth. Before we even can react, he shakes his head as if exasperated with us and leaves his bike to walk towards the restaurant entrance. "Ah, fuck," I think I only said it in my ...

I just finished day 3 of NaNoWriMo, and it feels good. Great, even. I've got 5, 192 words. None of it is actually something I'd show someone – it needs a lot of revising and filling in the gaps, but it's out there! Revising is for December and beyond. I've been timing myself each time I write, which helps me keep myself relatively focused. So far I've been able to get my 1,667 words done in under 2 hours each day. Not bad, and not that huge of an undertaking, really, when you think about it. Every day has been a bit of a mental struggle, but I think the more I do it, the easier it'll be, just like when I was writing blog posts each day. It's great. I feel really great. So far so good. I think what feels the best is that I'm making it a priority. For the first time in awhile I feel like a writer.

NaNoWriMo starts on Sunday, and I'm trying to gear myself up. I want to take this seriously. I want to put writing first and not let it slide to a lower priority like I have been pretty much all 2015 so far. Sarah and I went to see David Sedaris last night. It was the second time I've gone to one of his readings – he's hilarious and self-deprecating and completely unconcerned (it seems) with what anyone thinks of him, which gives him a freedom and rawness in his writing I envy. I think to write things that matter you have to let yourself be a little raw and impolite and politically incorrect and unapologetic. I know he probably still cares how he comes across to people, but he's not let that stop him from writing what he wants without watering himself down. I get way too concerned with what people think of what I write, which means to avoid any chance of being criticized or not liked I just never show anyone what I write. That works, except it's kinda not the poin...