I stumbled upon this in my Facebook Memories. I wrote it and posted it there on 3 August, 2024--shortly before I started posting these here every week. Honestly, I had forgotten about it. But when I re-read what I wrote, I have to say, I'm kind of proud of it. Hope you like it. (One or two sentences were edited out because they didn't fit in this context.)
I don't know why I'm fascinated by identity politics, but I am. More specifically, I find it disturbing that identity is political these days. I'll be honest with you, I don't give one good goddamn rat's ass about what pronouns you use, or your sexual orientation, or your gender identity, or the colour of your skin, your religion, your party affiliation, etc., etc., etc. That being said, I will address you by whatever names and/or pronouns you ask me to use out of respect for you as a human being. Also, don't think that I don't have the utmost respect for whatever national, religious, and/or cultural background(s) you claim. In fact, not only do I respect it, I'm probably fascinated by it. But--and I realize that this is easy to say given my background--I don't necessarily believe it sums up you as a person. I don't care WHAT you are--I prefer to know WHO you are. I long for a day when we judge each other not by things like race or sexual orientation, but by things that are truly important... like music tastes.
I have my own descriptive labels as well--I'm a white, cisgender (which is a word I actually hate), heterosexual male who uses he/him pronouns. I'll even throw in other terms like "redhead," "eccentric," and "Chicago Cubs fan." But here's the catch--I don't define myself in those terms (well... maybe "eccentric"). They don't sum up who I am as a person. It's not my identity. I suppose if I identify as anything it's as a writer. It's something I've always liked doing. I'll even go as far as to say I'm passionate about it. I don't know if I'm particularly good--aside from a "Six-Word Memoir" I once submitted to Smith Magazine, I've never had anything published. But it is what I find myself doing probably more than anything else. I'm always stringing words together in my head, even if I'm not jotting them down on paper or sitting behind my computer. I'm a writer who, yes, happens to be straight, white, and male, but I am a writer first and foremost. That's who I am. The straight, white, male stuff is just incidental fluff. Hey, that rhymes. Wow--not only am I a writer, apparently, I'm also a poet.
I usually feel like I have something to say. Whether what I write resonates with anyone is debatable--I have a sneaking suspicion that most people seeing this post on Facebook stopped reading at least a paragraph ago. (Yes, Heidi, I'm lookin' at you, cous!) And I get it. This particular forum isn't exactly designed to increase our attention spans. But it doesn't appear to have stopped me so far.
Just because I feel like I have something to say doesn't mean the words are always forthcoming. I could have a Shakespearean vocabulary and still not be able to figure out the proper word combinations to express whatever I'm feeling at that moment. I also often find myself using the same words and phrases over and over again which sometimes makes me feel like my vocabulary is somewhat limited. But I usually catch it when I'm proofreading and, for the most part, I'm pretty successful at finding a different word or phrase that means the same thing. For all its faults--like the fact that "tough," "cough," "plough," "dough," and "through" all have different pronunciations--I do so love the English language. But sometimes... sometimes I just don't know what to say even though I feel like I have to verbally express myself soon or I'll develop an ulcer.
I think that every writer has their own method of writing, even when the words won't come. In 1993, Billy Joel spoke to students at the Berklee School of Music and talked about not being able to write. "I got stuck once and I couldn't write--like, I didn't feel like a writer anymore. You feel terrible. It's like a ball player who's in a slump. You can't hit, no matter what you do, you can't call on your old skills, it's just not working, you can't put it all together. So what I do is... I go to Little Italy in Manhattan. And I get a nice outfit on--like a writer's outfit. Like a songwriter, like a sort of modern-day Chopin. So I'm lookin' baaaad, you see? And I sit at a table and I get a glass of wine. And I sit there, I have my notebook and my pen, and I delude myself into feeling like writing. I mean, that's just my little jump-start trick that I do sometimes... and all these people are staring at you, so you've got to do something!"
Even though I've never, to the best of my recollection, experienced what I would call "writer's block," I took that anecdote to heart. I developed a writer's ritual of my own that I like to employ from time to time--sometimes just for the hell of it (like I am right now). I find this activity is best done at night. I like to sit in a room, either with a paper and pen or behind a word processor of some kind, preferably with not too bright ambient light from a single table lamp or even a floor lamp. I put on a pair of shades--I find something bluesy and poetic about wearing sunglasses at night in a dimly lit room--and try to convince myself I'm a writer of great... songs, poems, essays, novels, short stories, introductions for roller derby skaters--whatever needs to be written in the moment.
I've found that the real key to the whole thing is background music--unless I'm trying to write music of my own, then it's just distracting. But, by and large, I'm trying to express myself verbally and I find that music helps. Depending on my mood, I might put on jazz music. Classic Miles Davis recordings are good for this, maybe some John Coltrane or Lee Morgan--really anything recorded for the Blue Note label in the 1950s and 1960s. Other good choices include early Peter, Paul & Mary and Bruce Springsteen's first two albums.
I put this week's album on late one night many years ago while trying to write something. I don't know why it stuck with me as a writing aide. It could be the poetic nature of the songs themselves--it could be the cover art which looks like it has its own story to tell (which I'm sure has been told a few times over the last 60 years, even if it's just among musicologists). Whatever it is, whenever I find myself in the mood to write but don't know what to say, this week's album often yields a good start. From 1963, please enjoy The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan.
Until next week, stay safe, be good to your neighbours, and please remember that if at first you don't succeed, then skydiving definitely isn't for you.
Yours in peace, love, and rock and roll!
The Reverend Will the Thrill
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