Write, right?

I’m a writer.

There, I said it.

And why is it important that I say it? Because I forgot – forgot I was a writer. I don’t mean totally forgot, as in some sort of odd, one-particular-skill amnesia, I mean forgot as in I’ve forgotten to write.

I used to be a writer. Really, I did. I started out writing where most of us started, in school. And I wrote well. I typically got good marks on my papers (even the ones that were a little off topic, or demonstrated I hadn’t truly understood the assignment before putting words to paper). And when the teacher handed them back, I always read my words again – because I like words, and the words I like most are the ones I decided best express my thoughts.

The writing skills I learned in school led, eventually, to writing for a newspaper where I wrote under the moniker of “The Online Dating Coach” (long story, for another time perhaps) which then led to writing a book and more newspaper columns.

And then I stopped.

I stopped writing.

Wait, that’s not entirely true. I did write, just a little bit, about what I wanted to – someday – write about. What does that mean? In my phone I keep a list of topics that I want to write about… eventually. I jot down the topic as it occurs to me, so that I can remember it, when I make the time to write about it.

Every time I’d see something that made me think of what I’d like to say about that thing I just saw, or every time someone said something that struck a chord with me, and made me want to reveal to the world what that chord sounds like, I’d write it down in my little ‘phone list’. And there it stayed, for about 4 or 5 years now, hidden and dormant and undeveloped.

This morning I, for lots of reasons I guess, opened that list to look at it. And I counted how many topics I’d written down to ‘someday write about’.

157

157 topics. Some just a few words, others have a paragraph or two devoted to the subject or theme.

Weird, so weird, that 157 times I’ve written a topic down in my list because I felt it was important enough to write about. But not really important enough to write about, only important enough to write a reminder about.

So here’s how I correct the weirdness:

This blog will now be devoted to exploring each and every one of those 157 topics, in order, until they’re done.

There was a reason to write each of them down in the first place, so now I will validate those reasons and bring my ideas out in the open. Will some of them suck? Yeah, maybe, but each and every one will get its day in the sun, in order, as it should, until I reach and complete all 157. Only then will I go back to writing (or not writing) about anything else.

It’s time to write.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Cycles of Attraction

bike1

I taught myself how to ride a bike – at least that’s how I remember it.

I think it was the summer of 1968, when I was about four years old. Dad was in the Army and stationed at Fort McPherson in Atlanta, Georgia. We lived on post in a home that faced a large rolling green. Between that green and our house was a sidewalk that led out to the street in one direction and further into post housing in the other.

The first mode of transportation I recall using to traverse the long sidewalk was a little red fire engine. You remember the one – it had pedals on the inside of it and a bell on the hood that you’d ring with a pull of the string.

Those were safe and comfortable times inside my steel fire engine with wheels at all four corners and no real way to tip over. I’d pedal up and down the sidewalk as Mom watched from the front porch. I’d ring the bell and she’d smile – and all was right with the world.

Sometimes I’d still be out there as Dad walked home after he got off duty. I’d see him coming and pedal just a little faster, and ring the bell a little louder. And he’d smile – and all was right with the world.

But one day, as dad walked home, I could see he had something in tow – it was big and blue and had handlebars and naked pedals hanging off either side.

It was a bike.

I knew what bikes were – I had friends who rode them. They were typically complicated contraptions that wobbled at first until the rider got going pretty good – at which point they seemed to become a magical sort of thing that would then take its owner anywhere he wanted to go.

The bike Dad was bringing with him seemed better than most. It was a full sized bike – like a grown-up would ride – so at first I guess I thought it wasn’t for me. But when he got to where I was in my little red fire engine he said that the bike would be mine. He’d got it on post, from the wife of a friend who was shipping out and didn’t have room to bring it along.

I was excited by the idea of riding this bike. It was beautiful and it glistened in the sun. It had long, curvy handlebars with white grips, and its frame stretched up from the pedals to meet the handlebars in a long, rounded arch that resembled a slender gas tank. It was one of those bikes from the fifties that were built to resemble motorcycles – a gracefully curved and slender motorcycle.

The only reason I had any chance of riding this bike is because it was a ladies model – and as such you could step into it rather than having to throw your leg over it. But there remained the issue of how to get the whole affair started.

Dad said something about putting me on the seat and giving me a push – but in standing next to the bike I could tell that if I sat down on the seat I wouldn’t be able to touch the pedals.

And I knew from my little red engine that pedals equaled progress.

Dad was just off work and was eager to go inside, so our conversation was short. He walked the rest of the way to the house with the bike in hand and leaned it up against the porch – where I stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. I wanted to ride the bike – because that’s what boys do – but was afraid it wouldn’t work out.

Finally my desire overcame me. I climbed out of my fire engine and walked over and laid my hands on my new partner and decided I’d just figure out how to make this relationship work. I guided the sleek bike out to the sidewalk and started running, still holding onto the handlebars. When I reached a certain speed I jumped up onto the closest pedal. This action pulled the bike sharply to the left. To counter this imbalance I pushed the handlebars to the right and fought the bike back to the middle of the sidewalk.

In my memory we battled like that for the rest of the evening. Up and down the sidewalk I’d run her and then jump on – and she’d test my balance and try to throw me back off. It wasn’t until I realized that her imbalance was in direct reaction to mine that I started to make any progress at all.

And then on one pass it all sort of fell together.

I ran my run, jumped my jump and then… then I stepped fully into my new bike. I stepped in and stopped worrying – worrying about how to reach the seat, or fearing that I’d fall and fail. Before I knew it we were both gliding smoothly up and down the sidewalk –neither of us were wholly in control – yet somehow we both were.

That bike taught me a lesson I’d get to relearn some 40 odd years later.

I’ve written in this space over the last year and a half about things like baseball and motorcycles – soccer, cars and basketball. And I’ve used those illustrations to communicate my feelings for, and my journey with, the woman in my life. Maybe speaking directly isn’t my strong suit, but let me be very direct in what I’m about to say:

I love you Loretta Sayers, and the ride is just getting started.

 

It was bound to happen – Bridget Jones is Online Dating…

Bridget-Jones-Diary_320

Well Bridget Jones is back – and this time she’s dating online.

Which raises the question: Now that dating has been changed by Social Media, has it changed for the better?

As I say in Chapter 8 of my book :  “It was sort of like this automatic behavior pattern I was in, like autopilot, which the online sites fit into – and fed into – perfectly. A new date with a different girl was always just an email away…”

So is dating just easier now?

Or has it become too easy?

How online dating is different for men than women

This is something I wrote about a year ago – back when I did an online dating advice column in the newspaper. It addresses the different ways in which men and women go about relationships, and the frustrations they can lead to.

But the news isn’t all bad – the solutions are pretty easy once you get what’s really going on… Continue reading →