Sunday afternoon.

I’m throwing a party in 20 minutes.

If I were my Mom, I’d be re-evaluating whether I ordered enough ham and worrying about where people would park their cars. But instead, I’m sitting at the computer blogging while worrying about where people are going to park (there are some huge melting puddles out there) and evaluating if I bought enough cake. See? We’re totally different.

The party is for a friend. I really didn’t have the energy to throw a big party, some big thing, but my friend Snake deserved one.

Over the past few years, he’s been on a powerful life journey and recently came back to a familiar and new place. I know, I know, I’m being vague but he should get his own damn blog if he wants to tell his story. Point is:  a powerful, golden man, has come back to some beautiful home within himself and deserves recognition for looking hard at himself, the world, and turning himself into a man who is a necessary part of our evolving future.

Since I didn’t have the energy or resources for a big bash, I called him the other day and said, “Hey look. How about I throw you a cake party, say, 1-3 p.m. on Sunday?”

“Yeah.” he said. “That’s nice. Thanks.”

“I’ll send out some emails.” I replied.

“Cool.” he said.

“Great. See you then.”

There. Party planned.

Some days, it’s awesome to be a man.

I sent invites to a bunch of guys I knew, men who love and respect Snake, and appreciate how he lives in the world. I told them to invite anyone who you think might want to come. Anyone.

Did I get enough cake? I should call Mom. She’ll know.

The thing is, I also consider it a party for me as well.

I got my taxes done yesterday by my guy, Tom. Tom has been my tax guy for an uncountable number of years now, except that Tom counts the years and always reminds me in his round, jovial voice. His voice really is round and jovial and he explains all the electronic forms, his own running commentary, while I nod nervously in his home office, awaiting my tax fate.

There are pictures of kittens on the walls, inspirational posters, piles and piles of books and papers, none of which are tax-related. No tax records sitting about. Those are filed and locked. He doesn’t mess around.

He had some news for me yesterday towards the end of our annual sociable.

“You owe the federal government roughly $10,050 dollars, which includes fees.”

“YES!” I shouted, arm automatically clenched in victory and pumping the air above my head.

Tom was confused.

The fact is, 2008 was an odd employment year. I waited the whole year for a job that turned out to be, oh, not what it seemed. I had no authority to influence events, no ability to be more than an Idea Bitch and that was made clear to me. And you know, I’m good at being Idea Bitch. I did that for 17 years as a consultant. But I thought this job opportunity was for something more, so I left with disappointment.

I didn’t pay my federal taxes for most of the year as my earnings were a little slim; I held odd contractor jobs and wrote fiction furiously. The joy of the writing overshadowed those nasty longer-term thoughts like taxes, health insurance, etc. Saturday, I was expecting this horrible tax outcome where I would feel obliged to burst into tears, pleading, “But I don’t have that kind of money!”

I steeled myself for drama.

Wait – perfect timing. It’s 1:00 and the doorbell rang. Cake party. Gotta go.

Okay. I’m back.

Hours and hours passed in the time it took you to leave that last sentence and get here.

So anyway, where was I?

It really is taxing being a man sometimes. Not to complain, because, hey, thanks for the penis and stuff, but I know I have being-a-man issues just because of my gender. I feel an odd extra weight around taxes, car ownership, storm windows, and dripping sinks. I am a decent cook, but I barely fret over my cooking skills the way I have upbraided myself for not knowing enough about the engine of my car. There is definitely man shit that crops up every now and then.

Some of it is not small.

“Only as a warrior can one survive the path of knowledge,” Carlos Castenados said. “Because the art of a warrior is to balance the terror of being a man with the wonder of being a man.”

Recently I complained to a friend my fears around money, and living within a very limited means. I think of myself as Mr. Middle Class Employment. I explained how I am not built for this kind of existential stress.

“Well, that’s one way to look at it.” said Stephen. “Another way to look might look at your financial situation is that you’re living your dream. You’re writing. You produced a novel you love. You’re right now living the life you wanted.”

Holy shit! He was right!

I just didn’t like the price tag. Shadow is that which we deny, hide or resist. I’ve been doing all three. And some of that shadow is just generic man shit.

It’s great to have men friends, guys who can cut through the crap. And maybe any best friend can just nail it like that. My friend Ann nails me all the time. So it’s not that a dick is required to be an amazing friend, but some of the bumps in me are crooked man-shaped nails. And only another loving man with his man-hammer… okay. Forget that.

Time for a new metaphor.

I think my point is, hearing this casual flip from a steely friend made me realize that, I am in fact, living a dream right now. Holy shit. Didn’t see that.

In short, good news:  my taxes were less horrible than I thought they would be.

While I bounced around excitedly about writing the largest check I’ll never see again, Tom my Tax Guy sobered me up.

He told a sad story about breaking news to a young married couple. Tom knew enough from their tax records to see they had been swindled and would now pay for it, financially at least. They looked at him eagerly, expecting a large refund. They had been promised that by the man who swindled them.

Their grief, especially hers, was so heavy that Tom almost quit that day, as soon as they left him. At the time, he worked for that one big tax company, and he told his manager, “I’m done for the day. I’m leaving. I don’t know if I’m coming back.”

I love thinking my tax guy gets upset delivering bad news.

That he almost quit his career, years ago, because he did not think he could bear the grief that sometimes comes being the bearer of such upsetting tidings. Every time he does a tax return, it could go either way:  good news. Bad news. One day long ago he struggled with questions like, ‘Can I handle this burden? Am I strong enough?’

Retelling the sad stories, and celebrating the homecoming are ways to balance that wonder/terror thing.

At the cake party a few hours ago, after a polite 15 minutes of chatting, Stephen suggested, “C’mon. Cut the damn cake.”

Without song or preface, speeches or ritual, we chopped out a few squares and devoured them right away.

The men who showed up (and Snake’s hilarious daughter) laughed and told stories. We teased each other in hard ways, told sex jokes, and recounted some of our crazy adventures doing mens’ work. Anna had plenty to contribute and she gives as good as she gets. We told some sad stories, too. They are also part of the wonder.

And right now, there’s a row of chocolate cake waiting for me on the dining room table.

It was a good weekend.

Congratulationsssssssssss, Snake.

I try to.

I try to like Las Vegas.

Yet, every time I go, I end up feeling worse about humanity. There are lovely people in Vegas, undoubtedly. I’ve actually met some wonderful people on previous trips. And the class I taught this week was fantastic – I had a great time with them.

And yet.

Every trip to Vegas ends in a weird promenade of the worst of the worst. The saddest, the most lost, the ones where you wonder if this is the life that they wanted.

Sunday after I had settled into my airline row’s aisle seat and made the obligatory, “Oh goodness is this your buckle?” small talk with my neighbor, she leaned over to me and confided in a light tone, “I’m probably going to throw up at some point.”

“Oh?” I said, a bit surprised by the disclosure.

“Yeah, I get sick on planes. But only if there’s turbulence.”

I couldn’t decide if I was glad for the caveat. Did I want to know about her predilection? Maybe…I guess I could jerk my computer away if I could anticipate her chunky spray. Did I have a job? Was I supposed to be ready, like, Vomit Orange Alert?

Most of the flight she read a magazine or napped and I mostly worried about her vomiting on my legs. Once I caught the uneasy glance of the guy in the window seat and confirmed in his eyes that she had told him too. He was a little jittery. I had the barf bag ready and always made sure my left hand was relatively free and nearby the bag, ready to snatch it up.

As the plane descended into the Vegas airport, we bumped around a bit in the air. Minor turbulence. Not enough enough to upset me and a bit sensitive about turbulence myself.

Nevertheless, she made good on her promise and started barfing. I had snapped my bag open immediately. But she was ready herself for what must be a familiar ritual in her world. I tried to flip fresh air into her face with the magazines from the pouch in front of me and the window seat guy said calming things like, “You’re okay. You’re done now. We’re practically on the ground now.”

She ignored his comforting lies and kept at her chore until the plane was actually taxiing.

Welcome to Vegas.

I don’t gamble and unfortunately, I don’t get into much in the way of live shows. I should. And I have in the past, but all those options exhaust me. I am fairly introverted after a long day of teaching, so all the neon-blinking-screaming slot machines roaming freely throughout a cavernous network of Brazilian-themed bars, leaves me baffled. I need to be somewhere with white walls and quiet noises.

After the first day of teaching, I navigated the screaming slot machines and heavy drinkers and let my guard down when I got to my floor, the 11th floor, exhausted, satisfied. I hadn’t really formulated a plan, but ooo – room service! As I drifted slowly down the extended casino hallways (which always make me think of John Goodman in Barton Fink), I overheard a conversation.

I passed a gentleman in his late 70s wearing a thin rumpled jacket that hung off his shoulder blades. He looked a little rumpled all over, actually. I heard him say into his cell phone, “We’re not leaving until we get back up from down under. What’s that? Oh, I guess a couple thousand or so.”

Ugh.

Maybe he had millions to burn, but that wasn’t the impression I got. I felt like I was witnessing the last desperate phone call before someone loses everything. When I got down to my room but he was gone.

Later that night as I pondered the chance encounter before falling asleep, I wondered if perhaps it was a scam and I was the mark. After all, those two sentences told a whole story and it was awfully convenient I walked by to hear those remarks at that moment. Paranoid? Maybe. I don’t like thinking about the world that way, even if it sometimes happens.

I hope this part of me stays in Vegas.

The class I taught was fun and I got to see a few old work friends, which was fantastic. We had a goofy reception in one of the Irish/Brazilian themed bars and we laughed quite a bit, and celebrating getting to know each other. So there were some nice moments too.

Also while I was in Vegas, my Dad called me to explain that a cousin committed suicide. This is one of my father’s blood nephews, and while we certainly weren’t as close to my Dad’s family as my Mom’s side, this cousin was someone I admired when I was a kid because he was an adult relative and that was reason enough. He had achieved this thing, adulthood, and had figured everything out.

My father communicated the details quietly as if trying to be discrete, although it was just the two of us on the phone. Mom knew everything he did. I couldn’t quite gauge his reaction or read what he was feeling, so I didn’t even realize the extent to his sadness until we were getting off the phone.

“We love you.” he said. “We may not say that often enough, but we love you.”

My folks actually do a pretty great job at letting me know I am loved, so this surprised me a bit.

“Please don’t do anything…” he said.

“Dad, I’m not suicidal.” I assured him. “And I love you guys too. Tell Mom.”

“Okay.” he said and we made our goodbyes.

Granted, this wasn’t good news no matter which state am in, but being in Vegas and seeing the glittering spectacle of slot machines and lost dreams made the news harder to bear. What is it with this town? I mostly watched Law & Order in my hotel room both nights and thought about the relatives who I barely know.

The class ended with a group photo and delighted handshakes that almost turned into hugging.

At the airport yesterday, I bet a dollar in a slot machine because I felt obligated to gamble at least once while in town. I won $1.50 but was too lazy to go cash it out, so I kept pushing the Bet One Credit button until I had lost everything. I felt some empathy for the older man in the hotel hallway. (I have decided to believe it was not a scam.)

On the flight home, I remembered that my friend Chris had dropped off some molasses cookies. I discovered them when I left my house to hop in the cab, surprised to a Tupperware full of cookies sitting on the frozen cement. Chris called me while I was in Vegas to suggest I check my front porch. But I didn’t have time to eat them that morning – cab was waiting – so that meant waiting for me at home were homemade cookies!

This gesture of a friend seemed to affirm how great the twin cities are, the kind of people who would brace below zero weather to put fresh cookies on your doorstep as if it were June.

While musing on my delicious homecoming, I heard a familiar sound and looked up just in time to see the guy in the window seat across the aisle vomit with exuberance against the seat in front of him and then again into his own lap.

I snapped open a barf bag instantly and flung it to the woman across the aisle. She was still having her first reaction to the new stench.

“Here.” I said without much emotion. “Get this to him.”

She did immediately, and he finished his business in the bag. There was an hour’s worth of high altitude drama trying to clean up the seats and relocate his two row-mates. Everyone from nearby rows fretted for him and a nurse was paged to tend to the sick guy. It was quite dramatic, everyone nearby checking their foreheads and wondering if they were going to catch it too. The plane was packed full so my two seatmates eventually returned and reclaimed their seats next to the pale and sweaty sick guy.

Towards the end of the flight, the woman in her aisle and I started chatting. She and her husband had been making me the “What the fuck?” eyes for the previous ten minutes and grinning. Turns out the sick guy was just really, really hung over, which kinda took the empathy factor down a notch or two. They wanted to tell someone.

“You were really quick with that bag,” she whispers across the aisle and we giggled a bit because, really, it was kinda weird that I had responded so quickly, so Ninja-like with the barf bag.

I explained how I had recently acquired a few hours of experience being at Vomit Level Orange on the trip out to Las Vegas.

We marveled together how neither of us had ever sat next to someone sick on a plane in all our years of flying. And here I had encountered it twice in the same week.

“What’s wrong with you?” she teased me.

“It’s not me!” I protested as the landing gear came down, bringing me back home. “It’s Vegas!”

I’m not great with sadness.

When it sneaks up on me, I often try make it vanish:  DVDs, M&Ms, online surfing, laundry. I know that ‘drink heavily’ should be on the list of distracting vices instead of laundry, but after I lurch down the basement stairs with dirty clothes and then an hour or two later, trudge up with warm, clean, clothes, I say to myself, “Well, it sucks to be sad, but at least I have clean socks.”

Who doesn’t like clean socks?

There’s a part of me that wants to analyze and interrogate sadness as opposed to feel it. My theory is that If I can just root out its known causes, I can figure out how to make it go away. Is this sadness based on the economy? People losing homes? State of the resource-drained earth? Or is this more personal, like revisiting an old relationship that did not last or pondering on the ‘what ifs’ in my own life?

Through my work in New Warriors, I’ve conducted a few workshops on the Basic Guy Emotions and one that seems universally tough just let sit there is sadness.

Men like to fix things.

Other emotions (anger, fear, shame, frustration with Lost reruns, and even guilt) all have inherent action-items built in:  justify the guilt, make a bulleted list of how to overcome fears. With anger, my brain can devise clever scenarios about revenge, righted wrongs, weeping perpetrators who finally understand the horror of their deeds…junior-high fantasies, of course, but it still feels like *doing* something. The brain takes a certain pleasure in saying, ‘Well, at least there’s action to contemplate!’

Sadness just kind of sits there and bleeds.

Ironically, joy is another feeling that is hard to just *feel.* When I am full of joy, I want to channel it into calling friends, being goofy, or maybe tackling projects I don’t particularly enjoy, like laundry. (Note to self:  I really should look at the correlation between my emotions and dirty laundry. Maybe I invent joy or sadness in my life when I’m out of clean shirts?) Joy demands expression sometimes, and very often, I’m okay with that.

Sadness requires…sadness. I don’t necessarily need to cry, but it might feel better if I did. No, this is worse:  just feeling it. Letting it pass through. Sadness is usually about loss – having lost something and what it feels like to be lost. Sadness is quite wonderful, actually, if I let it remind me about loss and others who have lost. This feeling might help me become more compassionate or more understanding. I love writing about sadness – that’s incredible. But feeling my own sadness head on, well, that’s another story.

I’ve been feeling sad the last two days and I’m working through it with the help of a Season 3 episode of My Name is Earl. I know, I know, I probably shouldn’t look to NBC Thursday sitcoms for therapy, but in one prison-themed episode, a gang leader who did not like having feelings glumly kept repeating, “I’m sad” completely without expression. Then seconds later, he’d make anotherstone-faced utterance of, “I’m sad.”

I liked that approach; it’s honest. It’s not a problem to be fixed or a bulleted item on a list.

I think it’s good work for me to just say those words aloud every now and then when I’m feeling sadness. “I’m sad.”

Saying this aloud reminds me that I’m doing this warrior thing:  feeling a thing instead of letting it drive my shadow behavior. If I’m not clear about my feeling and intention, I could call a friend for support and end up picking a fight because anger is easier than sadness. (For me.)

To be crisp an clear in my intention does not mean banishing emotional energy, but letting it come up and out when it needs to, even when it’s something I don’t want to feel.

But on the plus side, I have clean socks.

I’ll cut to the chase and get to the end of the story’s big reveal:  the creepy airplane guy is me.

Yesterday I enjoyed 12 hours of airplane travel madness. I left my Washington D.C. hotel at 6:14 a.m. so I could fly out at 8:00 a.m. Our plane circled a fog-blanketed Atlanta a few times and I must admit I was enjoying seeing the downtown skyscrapers poking their reluctant peaks out of the snowy blanket of clouds, like a Victorian Christmas village. Pretty cool.

Well, cool until the Captain announced that the auto-land wasn’t functioning correctly and we didn’t have enough fuel to make another wide berth of the city, so instead we were heading for Nashville.

I’m not sure why the Captain needed to tell us “there’s not enough fuel” at the same time he’s informing us of an equipment malfunction that should have been caught before trying to land the plane. All around me, my co-flyers sat up straight. What was that about not enough fuel? Even the iPod folks pulled off their headphones and asked their seatmates, “What just happened? Why did everyone flinch?”

Maybe our Captain didn’t realize how he said it. But to the layperson, “We don’t have enough fuel to make one more lap, so instead we’re going to head to a different airport in another state” is not comforting. I found myself wishing I had paid closer attention to those story problems with two planes.

So we clutched our side arms and pretended it was only a huge inconvenience and we weren’t terrified of crashing into the Smoky Mountains. I saw the movie Alive, I know how this goes. Personally don’t think I could eat human flesh if it came to that. Well, maybe. But it would have to be like, with a dipping sauce. Honey mustard. No way could I eat human flesh with a blue cheese or watery dill sauce.

In Nashville, we exited the plane and no longer confident in our cheerful Captain’s promise to “get that landing gear fixed before we try for Atlanta again,” I rebooked myself on another series of flights.

From Nashville, I flew to Cincinnati next and from Cincinnati to Minneapolis. With each new city, I got more and more irrationally nervous about never making it home, experiencing a new weather delay, equipment malfunction, a zombie invasion from Russia that immediately kills all airplane travel. I’d be stuck in the Cincinnati airport when the zombies attacked and the people who worked in the airport Cinnabon wouldn’t let me into the Employee Area with the other survivors because I wasn’t one of their own, just a traveler, and they were worried they’d run short of rolls and frosting leaving me to become an airport zombie, the worst kind of zombie.

If I’m going to be a zombie, I’d at least like to stay in my own neighborhood. I would totally go bite on those neighbor kids who keep stealing my raspberries and I wouldn’t even need honey mustard sauce.

I arrived in Cincinnati a little haggard. By now I had survived two airplane trips and had yet another to get through. I was getting a little unraveled. I’m not big on flying. I already knew my luggage was going to take a few twirls at the Atlanta airport before someone recognized its revised destination. I didn’t care; I just wanted to go home. Home.

In Cincinnati, my name was paged over the airport intercom, which always makes me nervous. (I always think my name is going to be followed by, “…you left an oven burner on at home. Your house burned to the ground.” Everyone will glare at me with angry pity and also a seething, ‘well what did you expect?’)

The friendly woman behind Delta’s gate confirmed it was me.

“Yes.” I tried to keep it cool.

“Do you have a seat on this plane? We’re not showing you with one.”

“I do! I do! I switched in Nashville, see the plane didn’t have enough fuel to land in Atlanta! So we…”

I rambled for a moment before she said, “Sir, because of the rebooking they didn’t give you a seat number like 11A, did they? Doesn’t your boarding pass say, ‘SEAT UNASSIGNED in big block letters?”

Oh. Right.

Yeah, that’s no big deal.

The last leg of the journey home was another small jet:  total of four seats across, can’t stand up straight, no beverage service because if the small plane lurches, an airline attendant could take out someone’s eye with a straw. Every lurch is stronger on a small plane. I wasn’t eager to crawl into another of these coffin-like cylinders. They assigned me to one of the back few rows, window seats. I crushed myself in and my seatmate crushed himself in and this is where it got weird.

I was feeling warm, tight, trapped in an enclosed place, and when I tried to turn on my overhead air jet, it didn’t work. He snickered a little in that, ‘airplanes, huh?’ kind of way that suggested a friendly sentence might be okay.

“This enclosed, warm space sure isn’t helping my claustrophobia.” I joked (but not really).

If I really want to chat with someone on a plane, which is rare, why must I say such odd things as an initial greeting? What’s wrong with a safe, “I bet the overhead light doesn’t work either.”

He grunted a little in solidarity but looking back, I think I had already shared a little too much by this point. I probably should have explained that I got up at the Central Time Zone equivalent of 4:30 a.m. this morning because my wake-up call was 20 goddamm minutes early. Or that I had kinda lost my normalcy around air travel for the day. Nope.

At the time, his slight guff was enough encouragement for me to continue.

I then looked at all the blank lumbering figures, slowly trudging back towards their seats amongst us and I said, “Boy, if these people were dressed nicer than they are now, this could be my funeral.”

To his credit, the gentleman completely ignored me. Just pretended he didn’t hear a single word.

Through his silence, I instantly realized how creepy that came across.

Why would I say that?

I blame the captain and his fuel comment thing. I blame the weather, of course, my frazzled nerves, but mostly I don’t take responsibility for that statement. I had had four caffeinated beverages by that point in the day.

Oh, and I also directly gestured towards these airplane zombies while casually remarking on their substandard attire for my funeral vision. So it wasn’t just words – I delivered this zinger with a flourish.

I knew he heard it; I’m not a mumbler. I was loud. He was open to hearing a friendly hello sentence; I know how to read my fellow travelers. But his complete refusal to acknowledge me was my first inkling that something was off.

Tonight I told my friend Michael this story and he burst into laughter.

“He thought you were a terrorist!” Michael laughed.

“No…no…”

Michael clearly didn’t understand. I wasn’t saying I wanted to die or that the plane was definitely going to crash. I was just saying that being here was like being at my own funeral and they would be part of my funeral. I uh…yeah, I guess maybe there was a creepy implication there.

We howled with laughter.

I then reflected on how many little non-verbal signals were confirmed by this Terriorist theory. The rigidity of my neighbor’s posture, the immediacy of turning on his computer and putting on headphones. He was powering up his computer and already wearing his headphones by the time the attendant had finished that ‘safe altitude’ message. He thought I was exceedingly creepy.

If the freedom-hating terrorists wanted another crack at our national air carriers, they’d be smarter to send a chunky blond guy to do their dirty work. Someone who looks like me, all innocent and doughy.

Michael was fascinated with our interaction and demanded to know if I said anything else weird or threatening to my neighbor the rest of the trip.

I explained that no, this was not a problem after the first twenty minutes because I asked the airline attendant if I could move to the nearby exit row where there seemed to be an empty aisle seat.

Michael’s eyebrows shot up.

“No,” I explained, “I just wanted the extra room so I could work on my computer.”

“What kind of person wants to sit in the available exit aisle seat? Who also comments that the fellow plane-boarders are his funeral procession?” Michael asked.

“Terrorist.” I said glumly.

I’m not sure why I say some of the absurd things I do. Or why I find it so amusing to alienate perfectly nice strangers through unconscious creepiness. While jump starting a car some winters ago, the very grateful lady pointed out that she could see a half-eaten bagel in my engine. Instead of saying, “Huh, that’s weird.” I turned to her and said, “Did you notice any cream cheese?”

I have to work on my people skills.

“Also,” I said to Michael last night and pointed to my pants. “I was also wearing these.”

Camaflague pants.

Michael looked at me wearily. “Of course you were.”

Halloween.

One of the few acceptable times of the year when the young and unempowered are allowed to threaten the status quo of the world with their one and only weapon:  youth.

I mean, sure it’s adorable when little Spiderman shows up and whispers, “Twicker tweets.” That puffy, little, muscle costume makes it hard for him to waddle up and down the sidewalk. The shy ninjas, shrugging Darth Vader who you can almost see blushing under all that plastic, the lion who wants candy but also wants you to hear her roar.

Cute.

But I’m not fooled.

It’s also a subtle threat.

They’re saying, “Hey, seriously. We live in this neighborhood and although we’re only roughly 5 – 12 years old right now, we’ll be teenagers in a few years and you don’t want to be known as that dick house where the candy has sucked for the past ten years. We’ll remember. And we’ll have cars by then. So c’mon. Gimmie a Reeces peanut butter cup.”

It’s okay, though. It’s their night of the year. And they don’t run the world just yet.

But we do, and what is the world going to be like when we hand it over? How awesome is it going to be an adult then? Or will it hurt worse than it does today, in our adult world right now and the costumes we wear? Totally cliche, I grant you; I feel like I just groped Whitney Houston.

But it’s also kinda true.

These kids will inherit debt, an oil crisis that hasn’t even begun, and a whole generation of fucked up war vets, brave men and women who gave so freely of their lives in service. Just or unjust as you may believe the Iraq war to be, these American men and women gave all their hearts to this country because they were worried that the rest of us might not be able to go out at night in costume and laugh and play and not be arrested for expressing joy. This is their love for us.

And tonight some of their kids are out trick-or-treating.

I like to think of these kids as the future walking to my front door, a toothy fashion show of how we might turn out. Hulks. Heros. Vampires. Wonder Women. Princesses in ribbons who remember to laugh. Knights who are excited to joust the air between houses. I always think the pirate children are going to end up as artists, massage therapists, and midnight authors. They understand that pirates have many different looks, and you actually have to walk crooked to pull off that costume. They’re the bravest and grow up so uniquely wonderful, little pirate kids.

If I run out of M&Ms tonight (which honestly would make me sad because then what the hell am I going to munch on during Final Destination 3, waiting for Ann to arrive from Iowa? After she arrives, we’re going to order Chinese and then head out to a costume party. She called me on the road to let me know that she’s already dressed as Harry Potter and has been all day. Adults get to have joy too.)…

Anyway.

If I run out of M&Ms, Reeces cups, and Hershey bars, I’m going to give the Future Kids one of my favorites:  Almond Joys.

Yum.

And also a silent promise to try to be a better man and to try to make this world better.

I bet it’s going to be a hard world for you kids. I’m feeling some extra hope these days because of the upcoming regime change. We might just not go totally insane in this world after all. Obama may pull us back from the brink, this unconventional and wise king. So things might be better when you kids get to be buying mortgages and worrying about your investments. I hope so. I intend to make it so.

(Although honestly, I don’t own jack shit in investments so, you know, I sleep at night. I’m not THAT grown up.)

But for tonight, you’ll have to settle for Almond Joys, which honestly, I don’t understand why you Future Kids don’t like coconut. You will. It’s coming for you. One day you’ll suddenly like coconut and then go, “Oh hey. I think I might be an adult here.”

And in the intervening years before we shake hands, adult-to-adult, don’t soap my house or egg my garage. I’m not afraid to chase you down the alley, you little motherfuckers.

I’m not giving up on you yet.

I think we might make it.

The Pirate Kids will help us out.

Ooo – gotta go!

Future Kids are at the door demanding candy.

After being invited by two warrior buds who I really like, I decided to make good on a long-time-wish and attend Burning Man, that wild, desert party, attended by 50,000 strangers who create an enormous, nomadic city for eight days. The self-labeled ‘burners’ have a language all their own in this advertising-free, corporate-sponsorship-free, green zone. There is dancing, partying, meditating, spirituality, elaborate art, and mutant cars! Workshops, giveaways, self-sufficiency, interdependence, night raves, and a culture of gratitude and outrageousness.

And costumes. Everyone wears costumes.

Because of my late-decision to attend, the cheapest means to get to the desert was for me to drive my trusty Subaru. By Wednesday of this week, I had assembled my best costumes on the dining room table (everyone loves Greasicle the Clown!), started a Gifts of Gratitude pile, and being somewhat responsible, took my car to be checked out by my favorite, trustworthy mechanics. So, when they informed me that the Subaru needed a great deal of work before they deemed it ‘cross-country-worthy,’ I believed them. With sadness, I believed.

Dang.

The cost of driving to the Nevada desert, outfitting myself with necessary supplies (backpack, cheap bike, food, miscellaneous desert necessities), seemed pretty costly to this mostly-unemployed man. Costly, but worth it. And now fixing the car would double that cost…should I listen to my head and finances? Or should I listen to my eager heart, ready to run off and play with fun new friends?

Lucky for me, my friend Stephen was immediately available to do ‘the warrior thing.’

That is, as I lay out my pros and cons, gold and shadow, asking for feedback, he listened carefully, asked a lot of questions, and probed how attending Burning Man fit within my life mission. While bemoaning the car costs, the preparations I had already made, etc. I tried to slip in one tiny, little innocuous fact that meant nothing: I am right on the cusp of completing the first draft of a powerful piece of fiction. I’m not even exactly sure how I came to mention this in the Burning Man debate.

(Sidebar: at 153 pages, it’s the first third of a novel – yet a complete story in itself. The writing is some of the best I have ever done and I am quite proud of it. And with the help of a really wonderful editor I have met online, I hope to make it better. The story is goofy, loving, and full of gratitude. It’s sexy and erotic, playful, and intense. I love writing fiction!)

As soon as I mentioned this insignificant, little detail, Stephen’s eyes blazed because he recognized a thing: a secret handle, a door slightly cracked: something was lurking back there in shadow.

It’s amazing to process something with another warrior and experience this deep, deep listening. I do not say this to diminish Stephen’s giftedness, because he is giftedness (that came out wrong. Where’s my editor?). Warrior listening includes bypassing one’s need to give advice, to fix things, to manipulate towards a certain outcome, or even just to say, ‘Oh, I totally know how you feel. Last week when I was in the Target parking lot…”

It’s a deeper listening, a subtler place. Listen and watch for the ‘tells,’ the little details and head jerks, the flinches that sometimes reveal a deeper truth. And Stephen had found mine.

I was running away.

“What happens with this piece of writing, now that you’re almost finished?” Stephen asked.

I tried to avoid answering, but it was too late – I had been busted.

“I, uh…” I stammered, “have got to get serious about researching publishing options, making edits, plotting the next pieces…”

Oh. It hit me.

I love sitting for seven or eight hours just putting together words trying to make myself laugh or feel sad, wondering where these fictional characters are headed. And while I have entertained dreams of book signings at Borders (the line extends out the door and around the block), I have done very little to actually make that fantasy a reality. I haven’t tried to get anything published, I haven’t made much effort to read books on writing, attend workshops, etc. (Also in the book signing fantasy, people keep bringing me boxes of Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies.)

After wild, unexpected success online with fiction I wrote this Spring, I sobered up. I told myself, “I can do this…” and then I believed it. Bought a few books on writing. Attended a writers’ workshop. Took this idea of writing a bit more seriously.

But not too seriously.

I still struggle with consistently making time to write – it hasn’t been coming easily. Or I sit down to write and let myself get distracted. Somehow, it’s still not a true priority in my life. Or, if I try to remain open and non-judgmental about it, I can say it’s not a strong *enough* priority where it shapes my life.

It was a sad realization that perhaps attending Burning Man this year – while right on the cusp of making a commitment to writing – was more of a distraction than I had let myself believe. As Stephen and I pondered this together, I realized how closely the two are intertwined. Maybe the money issue, which raised all these doubts, was just a manifestation of some deeper concerns on my part.

Perhaps I was eager to go to the desert and feel other peoples’ fire. Maybe I wanted to be around creative energy and soak it up. Dance naked. Ain’t nothing wrong with that. But I don’t just want to GO to Burning Man…I want to BE a burning man: the man on fire. I want that fire back home in Minnesota, in my life.

And here’s the kooky thing: I am on fire!

Through warriors I have already touched that fire within. I have seen it blaze and I love it! Yet I sometimes forget this fire by not tending it, continuing to seek it outside me: food. Watching TV. Answering emails. Planning a social calendar. I let myself get distracted from my life’s priorities by shiny and new baubles. I like hunting for new fires – that’s novel and new. Sustaining and growing a fire sometimes means committing time and energy to something less dramatic.

Hey, I still want to go to Burning Man. I hope to go next year. But this year, I’m going to have my own Burning Man at night in the gazebo on my back porch.

I might just edit naked with glow sticks.

I hain’t no math whiz, but I have been thinking of quadratic equations lately. Those things I alternatively loved and hated in high school algebra: 3(x+y) / 4xy-2y=14.

Solve for X.

I loved them when I solved them – loved the instant rush of knowing Y EQUALS 8! IT EQUALS EIGHT! Wahoooooo!

And of course, more often than not, I would slink into Mrs. Jollie’s Algebra class thinking, ‘who gives a fuck about a stupid ‘y?’ It’s just a dumb alphabet letter; it’s not like we’re ever going to meet at the post office and I’ll have the opportunity to say, ‘So. You equaled -42 last week, how’d that work out for you?’

My recent experience in the Advanced Novel Workshop has really churned my butter (I’m trying out a new colloquialism) in terms of ‘what can I learn from this?’ And there’s an uglier question here that I must ask myself: how did I CONTRIBUTE to this situation?

Because I did.

I did not speak the prejudice; I don’t own those pieces. But looking at my own shadow and contributions to the classroom dynamic, I start pulling seeing a math equation where the quantity E (for Edmond) equals = ?

I started reflecting on all the ways I felt vulnerable (Vulnerable = V). I was not staying in my own home. (2V). I had been traveling the entire week prior and was not feeling grounded. (3V). I wasn’t doing anything particularly helpful to ground myself and find center, such as work out, eat healthy, or meditate (6V). I hadn’t planned well for the workshop week: I was still doing the ‘pre-work’ as I was racing out of town. (7V). All of these factors kept increasing my vulnerability to this experience (or any!) and I paid no heed.

Factor in the intense vulnerability around the fact that I have never attended a formal writers’ workshop for feedback, certainly not traveled out of state for one, and the coefficient for V becomes 21. Factor in that I have never shared gay-themed writing with a group of writing peers who I cannot know are going to be supportive, and that coefficient is 36. Here in Minneapolis, I have lived amongst so many supportive, loving friendships that I forget this is not how the rest of the world sometimes is.

Looking back now, when I showed up to class, I had shut down. I was scared. Normally, in a classroom situation, I tend to be rather goofy and outgoing. I introduce myself to other participants and find some way to play together. Spend some time in heartfelt conversation or forging some connection. But not this time. I sat stone silent and waited for someone to talk to ME. You guys prove to ME that you’re going to treat me well, and maybe I’ll show up.

That’s not how vulnerability works.

Or rather…it’s a very brittle sort of vulnerability. Breakable.

By Wednesday of that week, I realized I was hiding out, not showing up like a king with these people, so I deliberately shared a few stories that always delight and create a sense of play: my frequently being mistaken for twin brothers. (Stories for another blog.) But even this was ‘too little, too late.’ The stories were amusing, but they were not heart-opening and they did not forge a deeper connection.

So that week’s Vulnerablatic Equation, as I have begun to consider it, added a victim mentality (VM) that suggested everyone in the room should do something to make me feel welcome. I was taking a BIG RISK here, so where was my hand holding? Who was going to rub my tummy?

That’s not how a king thinks of the world. A King says, ‘What can I do to make THEM more comfortable? Feel more loved? How do I make this the kingdom I always wanted to be part of?’

One of the biggest qualities that was missing was my compassion. For four days (4D), my expanding compassion (C) was close to zero. While I was still friendly and kind to others, I wasn’t EXPANDING compassion in this room, breathing it into all of us, building a safer, tighter container. I imagine Mrs. Jollie trying to explain this to my by mapping it on the chalk board:

4D(36V + VM) – C =

Trouble.

I have been reading a book called Transforming Fate Into Destiny, strongly recommended by a warrior friend. Now that I’m almost done with the book, I understand why he advocated it: a good portion of the ‘what you can do about your life’ pieces are about avoiding self-induced destruction by owning your shadow, looking at your projections, and rising to GREET destiny instead of dragging your feet and mumbling about how life ‘isn’t fair.’

In that book, I read this quote by Carl Jung, “The psychological rule says that when an inner situation is not made conscious, it happens outside as fate. That is to say, when the individual remains undivided and does not become conscious of his inner opposite, the world must perforce act out the conflict and be torn into opposing halves.”

Ow.

I remained blind to my intense vulnerability and my lack of loving compassion. I showed up as a victim. When the Canadian judge kept repeating that the closest he came to ‘my kind of writing’ was the child pornography case he adjudicated, I was in such shock and so blindsided that I could do nothing else but use this as further ‘proof,’ of the growing hostility in the room.

I am not taking responsibility for the comments of others. It was truly amazing to hear such unadulterated prejudice come out of the mouths of such intelligent, worldly people. (I mean, who still defiles the *Irish* anymore?)

But.

My response was brittle. I did not make my heart bigger to embrace this situation. I did not prepare myself to encounter this kind of thinking, by caring for myself. I subtracted compassion when I should have used it as a coefficient (ever since I looked up that word in wikipedia, I can’t stop using it).

In the words of my Warrior Monk friends, I helped create this reality. I helped instigate it.

I do not like recognizing that I had a hand in this. It’s much more comfortable to blame others and look at how THEY made the world so ugly.

Some days, it’s awesome to be a warrior! Not so fun other days when it means taking ownership for those pieces of life that I create that aren’t sparkling and golden. Given the choice, I’d still rather look at my shit than not.

I think I was less confused about the world back when ‘y’ simply equaled 8.

Thursday in our Advanced Novel Workshop we reviewed 15 pages of a manuscript which had a sex-crazed, gay character manipulating straight men into unwitting seduction. (This manuscript confirmed The big Straight Guy Fear: we’re after them.) I waited to see if someone else would comment, but nobody did, so finally I spoke about this one-dimensional character.

That unleashed a flood of uh…energy.

“It’s totally realistic,” snapped the Young Portland Guy (YPG). “It’s not one-dimensional at all. I know gay guys like that. I saw this in San Francisco all the time.”

Someone pointed out that we didn’t see much of this character, and that perhaps he becomes more fully rounded later. True, I admitted. But we see three main characters in their own ‘complete’ section, and while the other two straight characters presented were not saints, they each had redeeming qualities. They weren’t stereotypes.

While trying to articulate this, I was cut off no less than FOUR times by YPG and the Dallas Doctor (DD). Their vehemence and energy was surprising. They would not let me speak.

The instructor said nothing.

No one else in the class chimed in.

The gay character in what we reviewed is a punch line – making him a real person would probably make the scene less hilarious.

Still, it’s surprising.

But maybe not.

Besides my characters, the only other gay character even *mentioned* this week was by DD who has the traditional Depressed Gay who can’t stand himself, his secret queer life, and commits suicide.

Novels are not obligated to include a homo.

However, when you DO include a queer…would it be possible to make him A) not sexually evil, B) not suicidal over being gay, or C) not snapping his fingers while putting on his drag makeup and singing along to the Evita soundtrack? Still, perhaps it’s progress that nobody included the Effeminate Best Friend who says to his plucky gal pal, “You go, girl!”

If the author wants to create a one-dimensional character in his work, that’s his business. As a manuscript reviewer, it’s my obligation to point it out so his choice is conscious. I did the same for one-dimensional straight characters earlier in the week. This didn’t have to be a ‘gay thing.’ It was a ‘one-dimensional character’ thing.

I have a few friends who see prejudice everywhere and I am the one who rolls my eyes. “You’re overreacting.” I tell them. “Seeing haters where there is nothing but smoke.”

All last evening and into the night hours (early enough to hear birds begin their morning songs) I have been questioning whether I have been inventing phantoms. Am I? Maybe. But then I keep reviewing the whole week.

I commented on an ethnic slur in a Monday manuscript and the author explained, “Yeah, but it’s true. People really think that way about the Irish.” After class, another woman from class sidled up to me and said, “It is true, you know. The Irish really do have bad blood. It’s okay; they accept that about themselves. It’s why they have so much fun and drink so much – because they accept it.”

She felt it perfectly acceptable to say this since she is married to someone of Irish descent.

Also on Monday, DD and I got into it a bit during a manuscript review when I commented that a female character seemed exceptionally rude to her one-dimensional boyfriend: a muscley, masonry worker. DD said to our class, “Yeah, but some men you just have to talk to that way.”

“So he *deserves* it?” I asked. “Because he’s blue collar…”

That remark didn’t go over well. After Monday’s class, DD huffily explained that she is a DOCTOR and sees a LOT of people, so when she makes that remark she KNOWS what she’s talking about.’ She stormed away when she was done lecturing me.

I guess I expected something different from a group of writers.

“This gay guy,” argued YPG when cutting me off Thursday, “is the snake in the Garden of Eden. He’s totally evil. He’s perfect just like that.”

I grew quiet after that comment because, well, it seemed pointless. YPG and DD refused me the respect of even listening to my perspective. The facilitator just watched. Nobody else commented.

A few minutes later, I think YPG realized he had been a little extra vehement. He returned to the topic again after the rest of the class had moved on, to justify what he said: “I think I went after Edmond because this happened to me once. I knew a gay guy who was just like this character so it really rang true for me.”

Yeah, that’s pretty much how prejudice works, bud: you have a bad experience with ONE person and then decide that this person represents everyone in that subgroup. But even if you had a bad experience with TWELVE people in the group you’re condemning, it’s still a stereotype. Twelve bad eggs still don’t equal a fair representation.

(I typed YPG and DD’s exact phrasing on my laptop during the class while it was fresh. It was all I could think to do while my brain was reeling, trying to process their sharp scolding of my observation.)

And hey, it’s not just the straight people in the room.

The author who wrote the one-dimensional gay character is himself gay. He told me so Wednesday night after the Open Mike event. He never volunteered this in class. He’s in a relationship and lives openly in San Francisco, so this isn’t some closet case. Never openly supported any aspect of my gay-themed manuscript during the verbal feedback. (Given this climate, can I blame him for keeping his mouth shut?) He’s welcome to hate the manuscript I wrote; there’s no automatic solidarity expected. Yet his gushy written comments didn’t match his verbal silence.

After his Thursday feedback session, he eagerly admitted that he wants a best seller, so I give him credit for knowing his audience: they rabidly defended his gay character. So yeah, pandering works. But it makes me sad that the only other gay man in the class deliberately kept an invisible profile and is apparently willing to portray us as ‘the serpent’ if it will help sell his book.

Maybe the character he is creating eventually has more depth. Could be. We only read 15 pages. Even so, given the energetic conversation around this character, his lack of comment on this character during the post-mortem was noticeable.

It’s really discouraging.

One of the multicultural workshops I attended pointed out that folks in ‘the majority’ just don’t often get what it’s like to be a minority so they can’t see the unfriendly environment surrounding them. “You’re overreacting,” they’d most likely be inclined to say to whomever broaches the topic. Therefore, facilitators of people in charge won’t act on what they can’t see. And of course, no facilitator can control what people say.

Yet without any multicultural sensitivity, I still think our instructor could have noticed the verbal badgering and said something like, “You’re not letting Edmond make his point.” Or perhaps reminded YPG and DD to keep their energy directed at the writing. Or that nobody’s opinion is wrong – it’s an opinion – so there’s no sense in berating someone.

Nada.

It hurts my heart.

This experience on Thursday made me think of comments I heard Wednesday about my gay-themed manuscript. I really did hear wonderful insights and feedback; that was useful. And as I reread my misgivings pre-critique, I shuddered and think to myself, ‘Dumb Ass…you had already seen the contour of the room and ignored it.’

During my manuscript critique, I received verbal feedback from two straight men stating, ‘I COULDN’T GET INTO THIS. THIS WASN’T WRITTEN FOR ME.’ One guy gave me pointers on how to make it more accessible for him.

I seriously doubt that if I had presented a children’s manuscript for review, my colleagues would have said, “Well, this didn’t seem like it was for ME. I couldn’t get into it.” They would have said, “Of course it’s not written for me, but let’s see what I think of the writing anyway.”

And no, neither of these men was the Canadian judge who yesterday repeatedly informed me the closest he came to gay-themed-anything was the child pornography case he adjudicated. (Also Wednesday’s blog post.) The judge did try to give me tips on how the police can track information on your computer, I guess in case I felt like downloading kiddie porn.

You know how the gays love kiddie porn.

I came to this Iowa Summer Writing Festival believing that writers – WRITERS – would know how to step into worlds different from their own, see a different point of view. To recognize that black people might see the world different from white people. That the poor might not have such a great time as the rich. (And hell, the rich might not be having such a great time either.) Even my dividing the world into black and white people is ridiculously overly-generalized.

I need to look at my own projections about writers: their supposed openness, my assumption of their willingness to be curious, my thinking that as a group, writers will set aside personal judgments in service to critiquing a story. That’s a stereotype too, one that clearly I must own. And I have to remember the folks I encountered this week don’t represent a majority; they themselves are just a couple of eggs.

Last night I talked with two friends I trust to be rigorous with me and invited them to help me see what parts of this are mine to own. What did I contribute to this? What is my own work here? Go back to class? Bow out? I know several I could have called who would have most assuredly told me what exactly what the bruised part of me wanted to hear. But I didn’t want that; I wanted perspective. Honesty.

I’m not going back today for the final class.

I will review the final manuscripts for my two remaining colleagues and leave them on their desks an hour before class begins; I will keep the commitment I made to give my best feedback.

But I can’t sit in that room again.

In the end, it’s not about the words. (Which is pretty ironic for a crowd that loves words.) This isn’t some political correctness test. Honestly? I don’t think the misguided Canadian judge *intended* harm with his words despite their impact. Even DD seemed surprised that a person might take offense to the phrase ‘You just have to talk to some men that way.’ They don’t get it.

There’s a guideline in New Warriors to recognize that actions and words have both intended and unintended consequences. So, while there may not have been intent to do harm by anyone in the room, I do think the environment became more and more unwelcoming with each passing day. The Irish bashing was easy enough to just confront and then let it roll off, but every frickin’ day there was something new. And calling a creepy, one-dimensional sexual predator a representative of gay men and NOBODY in the room flinches or says, ‘that’s messed up…’ well, I recognize when it’s time to leave.

Sometimes, being a warrior means challenging those prejudices. I did that. And sometimes it means removing yourself from an environment that does not feel safe.

And now I’m doing that.

I’m sharpening my defensiveness.

Getting ready to pounce.

My selected pages are going to be reviewed in roughly 45 minutes and I find myself a little freaked out.

These are strangers who are forced to read my writing because that’s what you do during the Advanced Novel Workshop:  read and critique. I haven’t really *connected* with a single person in the room. Had some decent conversation at a ‘Writer’s Reception’ the other night, but then again, we were all drinking free wine and a little buzzed. (On the plus side, I can cross off ‘Get Drunk in Iowa’s Formal State Capitol’ from my Life List.)

These strangers actually already read my work last night; we’re discussing it today.

I’ve already projected all over them:  they’ll be uncomfortable with the gay references. Four of them will boldly announce, “For moral reasons, I could not read these pages.’

The instructor will nod sympathetically, and say, “Understandable.”

The 60-ish, Canadian Superior Court judge attending the class will silently get up and walk out of the room.

Yesterday, a very intelligent woman explained she has her gay character commit suicide because he’s so miserable. I think today she will blankly ask me ‘why is this story so upbeat? Aren’t gay people, you know, miserable all the time?’

I have rehearsed a couple Outraged Fag scenes in my head:  YOU PEOPLE DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE A GAY MAN IN THIS STRAIGHT CULTURE! I SHOULD HAVE NEVER SHARED MY WRITING WITH A GROUP OF PEOPLE WHO WOULD REFUSE TO STEP OUTSIDE OF THEIR SURBURBAN MINDSETS TO …

(The rant continues. There are several striking variations. One includes a dramatic storming out of the room.)

The truth is, I’m just scared.

I didn’t pull punches with this work I submitted, I didn’t edit my words to make it ‘straight-person-friendly.’ There aren’t raunchy sex scene in this, but I did use the word ‘cocksucking’ and not in a derogatory way.

And if I dig a deeper (which is what a warrior commits to do: dig deeper to more fecund layers of truth beneath the topsoil), this projected fear that ‘they can’t handle it,’ is just another dirt layer of defensiveness.

What if none of them have a problem with a man-to-man love story…what if they just hate it because it’s bad writing?

Ouch.

It’s easier to prepare my Outraged Fag scenes in my head than admit this simple truth:  I am afraid. I don’t like feeling judged (who does?) and I’m about to willingly go into this classroom where I am going to be judged.

Ironically, each of the 5 class participants who we’ve already critiqued had to go through the exact same experience that I am now: fear, anticipation, wondering about judgments. Which means we probably have a lot more in common than I want to admit. And yet, I’m so ready to say, ‘Wow, you’re WAY different than me…’ because it’s easier to be judged, perhaps, by people who don’t understand the Real Me, than it is by people who call me on my shit.

Ugh – this feels like such a high-school revelation that I expect the food court where I’m typing right now to start playing music from the Sixteen Candles genre. Cue Molly Ringwald to show up with her pouty lips whining, “It’s not fair.”

And maybe this is an age-appropriate revelation. The part where this fear comes from might just be part of me that’s not much older that high school, the age in my life where I hid being gay. During those four years, my ‘best friend’ sprinkled the word ‘faggot’ so regularly into his conversation that it felt like table salt for his vocabulary. And he loooooved salt.

For four years of high school, I tried not to mind.

***

Class is over.

The world did not explode, although I thought my heart might. And I never got to use my Outraged Fag speech. True, there were comments from classroom colleagues that indicated they did NOT get it, nor did they try. One (straight) man said bitterly, “if you’re trying to reach me as your intended audience, this isn’t going to do it.” Yeah, I can see how writing about two men in love might not attract the straight male reader. Kinda figured that.

But then again, weeks ago my friend John (also straight) read some of my work and was exuberantly gushy about what he read, so much so that he has since adopted vocabulary from the story which made me blush with pleasure.

Most of the class had fantastic insights, gripped my writing with their teeth and shook it like a dog enjoying a bone. And weirdly, you want that in a writing class:  for the participants to gnaw on it, wrestle with it, growl over interpretations, bark at each other a little.

“I think you’ll see on page 4, the author meant this…”

“Oh no he didn’t. Why would he have that character’s relationship take this turn if he intended…”

I listened in silence, taking notes, marveling at how wonderfully forthright and genuine their perceptions were. Were some of them uncomfortable with the subject matter? Maybe. But they slobbered over the bone, discussing lines that pleased them, analyzing confusing narration, making smart suggestions on how to improve the writing.

Fantastic.

At the end of the experience the class took a break, ten minutes to stretch.

Before I could leave my seat, the Canadian judge came to me and said, “Good work. The only time I’ve experienced writing this (gay-themed) was a child pornography case brought to me a few years ago.”

“This isn’t child pornography.” I explained to him. “It has NOTHING to do with child pornography.”

“Yeah.” He said vaguely. “It’s just the closest I’ve come to subject material like this is child porn.”

I repeated my statement but could see that it wasn’t really going to change his mind.

“You would not believe how much porn he had on his computer.” continued the judge, pretty much ignoring me at that point. “What’s the word…downlobed? He downlobed it.”

Hmmm.

Perhaps some of the judgments – the shit I made up – were on target. But at the same time, I’m glad I chose vulnerability. And the judgments were bearable, I am not the kid I was in high school.

I’m a man. 

As I write this, I’m seated in a University of Iowa classroom with 12 others, voluntarily attending something titled, Advanced Novel Workshop.

Our first real class session began roughly ten minutes ago. I am trying to look studious and hopefully, give the impression of writing copious notes about the Structure Of A Novel.

Several people in the room are very busy quoting famous literature to show that they’re well-read. “Have you read The Hours? You haven’t? Oh, you really, really must.” There is this puffiness about us fresh writers, a ‘LOOK AT ME! I READ BOOKS!’ quality that feels very eleven-years-old. I attribute this to Day 1 jitters; everyone wants to look literary.

It’s a competition as well.

Last night in our ‘intro’ session where we told our names and a brief synopses of what we brought to read, someone exclaimed over a particular writer, “I LOVE her! She’s brilliant! I’ve read everything she wrote!”

Someone else one-upped the speaker by saying, “You DO know about her new novel, right? Coming out next month.”

The original speaker did not.

Someone else one-upped the one-upper by saying, “A selection was in this month’s Harpers. Did you read it?”

The one-upper had not read it; this was the Ace of Diamonds trump card.

It gets a little competitive.

Ugh. Someone just said an approximation of this: “The genius of George Elliot…”

This is why I hate writing workshops.

On the chalkboard, our facilitator started creating a list of Highly Recommended Books: Mrs. Dalloway, Wolf Willow, Crossing To Safety, etc. The list depresses me a little bit, suggesting perhaps I have to read a lot more IMPORTANT BOOKS before considering becoming a Serious Writer. To be fair, I probably already knew that most of the stuff I read is not on that list of great literature. (I don’t think Joss Whedon’s run on the Astonishing X-men has been officially sanctioned by the literary canon. Not yet.)

Among the non-quoters, there are four people looking pensive, reflective even. It’s like those high school graduation photos where the senior gently rests their chin on knuckles looking towards the future. When I’m not typing faux-notes, I think I might be one of those.

Are they bored with the quoters like me? Or waiting for their moment to quote George Elliot? Hey, I read George Elliot’s Middlemarch while in college. I still remember one specific line I can quote easily, nestled comfortably around page 634: “He was a dried bladder for peas to rattle in, said Mrs. Cadwallader.” Seriously. It’s a line from Middlemarch. My friend Margy and I cracked ourselves up over that one. It’s just hard to know where I might use this little gem.

Time passes.

37 minutes into our first real class, someone brings up Virginia Woolf‘s death, greedily describing how Mrs. Woolf weighted herself with rocks in her pockets before walking into the river. It’s like a creepy campfire story for writers. I’ve heard it at several writer workshops now. Everyone nods knowingly, as if to say, ‘That could happen to me if I don’t master my gifts.’

I can’t decide if I’m being uber-judgmental because I’m nervous about having my writing critiqued or because these quoting contests drives me crazy. It’s probably the critique. I do love some of the classics and honestly, I heard a beautiful quote from George Elliot at a lecture earlier today. So it’s probably nervousness.

It’s hard to be vulnerable with something important to me. If someone critiques my lawn-mowing, I’d shrug and say, “Yeah, good pointers. I should definitely turf in the Spring.”

But my writing.

Well.

I do want honest feedback, I really do. And despite the loving, careful feedback I’ve received, I still get leery. Mostly in writing workshops where just about everyone has an axe to grind. Perhaps this drives my feeling a little cantankerous about the tone of the class. I am probably too harsh. I’ll have to look at my shadow around insecurity.

It helps me to remember that there is something wonderful about 12 strangers gathering to humbly ask, “Please read this and give me your honest opinion. But keep in mind I might be a little fragile on this topic because it matters to me.”

It’s sweet.

Vulnerability can be tricky.

I’m probably also anxious because although I love reading, I don’t always come across as intelligent in book discussions.

During my junior year of college, I was enrolled in an Honors Program class devoted to about eight of Charles Dickens’ masterpieces. I was a first class, Dickens Geek having spent my lonely teenage years wandering around his Victorian England. This class thrilled me to the core. I reread all the books – just for fun. During class one day, I had tried to describe a beautiful scene from A Tale of Two Cities and ended up saying, “Really…it was a beautiful part of the movie…I mean…novel.”

Needless to say, the Dickens’ class screeched with schadenfreude delight. I earnestly tried to explain that I honestly had never seen the movie, but nobody could hear me through the noisy laughter.

They were laughing with delight because THEY hadn’t slipped and said it themselves.

Since everyone (except the 2-3 Dickens’ diehards) had grown weary of reading 800+ page Dickens novels, the video stores near NIU experienced an inexplicable demand for every available Dickens’ movie. Just a few days prior to my disastrous comment, Jeanie, a classroom friend had grumpily complained that the only version of A Tale of Two Cities available to rent was the cartoon version.

“But what are you gonna do, right?” She paused. “Actually, it wasn’t too bad.”

You’d think my Dickens’ humiliation from college would be enough for me to keep my mouth shut.

Apparently, it was not.

Roughly an hour ago we began discussing a colleague’s shared pages. His novel features a female anti-James Bond who drags her troglodyte boyfriend from bed (where it’s casually mentioned that he is an extremely muscular masonry worker) to go steal credit cards.

In the middle of a dialog about the nature of female action-hero relationships, I thought I might offer some insight from an unconventional source.

“In the movie Charlie’s Angels,” I began.

Everyone burst out laughing.

Our facilitator stopped chortling long enough to ask me, “Shall I add that to our list on the chalkboard under Mrs. Dalloway?”

Peals of laughter could be heard down the echoing, Iowan hallways.

Sigh.

I hate writing workshops.