Despite the fact that I have been an aspiring writer for as long as I can remember, I’ve never been much good at the follow through required to make something happen. I’ve never kept a journal for longer than… umm… 10-14 days before I took a six-month hiatus and then, started a new journal completely. In fact, I recently stumbled upon the skeletons of journals past.. a limited few with deep philosophical musings; a handful that offer a very brief look into my college antics (pre-Facebook, thank goodness), including some very poor decision making; and few more that are merely a emotionally-charged teenage pity party on a page.
Why couldn’t I follow through? Maybe I was an undiagnosed hyperactive kid long before it was “normal” to have ADHD, a peanut allergy and/or a gluten-free diet. Or, most likely, my perfectionistic tendencies, unwillingness to fail, and desire to please routinely crushed my more creative side. Regardless, I’m finding that my 2014 blogging commitment is a public test with vast opportunities for shame and humiliation if anyone other than my mom is reading.
Case in point: just three weeks into my new blog and WordPress has had to remind me twice that it is time to serve up my next post. Graciously, but with as much subtlety as a gun to the head, it sends me emails saying it is time to put something… anything… out there.
It’s not as if I don’t have a wealth of inspiration in this 5P:1V house. Lord knows, I do. And, yet, I have felt a little stressed about what to write to both entertain you and frankly, to release some of the crazy that builds up in this existence. And so it has begun. Three weeks in and I’ve already forgotten how much I enjoy writing as a simple creative release and have gotten caught up in worrying about what you’ll think and how you’ll respond. This sad truth became abundantly clear last night when I read The Chop’s latest story that he brought home from school.
In a nutshell, the 4.5-page story (practically a chapter book in second-grade metrics) is about a giant 1,000-headed, winged dragon coincidentally named Jay, who has three “bothers” (a Freudian slip, I think not) — two older and one younger. His favorite food is elephant guts (probably a less than subtle nod to my fabulous cooking). Capable of spewing purple, yellow and blue, Jay the giant dragon wears purple pants and a blue shirt (thank goodness for modesty, but clearly, I’m not raising fashion plates) while wielding a yellow sledge hammer (note: sledge hammer is my interpretation; Jay actually wrote: “slug hammer” which could be something else altogether).
In the story, in a demonstration of love, Jay’s mother fed him blue whale brains and hearts for dinner, something which likely was a huge pain in the ass to both get and prepare (note: without rave reviews, she likely won’t be serving THIS again). Showing more variety and exotic flare in her menu than I offer my own children, Jay’s mother made giraffe legs for breakfast (sorry, PETA). Following this protein-heavy breakfast, Jay the giant dragon spent the early part of the day chasing the sun (move over, Icarus) with a goal of reaching the sun by lunchtime. He did. So satisfied with his accomplishment, when the sun “hit [Jay] in the head, he didn’t even feel it”. Though I assume that his collision with the sun resulted in (at minimum) horrible skin burns, eye spots and a concussion, Jay, the giant dragon, transitioned from sun chasing to a game of football with his brothers. According to the story, he caught the ball no less than 1,000 times and “evre time he cout it, he got a touchdown. They called him a hero.” Nope. I don’t worry about Jay’s confidence.
Having racked up at least 6,000 points in the endeavor, Jay was bored with his success on the football field. So, Jay wore his mother down with repeated “I’m bo-ored” pleas for a playdate with a friend. At his friend’s dragon lair, he played Minecraft on the Xbox; “stomped on the ground”; “screamed at the mirrors in the bathroom and made mean faces at the camera” (think Smaug in Peter Jackson’s latest Hobbit installation). I’m no expert, but I think these are all hallmarks of a good giant dragon playdate. And then, without warning, Jay leaves the reader wanting more with: “… the playdate was over. Don’t get me rong, [Jay] loves sleepovers and playdates because he wants to never leve.”
And, just as suddenly as it began, the sun set on day 1 of Jay’s story. But, not to fear, Jay had day 2 up his grimy little sleeve.
Early on day 2, Jay, the giant dragon, fed a rotten carrot to his bunny, which caused his bunny to grow exponentially (Jay wrote: “his bunny is big. I’m telling you now. Seriusly, I’m telling the truth”). After he finished pleading for your suspended disbelief, Jay, the writer, lost his place in this tale, but recovered with a simple: “OK, where were we? Oh yes, I was about to say… The End”.
Clearly, Jay and I need to work on conclusions, but all told, a compelling story with colorful detail; some dramatic peaks; and a protagonist that you want to root for (unless you are a vegetarian with staunch moral beliefs about endangered, exotic or potentially mistreated animals).
What I loved and what hit home? Jay wrote this and moved on. He hasn’t checked back with my husband or I to see how we liked it or looked for validation in our comments about his story.
When I grow up, I want to be just like Jay (who’d have ever thought I would utter those words?) — brave, confident and unapologetic about his creative outputs. Thank you, Chop, for your unintentional reminder and for saving your mom from abandoning her writing resolution before the end of January.
Where were we? Oh yes, I was about to say: The End.
Whole Lotta P 