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ESSAY-SORTING OUT THE PAST FROM THE PRESENT, AND VICE VERSA

6/9/2018

I haven’t posted anything in a while, and it honestly has nothing to do with being depressed. Instead, and I have no idea if this will make any sense, it has to do with changing the way that I’ve been thinking for a long, long time.

Hmmmm….I don’t know if this will make any sense, honest. Best to keep writing.

The best I can put it is this way: for a long time, I’ve been in this mindset where I think about the past. So many times, it will be a beautiful day outside, and there are things in front of me, right in front of me, where I can enjoy them.

And I don’t.

I don’t because there is some sort of something in my past—usually a regret—that I spend a whole of time thinking about. There is something to be said for thinking about this.

Just not all the time.

It works the opposite way, too. Some folks are great at living in the present, at talking about the things that they’ve done the previous day, and what they’re going to do tomorrow. Every so often, though, something that’s not in the present—some awful thing that happened a while back, usually—gets in the way of this. And yes, it’s necessary to deal with whatever that thing was, and move on.

It’s a balance, though. It’s far too easy, when dealing with whatever that thing (or things) are to get into a mindset in which that becomes the only thing that someone things about. And when that happens, it’s necessary to turn away from those thoughts, and think about what’s directly ahead.

For a person who’s spent way too much time thinking about virtually everything except the present, this can be torture. Suddenly, turning away from all those thoughts about the past feels as if that person isn’t dealing with important things that can eat away and become every more painful, likes a cavity that’s neglected until it becomes something searingly painful.

Many times, though, it really and truly isn’t a cavity. Instead, it’s chicken pox, and scratching it causes scars. Or it’s poison ivy, and scratching it causes it to spread further.

As I try to figure out the differences, in my mind, between chicken pox and cavities, I find myself spending a lot more time just dealing with sorting all of this out. It causes me to spend a lot more time thinking about whatever stuff I’m facing right here and right now, and it sometimes makes me think that all this focus on the past has been a sure fire way to turn my mind away from the problems that are right here, right now, in the present.

So for a little while, as I sort all of this out, my blog posts may be a little less frequent as I just spend my days thinking about, say, how nice it is to walk Megan’s dog. And I will write about these things. I just need a little time.

ESSAY-NOLA

5/31/2018

My first New Orleans meal, eaten shortly after I swung in Tuesday night, was a fried catfish sandwich at The Foubourg Bistro. I was originally going to have the famous Muffuletta sandwich at The Central Grocery (a sandwich with meat and legendary olive salad that, with the way they slather on the olives, is better referred to as an olive sandwich with meat) but unfortunately Central Grocery was closed by the time I arrived. A Siri request for “good cheap eats” guided me to the Foubourg. My foodie friends would never have forgiven me had I made my first NOLA meal a hamburger, so catfish it was.

I complimented the cook, Zach, and took his picture. I gave him the business card I give everyone I blog about—it has my website address and email—and told him that I would immortalize him. Now he is immortalized.

If he is reading this, I once again state that it was a darn good catfish sandwich. I did, however, sample a Muffuletta the following day.

Now it’s beignets at The Cafe Dumonde. A beignet is basically a French donut, served hot with mounds of powdered sugar. At the present, my Bluetooth keyboard is covered in powdered sugar as I write this. Due to my tendedncy to set up my portable writing kit (iPhone with Scrivener app, iPhone stand, Bluetooth keyboard) just about anywhere (including at meal tables, much to the consternation of people with far better manners), it has the faint remnants of dozens of meals, much the way a world traveller’s passport is covered with stamps.

I passed a number of bars on the way here. They were all open. When I had an earlier breakfast at eight o’clock yesterday morning, the bars were also open. There were people inside.

I did the touristy thing yesterday and went on a bus tour. The guide, Kris, took us through all the neighborhoods, including the notorious Ninth Ward, which the authorities pretty much ignored after Katrina. Many of the houses were still boarded up, with the grim code spray painted on them documenting the number of bodies—human and pets—that the authorities found inside. Then we stopped at City Park, which features the other beignet destination, Morning Call.

While there, I struck up a conversation with Kris, who gave me one of his beignets told me about Katrina.

“So much stuff the news didn’t tell you about,” he said. “Alligators eating people. Bodies lined up outside the convention center. I’ll never forget it. Never.”

We stopped at a cemetery, where Kris told us that they inter the bodies above ground because, with New Orleans being mostly below sea level, the bodies tended to float out of the graves after a storm. Over a hundred souls can fit into a tomb, because they inter the body for a year and a day, letting the heat—which turns the tomb into an oven—do its work. They then open up the crypt, remove what are by now just a set of bones from the coffin, dispose the coffin, place the bones in a bag, and push the bag into a crevasse at the back of the tomb.

“Sometimes people were buried alive,” Kris said, “so they would wrap bells around their wrists. At night, ladies would patrol the graves, listening for the bells. It’s where the expressions ‘graveyard shift’ and ‘saved by the bell’ come from. Also, when the grave workers would push those bones to the back of the crypt, they’d use, you guessed it, a ten foot pole; so now you know where that expression comes from, too.”

I sat down on a supposedly haunted bench. I will be visited by spirits, apparently. Kris, however, gave me his voodoo stick, so I’m supposedly fine.

I spent the late afternoon and evening on Bourbon Street. At night, even on the weeknights, it seems as if everyone walks down Bourbon Street. When standing on the sidewalk, the neon lights from the rows of bars line up, so that you can read the signs, one after another, from the top down; as I said on Facebook, I could see why The Vampire Lestat likes the place.

There are no open container laws here; people walk down the street with their drinks in plastic cups (no glass or metal allowed). Some of the bars have pets as mascots, and they rest on the bar itself; the mascot at Johnny White’s is named Janet, and I had to pop in to get her picture.

I fell off the wagon smoking wise, and am now back on the patch. New Orleans practically forces you to smoke. I probably smoked, at most, five cigarettes from the pack; everyone bums smokes here.

A lovely prognosticator named Ren told me my fortune. She told me that I’m currently going through some tough times (true), but that I have a strong and loving force in my life (true) that will result in my overcoming all of this (nice). She also told me that this hardship will be fuel for my writing, and that I will be wildly successful.

I tipped her generously.

Then it was over to Preservation Hall for some jazz, at which point I called it a night, leaving behind many who would no doubt call it a night when the sun came up. Sorry, no pictures; you’re not allowed to take photographs inside Preservation Hall.

Okay, full confession: I took one before I read the admonition to not take photographs. Here it is, and to the proprietors of Preservation Hall: I’m really sorry.

So I sign off, having spent about 40 hours here that felt more like a week. Now it’s back to Pensacola, where I shall pick Yvonne up at the airport.

ESSAY-WATCHING YVONNE SURF

5/30/2018

Yesterday was the first day I ever saw somebody surf.

Yvonne is heading back to New York for two days to give her final exams to the students at the Merchant Marine Academy. I’m on my own till Thursday. Because Friday involves heading out to her land (more on that Friday) and Saturday is the day we head back, she wanted to see if she could catch some waves today.

Pensacola is suffering from overdevelopment, so the folks we’ve visited always tell me to write that it’s horrible down here, and that no one would ever want to visit. Therefore I know not to say that when we got to Pensacola Beach it looked, to my untrained eyes, gorgeous as usual. Yvonne, however, quickly set me straight as to the verdict from a surfer’s point of view.

“The waves are short and choppy,” she said. “Also, there’s wind, which blows the waves in all different directions.”

She continued to scan the beach.

“See those waves breaking by the beach line? That’s not a good sign.”

She paddled out, and I watched as she sat on her board, looking behind her for a wave to catch. I would later find out that sitting on the board—which looked so easy when she did it—was a skill in itself.

“You have to sit up straight, and have the tip of your board out of the water,” she said. “Most people, when they start, just sort of topple over.”

The waves were all over the place. As I stood there taking pictures, one came up to my ankles, and then the one right after it came up to my thighs, soaking my shorts.

“You want the waves to be predictable,” Yvonne told me. “In Hawaii, they come one right after another, The surfers get in formation—they call it a line up—and take them one at a time.”

She paddled back and forth, back and forth, her board riding the beginning of the wave. Then she’d give up as the wave petered out after a few feet. At last, a wave she judged as decent came, and she switched to laying face down on the board. She paddled as the wave carried her, popped up on her board, and rode a small wave almost to the beach, where it petered out.

“Not so good right here,” she said, carrying her board, “I’m going to walk a few yards over.” As we walked, Yvonne talked surfing.

“That really wasn’t much of a wave I caught,” she said. “When it’s just a small wave like that where it breaks right at the beach, they call it a white water wave. It almost doesn’t count.”

“I got a cool picture of you, though,” I said, showing her.

She smiled. “Good one. Just don’t say that it was a white water wave.”

“By the time that I’m done writing about it, it’ll be twenty or thirty feet high,” I said.

“Excellent,” she said.

We walked a few yards down, the wave Yvonne had just ridden becoming higher and higher in my mind, at least three or four stories. Once again, Yvonne paddled out. Still nothing great.

Finally, we tried one last spot. It began to rain, and as I watched Yvonne take one last stab and getting a decent wave, the rain picked up. I ducked under a large pier that divides the beach; on one side, there are lifeguard stations. On the other side, there’s only one, and after that, you’re on your own.

The lifeguard would have called in a beginning surfer, but he could tell that Yvonne has been surfing since she was sixteen. Above, as the waves broke in several different directions, a helicopter chugged overhead. Later Yvonne would tell me that it was a Coast Guard helicopter, presumably on the way to rescue a swimmer or surfer who didn’t have the swimming and surfing skills Yvonne has.

“Happens all the time,” she said. “And yes, some people go out, and don’t return.”

Once again, she paddled closer and farther, closer and farther. Then a wave came, and she again shifted her body so that she was laying on her board face down. She started to paddle, occasionally looking behind her.

The wave started to break, and she popped up. She went back and forth, cutting left, then right, then left again. When she was done, she paddled toward the beach, and then stood, tucking her board under her arm.

“It was as frustrating for me to watch you hunting for a wave as it must have been for you out there trying to catch one,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said, “but I finally got a good one, right there at the end.”

“You looked seriously cool out there,” I said.

“Thanks,” she said. “You know, when you catch a wave and ride one, it’s like floating when you do it right.”

The rain continued to pick up.

“Well,” she said, “I guess that’s it then.”

ESSAY-SPENDING PART OF MY BIRTHDAY DANGLING MY FEET OVER A PIER

5/27/2018

So today is my birthday. After having experienced the generosity, during my visit to the South, of Ellen, Em, and, of course, Waffle House, it was Yvonne’s turn.

Yvonne, one of my surrogate big sisters (the other is my second cousin, Angela), embodies chill. The word “chill” looks upon Yvonne and says “I think the word ‘Yvonne’ is a better adjective than I am for ‘laid back.’”

She took me for a walk through Pensacola. Though she grew up outside of the city, she spent a lot of time here when she was younger.

We walked to Bayview Park, which is just a few blocks from her house down here. While we walked, Megan called, and wished me a happy birthday. We chatted for a while, and I apologized to Yvonne for talking on the phone while I was walking with her.

“Not at all,” Yvonne said. “It’s your birthday, and Megan is your girlfriend.”

We got to the park. It’s a public park that looks out over a body of water; a beautiful vista. In Pensacola, most everything looks out over one beautiful vista or another involving water.

I was wearing sandals. I only recently bought them. Megan told me, last summer, that it was vital for me to buy sandals.

“Your toes need to be happy when it’s warm,” she said. “Toes are happy when they are free.”

Yvonne led the way, and I followed. During the walk, she pointed out a fenced in area reserved for people who want to let their dogs run around and take a swim.

“That’s one of the only places here where people can’t fish,” she said. “They don’t want anybody accidentally hooking a dog. The other place where people don’t fish is by the other dock where people tie their boats.”

She walked over to a larger pier that had two sub piers that jutted out from it. On the far pier, someone was casting out his line.

Yvonne took off her sandals, sat on the pier, and dangled her feet in the water. I did the same, thinking about how Megan’a advice made the enterprise a lot easier than it would have been if I’d been wearing shoes and socks.

“I am literally, as I speak, cooling my heels,” I said into the phone. Megan laughed.

I turned to the left, and saw that Yvonne was now lying on her back, with her feet still dangling in the water. I would have never thought about doing that, and it suddenly dawned on me that the first time Yvonne hit upon the idea of stretching out on a pier with her feet dangling in the water, she was probably very young. On the other sub pier, a dozen feet away from the man who was fishing, three girls were doing the same thing.

I stretched out, closed my eyes, and felt the sun’s heat on my face.

“This whole laying down on my back and dangling my feet in the water is awesome,” I said to Megan. “You were so right about the whole thing with the sandals. My toes are just so happy right now.”

“Told you,” Megan said, giggling.

“I wish you were here,” I said.

“I wish I were there too,” Megan said.

“This is just so relaxing,” I said. “Everything is slower down here.”

“Happy Birthday,” Megan said.

ESSAY-WAFFLE HOUSE

5/26/2018

As Yvonne and I continue to make our way deeper and deeper into the Deep South, I contemplate the last 48 hours. I now have an inventory of uniquely Southern experiences that I can cross off my bucket list.

After having experienced Ellen’s hospitality, it was Em’s turn yesterday. In short order, he made sure that I could now say the following:

I have boated and swam in Lake Norman, a huge gorgeous lake in North Carolina.

While being a passenger in Em’s boat, I have seen the massive waterfront home of NASCAR driver Denny Hamlin.

I have engaged in a conversation that reveals my complete ignorance of NASCAR terminology. Specifically, when Em said “that’s the home of Denny Hamlin; he’s the FEDEX driver,” I needed him to tell me that Hamlin made his millions not by delivering packages, but by agreeing to have Federal Express’s logo on his car, which he has apparently driven much faster than many other people.

Also, while a passenger on said boat, I have seen the section of Lake Norman that borders I 95. All around this part of Lake Norman are signs that say “Vessels Must Be Underway (as in moving) Beyond This Point.” Em explained that this regulation was a consequence of a spate of young female boaters stopping their crafts and flashing their chests at the drivers on I 77. This apparently caused many traffic jams, and, I’m sure, more than a few accidents.

I have gone to the annual NASCAR Speed Street extravaganza. By now you may have guessed that NASCAR is a big deal in Charlotte, North Carolina. The NASCAR Hall of Fame is here.

I have eaten fried Oreos at said extravaganza. They taste like soft Oreos covered in funnel cake. They are terrible for my body, and wonderful for my soul.

Yet for all of these experiences, one remained. We spoke of it reverently, in the same hushed tones that some discuss journeys to the Holy Land. Finally, this morning, Yvonne said the words that marked, finally, my pilgrimage to a Southern institution:

“Derek, there’a a Waffle House at the next exit. What do you say we stop?”

And so we did.

Waffle House, as Em was quick to tell me, does not sell pancakes. He kind of made it sound as if ordering pancakes causes all sounds to cease, and everyone to just sort of look at you. To hear Em describe it, if there was music playing on a antique phonograph playing a vinyl record, there would be the abrupt scratching sound of the needle flying off the record.

Waffle House serves basic eats: waffles, naturally, plus eggs, sausage, toast, coffee, and juice. There is also an egg sandwich that you can order. There is a jukebox that features, in its variety of selections, a number of anthems to Waffle House, including “The Waffle House March.”

The wait staff talk to you. Having been down South before, I never get tired of the way that Southern folks actually talk to you. If I told a Northern waitress that this was my first time at a restaurant chain, she’d just say “oh, that’s nice;” here, the waitress said “oh, we just had a little girl who came in here for her first time, and we gave her a Waffle House hat; let me get you one.”

I noted her kindness, and her keen perception. A lesser waitress would have asked me if I wanted a Waffle House hat. This one, of course, knew that I wanted to wear one with pride.

Everyone made a point of reminding me that Waffle House is open 24 Hours, 365 days a year (366 on leap years). Because of that, just about everyone with whom I’ve had a conversation down here recalls many late night Waffle House moments from their halcyon young adult years. They also made a point of the fact that the food practically arrives before you order it; it does, and it’s great road food.

After Yvonne and I were done eating, the waitress brought me my sacred Waffle House hat.

“You can adjust the size so that it fits your head,” she said helpfully.
“Thank you,” I said, clutching it as if it were some sort of relic from Lourdes.

Yvonne has informed me that once in Pensacola, many people will come up to me and ask me if I have been saved. As I sit here in Yvonne’s car and type out this entry with my iPhone between my legs, my Bluetooth keyboard on my lap, and my sacred Waffle House Hat on my head, I now know that I can answer, with complete sincerity, that I have sound salvation. I have been to Waffle House; my life will hereafter be so much the better.

ESSAY-SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY

5/25/2018

Generally speaking, I shy away from the suffixes “er” and “est.” I don’t like, for example, contemplating whether my writing is better than my friend Joe’s, or whether I’m the greatest writer in world. I am perfectly content with using words such as “great” and “good;” I like to think that on good days I’m a great writer, and that my friend Joe is a great writer, and that means that there’s room for both of us.

With that said: I may, quite possibly, be the guest of some of the kindest people I have ever met.

Up to this point, I thought that “Southern Hospitality” was just a worn out catch phrase. Now that I have been a guest of Em and Ellen, I realize that this is not the case.

I’m here because my friend Yvonne is taking me down to Pensacola for a couple of days. Because it’s 20 hours to Pensacola from New York, we’ve stopped over here in Charlotte, North Carolina. I am writing this from Em (short for Emerson) and Ellen’s house, which is beautiful.

Let’s see, why is it beautiful, Hmmm.

Well, I’m not that great at describing what things look like, but I’ll try. Walking up to the house means walking past this front garden yard that’s not a wall or anything, but sort of acts like one. It made me feel as if I were stepping into a sort of sanctuary.

The foyer leads to a dining room on the left, and an office space on the right. Straight ahead is the living room.

Everything is arranged so that each chair, table, book, picture, and furnishing made me say “that’s exactly where that thing should be.” On the coffee table in front of the sofa was an arrangement of crackers, cheese, salami, carrots, celery, broccoli, and dip. This is exactly what I wanted after a ten hour drive.

“Welcome to the South,” Ellen said, giving me a hug.

It did not matter that it was after eight…Ellen had dinner at the ready. A salad with goat cheese and walnuts. Roast pork. Mashed potatoes with assorted extra things that Ellen described as “artery clogging.”

This came after a long conversation with Em, in which I talked about how Yvonne has become a big sister to me. I then talked about how my older brother and I, after decades of animosity, have learned to love each other, much to the joy of my father.

“Oh, that’s just beautiful,” said Em, “Thats such a blessing for your father.”

Afterward, a dessert consisting of strawberries, pound cake cubes, and whipped cream mixed together to create a kind of shortcake sundae. This was exactly what I wanted for dessert.

Ellen led me upstairs, past Yvonne’s guest room to mine. The guest room I stayed in has two lamps that bathed the room in soft light. The top left corner of the bed covering was pulled down and folded over, as if to say “you’ve driven a long way. You must be tired.”

As Ellen informed me that the television in the room received every channel under the sun, I sat on the bed, and and then leaned back so that my upper body rested on it. The mattress was firm, with a top soft top pillow; the effect was like eating a frozen caramel with a milk chocolate covering.

“I hope the bed is comfortable,” Ellen said, “you’ve driven a long way.”

“I have died and gone to Graceland,” I said.

“Well,” Ellen said, chuckling, “then I guess I’ll say goodnight. You probably need some ice water in case you wake up thirsty in the middle of the night. Let me get you some.”

“Thank you so much,” I said, “all you folks are just so incredibly kind.”

“While you and Yvonne stay here, this is your house,” Ellen said.

I went to brush my teeth. When I came back, there was a tumbler of ice water by the bedside.

I awoke to my girlfriend Megan’s phone call. She lives in Massachusetts and I live in New York, so every morning, she calls me on the way to work.

“I have had the greatest night’s sleep in the whole of my life,” I said.

“That sounds wonderful,” she said.

“I’m loving it here, but a totally miss you,” I said. “I mean, you know how absence makes the heart grow fonder? Well, I kind of miss you to a factorial of ‘fonder.’”

Megan laughed. “You do have a way with words,” she said. “A factorial of ‘fonder…’ I love that.”

Today is Nascar Day in Charlotte. I shall experience the glory of NASCAR in the South.

I shall use an impact wrench to change a stock car tire. I will eat many deep fried things.

I write this in the kitchen. From where I write, I can look out the window to the back yard, a rich green thing that embodies the word “idyllic.” I can only hope I have been anywhere near as good a guest as Em and Ellen have been hosts.

There is another phrase that I thought was just a bunch of words, but now I know that, for me, for now, it a statement of truth: life is good.

AUDIO #2: THE CAT WHO TAUGHT THE STARLING TO DRAW

5/21/2018

Best experienced with headphones/earbuds, or with a decent set of speakers. Enjoy!

AUDIO #1: PICK A CARD

5/20/2018

Here it is. Hope you like it.

ESSAY-SOMETHING DIFFERENT IN THE NEXT DAY OR TWO (LISTEN FOR IT)

5/20/2018

So I’m sitting here writing, and I know that I haven’t posted anything in a while.

It’s not because I’m depressed.

The thing is…I’m working on something.

Look, I may as well tell you: yes, I like writing things that you read, but I like it infinitely more when I write things that you hear.

This is a problem for YouTube, because when I make a YouTube movie, I get all hung up on what it looks like. It never looks that good, because I’m not good at visuals.

Then there’s the whole thing of syncing up the picture with the sound. That never works, either.

And anyway, all of this revolves around what you see.

I admit to being self conscious about what you see. Somehow, when I make YouTube films, I notice that my nostrils are enormous. There’s a huge space between my front teeth, and I have this huge wattle about which I’m massively self-conscious.

For this reason, for a while, I just want to focus on recording audio. Audio is a great thing, because it requires a lot less money to get it to a professional level. With video, you need a massively expensive camera, a decent set of lights, and some knowledge of how to record everything with the right exposures.

Audio is a lot simpler. With a Zoom recorder and a Heil PR 40 microphone, you pretty much have everything you need. This sets you back a couple of hundred bucks, and there you are…professional sound.

So I want to try something different on YouTube.

What I intend to do is start making YouTube videos where, for the first minute or so (but no more), you see my old, sagging mug, and hear the tinny sound of my laptop’s microphone. I tell you that I’m going to count to five, and that I need you to shut your eyes; I will recommend that you either listen to me with a decent set of headphones, or with a decent set of speakers. It is at this point that I hope that you do as I ask.

It’s worth your while anyway, because at that point, the screen will be black. There’s no reason for it to be otherwise. At that point, with your eyes closed, you’re providing the visuals anyway, and they’re probably going to be a lot better than the visuals I could provide with my limited video creation capabilities.

The audio will suddenly become dramatically better. My voice will become far more rich than it had been the moment before.

I will suddenly be thirty years younger. I will be thinner.

And if this works the way that I hope it will work, you will be in my world.
While you are in my world, you will hear the things that you’d previously read. I may very well continue to write essays, but now you’ll be taking them in through your ears, not your eyes.

You may very well hear stories from time to time. This whole idea of mine has me far more interested in stories than I’ve been in a long time.

As I’ve often said, this blog that I’ve been doing is more than just a creative endeavor for me; it’s a creative process. I try some things, and then, when they don’t quite work out, I take a break, regroup, and try something else.

I have no idea if this whole audio thing will work out or not. And yes, I know that I can do a podcast, but they’re logistically confusing, and anyway, I don’t want to do something that long. No, I just want to get my words out there, and YouTube is the most accessed medium around these days.

So that’s it. Soon, I’ll be posting videos that aren’t really videos. You’ll see me for thirty to sixty seconds, politely asking you to close your eyes. At that point, you will, I hope, close your eyes. And then, for a little while, I ask that you just listen.

Give me a day or two. I’ll have the first of a number of things up here. It’s just something I want to try.

ESSAY-SIMPLE WRITING

5/14/2018

For reasons that I don’t understand, I write best when I write short things.

It’s not just the essays themselves. With me, it just seems to work best when everything—the paragraphs, the sentences, even the words—are short and simple.

I don’t like my paragraphs to run more than three sentences. When I see a four sentence paragraph, I need to split it up. Sometimes this means that I create a one sentence paragraph, which most writing teachers discourage.

I like one sentence paragraphs.

Virtually all of the vocabulary I use in my writing is of a third grade level. There are certain words—paragraph, essays, virtually—that are probably a bit high, but other than that, most everything I write is one or two syllables, except for words such as “everything.”

Once I get to five hundred words or so, it just feels as if it’s time to stop. I have this mental wall that makes 1,000 words seem excessive, so I rarely, if ever, write something that’s longer than that. Most of the time, the average is 600 to 700 words.

I keep thinking about writing a book with somewhere between 50 and 100 chapters. Each chapter would be somewhere between 500 and 1000 words. If I kept to my average of 600 to 700 words, this would mean that a novel sized work—National Novel Writing Month says a novel is 50,000 words—would have something in the neighborhood of 70 to 80 chapters.

I think I do this because I had trouble reading anything complex when I was young. My mind was, and continues to be, something that races.

It is difficult to read something complex when the mind races. Processing advanced words and long sentences requires sitting still and slowing down.

This is not an easy thing to do. Nathaniel Hawthorne said “easy reading is damn hard writing.” He is right about this.

Writing simple things means spending a lot of time with fingers poised over the keyboard, thinking about what to write next. It involves questioning whether even a word such as “poised” is too complicated. Maybe “frozen over the keyboard” is a better choice, even if “frozen” has more syllables.

There’s a lot that I can’t do when I use simple words, and short sentences. I can’t write a long, detailed descriptions of a person or a place. Instead, I need to write things such as:

“When Paul Ryan was in third grade, he enjoyed telling the teacher that they had forgotten to give out homework just before the end of school on Friday afternoon. He liked the way the teacher praised him for this.”

Though it’s hard work, there is something relaxing about trying to write short things with simple words. It takes me back, in my mind, to a simple time, when I would go to the candy store after school and buy conversation hearts candy, which was the cheapest thing among the loose candy items. It cost $2.80 a pound back then, and I would get an eighth of a pound for 35 cents.

What I liked about conversation hearts candy was that it was easy to share it with my friends. I liked sharing things. It also was fun to comment on the words printed on each of the hearts.

I would go home, have a snack, and watch after school television. This makes me want to look at an old newspaper and check the TV listings so that I can remember the order of the shows I watched. Friday afternoons in May and June were best, because school was over for the week, and the days were long, which meant that I could watch afternoon television and then go out and play.

I didn’t have anyone in my class who reminded the teacher that she had forgotten to give out homework.

Anyway, I’m getting close to 700 words here, so I’m going to stop. I will write something else that is simple, and I hope that you will read it and enjoy it. That would make me happy.