When I was but a wee lad, I spent many a summer afternoon in my grandparents’ pool.
The house itself was quite modest. Nestled in the heart of a quaint small town, my grandparents made their home in a squat, one-and-a-half-storey red brick country house possessed of little privacy or open space. With only one bathroom, located on the main floor right next to the dining room, you had to make peace with the fact that everybody was going to hear your farts echoing in the toilet bowl every time you took a dump.
But their pool… their pool was downright luxurious. And if I wasn’t in it, I was lounging beside it, a good book in hand.
I used to sit out in the backyard, a jumble of pale skin and scrawny limbs, sprawled across a lounger three times my age, simply waiting to soak up enough sun to warrant another dip. I loved that pool so much that I literally contrived excuses to jump in.
At twenty—maybe twenty-five—feet long, by twelve or thirteen feet wide, and sinking to a depth of ten feet at its deepest, my grandparents’ pool was Paradise Itself. Its chlorinated waters might well have been the ambrosia of the gods, as far as I was concerned. It was a place of pure magic, like Middle-Earth or the Hundred Acre Wood. And for me, it always had the unique distinction of suppressing the sombre melancholia that often burdens me.
I know it’s mostly the poignancy of nostalgia speaking: but my grandparents’ pool had this magical way of dissolving my cares and concerns, as if the chlorine was somehow also breaking down my petty human fears and anxieties just as it destroyed other potentially harmful bacteria.
It saddens me greatly that I have taken my last dip in “Nan and Pop’s pool.” And it pains me more than I can express that I will never feel the cool embrace of its inviting waters again. I will miss it, dearly; just as I miss the now departed grandparents who once stewarded it.
My beloved Nan—whose passing earlier this year has opened the door for a new family to make memories in that pool—always took the hard road, whenever she went for a swim.
Yeah… Nan was a consummate “easer.” That is, someone who subjects themselves to entering a body of water one excruciating inch at a time.
It was a whole process, let me tell you.
And quite the show, too.
Dad and I often laughed ourselves silly, teasing her as she shrieked and screamed her way down the ladder before finally letting go and taking the plunge.
Me… I wasn’t about that life.
I was always partial to diving straight in.
***
And I suppose that probably says something about my nature, doesn’t it? That, when necessary, I can call upon a modicum of courage, I suppose—or, at least, that I possess the kind of foolhardy willingness it takes to leap. But it also suggests, I think, a lack of patience and a strong desire for instantaneous results.
Neither “good” nor “bad,” this trait… this proclivity to “dive right in,” belies the fundamental frustration I have often had towards systems and processes. Methodical, I am not.
So, naturally, when I decided to resume writing fiction again after a decade-plus layoff, my diver’s mentality was in full effect.
And, as far as intentions are concerned, at least, I guess I could have done worse. My mentality did put me in attack-mode, after all. ‘Cause, boy, I was ready to get after it! To really attack the page, grow my craft, and prove to you, dear reader—and myself, too—that I can tell a damn good story when I set my mind to it.
But, as a subtle guidepost for the establishment of expectations, my approach was kind of a recipe for disaster.
As always, it seems, my foibles threw me headlong into another invaluable lesson in the absolute necessity of exercising humility and patience when operating in the creative realm.
See, the way I figured it was this: if I demonstrated a willingness to jump, good results would inevitably follow from my faith in the Source. I guess I thought—and I now feel foolish admitting this—that, somehow, I was going to make up for lost time. I believed I could buy the house and skip the mortgage, I guess.
Of course, I was unwisely overlooking the fact that sometimes the Path we tread doesn’t offer us the luxury of choice. Sometimes all it requires of us is that we simply follow it, wherever it happens to lead.
So, as much as I wanted to hit the ground running, churning out chapters of serialized fiction and fully-formed short stories with the ease and mechanical efficiency of an Amazon Distribution Centre, the reality is that I was never going to be able to run before I learned how to walk a few steps without falling over first.
I guess… what I’m trying to admit to you, dear reader, is that I have a lot to learn about the craft of composing fiction.
It almost feels as if I am learning how to string a sentence together for the first time all over again.
It’s exciting… but it’s also laborious; draining; frustrating; daunting; thrilling; humbling; exhilarating; debilitating; terrifying; disconcerting; and altogether just a teensy bit discombobulating.
But, a vital part of my journey along this Path, I’ve come to realize—a piece of the puzzle as essential as accepting the necessity of failing in front of others—is that I need to learn how to be okay with learning in front of them, too. Of admitting that, “No, I really don’t have any idea at all what the hell I’m doing, actually.”
Which is a truth my Inner Perfectionist abhors and seeks to avoid with every self-destructive tendency in the book.
But tough titty, said the kitty.
No amount of swooning over what might have been can change the fact that I have a lot to learn. That I have much room to grow. That I have many, many more pages to blacken before I find my groove.
In effect, what you’re witnessing here, folks, is a writer teaching himself to further his craft through the crucibles of repetition, failure, and experimentation.
And I won’t lie: it’s taken some guts to do this in real-time, in front of an audience. I don’t say this to grandstand; remember, my preference would have been a vastly safer path, one far less contingent on successfully combining courage and patience. But we play the cards we’re dealt, don’t we?
As I am discovering, even the shortest of pieces of fiction can take quite a lot of time before they’re ready for the spotlight—a moment which cannot be mapped out or foreseen.
But I am also discovering that I can keep my fragile sanity somewhat intact if I can be willing to risk being vulnerable enough to show you the fruits of my labours. Such as the two recent drabbles I have released, “dunce” and “pivot,” both of which emerged from a desperate, last-minute gamble to make up for the fact that longer, more ambitious pieces simply weren’t ready when I wanted them to be (ack, classic!).
Both “dunce” and “pivot” take their titles from the word I used to prompt each burst of micro-fiction. I had heard of similar techniques before but had never really tried anything like it myself.
So far, at least, I am amazed by the results of this exercise; how, at first, I was frustrated by the lack of instantly usable ideas, and then, by turns, how my brain used its incredible ability to slide laterally to an interpretation of the word which led to the formation of an image, which in turn led the stories which populate my little dread-filled drabbles.
I have since replicated the feat several times and will continue to play around with similar exercises in the future. You can absolutely expect more scary shorts from me in the near future, as I continue to refine longer pieces and allow room for larger-scale creative visions to marinate awhile.
But I think what’s most exciting for me in all this is that I now feel confident that I have a reliable and repeatable formula for producing work when I inevitably find myself falling behind on an intended release date. And what’s more, I feel good about the drabbles themselves! I think they demonstrate the cleverness and creativity I am seeking to cultivate. And they also, I think, make for decent reading. I was worried they wouldn’t be "good enough”—the impossible standard I often hold myself accountable to—but I guess I’ve converted myself because I’m now a believer (here’s hoping the spell has worked on you, too). This really is my show and I really can do whatever I want.
Come to think of it: whether I’m “diving” or “easing” suddenly seems like a distinction without a difference. It’s both/and, at this point. For the waters I swim require both great courage and great patience. I’ve gotta be willing to take the plunge at a moment’s notice, but I must also be willing to endure the excruciating experience of easing in an inch at a time.
I guess that’s alright… ‘cause it really is true, isn’t it, what they say: the water’s fine.
I can’t relate. I don’t think I’ve written a true word in my life ;)
So exciting that you’re jumping in the waters of fiction. I have always believed that the worlds we can create with our minds are far more fascinating than the ones in front of us.
I finished writing my second novel right before I took the break from Substack. It was as if I put the pen down and released any thoughts about writing or reading about writing.
But here’s the thing about writing fiction. Once you get a story in your head, you feel the need to tell it. The story grows and grows and grows in your head and you must take up the pen in time to capture it.
Writing these first two novels (both of which are wildly unread by anyone save for two close friends) has been the most rewarding experiences of my life. I don’t say things like that lightly. Even if no one reads them, the process of digging up all that is in your soul and releasing it through words is the best way to learn who you really are— what you really feel and why you think the way you do.
Oh, and it’s really freaking hard. Does it get easier? No. But yes. Easier because you know it’s possible. It remains hard because you still have to do it.
So sososososososo excited to read your fiction. To become intimate with the characters in your mind. To hear the stories waiting to be told.
Brilliant is all I need to say!