Twisted Thoughts And Thoughtful Truths On Thursday #002

Twisted Thoughts And Thoughtful Truths On Thursday #002 – “The How”

I’d like to start this out by saying a heartfelt thank-you to anyone that’s taken the time to compliment my writing over the years – it’s always been appreciated.  While it comes along with a heavy, heavy dose of consistent imposter syndrome that causes an enormous amount of doubt on a daily basis, I’ve also never taken for granted how my ability to string together a sentence or two often sets me apart from the rest of the folks in my field of work.  I guess the question on my mind today as I write this, is whether or not I put in the work to be here, whether I just got lucky to be in the position I’m in, or whether it was all somehow predetermined?  As a few of you regular readers know, I’m not a religious dude…so it’s always tough to accept that something could be beyond my own control given that I don’t personally believe in some kind of God making the important automations for my life…but when I reflect on how I became a writer to begin with, I somewhat have to wonder if I’ve ever been in control at all.

It is fair to say that I’ve always had an interest in writing.  Born with an overactive imagination, and no burning desire for a major social life beyond whatever circle of friends I was in as I grew up, I had lots of time to put my thoughts on paper right from the get-go, which I did in a wide variety of ways from short stories to poetry before I was even ten years old.  I was lucky enough to look at the world through a very different lens than most people I knew did, and even I could see that there was a perspective I had on the pages I wrote that wasn’t like what other folks had.  It got to the point where I’d hand a new story or something I’d written to an adult to read, and I’d notice when their eyes would peek atop the pages to look at me…like they were evaluating how a kid could write what they were reading, or that they felt like they had some kind of new insight into who I was as a person based on something I had written down.  It was exciting, it was uncomfortable, it was awkward, and I loved it.  I still love it.  I love that someone can read something I’ve written and still have no real idea about what to say to me about it afterwards.

This was all early confirmation that I was able to do something with my talents, and it was important in terms of building my confidence up as a writer.  It’s not always easy to share with others what might make us special, and I was a super shy kid to boot, but somehow, I found a way to break down my normal barriers to share my work with others.  There were many pivotal moments along the way that brought me here today beyond that early beginning though…and almost none of them make any sense.

The first real glimpse I got into the world of writing came in the summer of grade seven.  While everyone else I knew was out playing with their friends back at home in Port Coquitlam, I was a couple towns over in Surrey spending that summer with my dad as a result of being in a split family scenario from the time I was eight.  Now thirteen years old, I was fully used to the routine of seeing my old man every second weekend for the majority of the calendar, but every so often, my brother and I would get to go to his place for a couple of weeks or a month straight during the summertime.  In this particular instance though, rather than just playing catch in the backyard or waiting for him to take us somewhere, my dad enrolled me in a summer school class for creative writing that year…because every kid wants MORE school, right?  Especially when it’s sunny out.  Okay…I probably hated the idea even though I liked the subject, and I’m sure that I wouldn’t have been looking forward to having to reintroduce myself or make new friends again, but I didn’t really get too much of a say in the matter so far as I recall, so off I went.

My teacher was the first real influence on my writing, and I suppose I’d tell ya he’s directly responsible for a lot of the fundamentals that are crucial to how I do what I do today.  Ed Griffin was the man’s name…and he was a genuinely wonderful guy.  Cancer would eventually take him way too freakin’ early, but at the time I met him, he was so full of life that you’d never think anything could ever take him out, cancer be damned.  He taught me the importance of routine, and how you could essentially train your brain to do what you really wanted to do.  If you really wanted to write, he was convinced that you would – and you’d show that by actually doing the work.  Each and every day, whether in sickness or in health, he remained convinced that everybody in that class had at least fifteen minutes to write a story or a poem or anything at all really – he didn’t care what it was as long as you continued to write.  I didn’t have much of a structured childhood due to the aforementioned split-family situation, but I understood the value of what Ed was teaching us and I took it to heart.  I don’t know that I could say I’ve written every single day ever since, but I can certainly vouch for the fact that I’ve written more than most ever will in the course of one lifetime, even if I’m still working on that ever-elusive first novel.  Griffin’s passion for writing felt like permission to dive right into the art of it, and so I did.  I took all kinds of cues from him as I shifted between being a child and becoming a teenager.  Sure, I might have wanted a bit more time to enjoy my summertime break the way that other kids were doing, but taking that class actually felt important to me…it kind of established a baseline for holding myself accountable to doing the work, and ever since then, as long as I’ve been interested in something, then I’d get it done.  If I wasn’t interested though…good lord…subjects like math & science paid dearly for my lack of attention.

So yes…Griffin’s lessons in writing were essential.  There was no pass, there was no fail, there was just writing and more writing – that was all that mattered to him, and though it took some years, it would be all that would matter to me in that very same way one day.  Great dude though – I genuinely miss him.  I was lucky enough to help out at the Surrey Writer’s Conference for about three years growing up, where Ed was the coordinator.  I got an even bigger taste of what the writer’s world was like in seeing authors come and speak – I’d help my old man record them on old tape machines.  A young lady many of you might know now from the “Outlander” series – Diana Gabaldon – was one of the first people I met that was an established writer.  She had people crammed out into the hallway as she delivered her lecture.  No joke, to this day, I don’t think I can recall ever seeing a room packed as much as the one she was in.

Anyhow.  That was the groundwork…the foundation, if you will.

The next school year ahead almost broke me entirely.

First things first, let’s be fair – it was a completely new school for me, and it was my first time having to navigate my way from class to class with the ringing of each bell, as opposed to those early days when you’re simply sitting in one desk for the entire day.  Not being very gifted at all when it comes to directions or possessing a sense of urgency when it came to school, I heard the bell ring over my head while I was still wandering the halls looking for where my Humanities class was supposed to be.  That whole subject has been dismantled and compartmentalized now from what I gather – but essentially it was always a combination of Social Studies and English.  As in, sometimes you’d learn about history, and at others, you’d learn some cool new words and such.  When I finally figured out where the class was, I was about five or six minutes late already.  There was a kid outside the door that looked at me when I grabbed the handle to let myself in, who informed me that it was locked, and that Mr. Springer, our teacher, would be come out eventually to let us in, which he eventually did after a decent scolding for being late to his class.  A very thin, beat-poet lookin’ dude that seemed like he was a hippie of some sort trying to disguise himself as a professional, Springer had a big mustache that dominated his face and sort of co-opted his personality…like you could tell more about how he was feeling by the way his moustache would move, similar to how expressive eyebrows work only lower on the face.  You get it.  I had barely sat down in my desk that afternoon and he had already drifted off into talking about taking us out to the field to gather some dandelion leaves so he could make himself a salad.  I’d already heard from other classmates that the guy was at least a little on the crazy side, but it was still wild to witness firsthand in front of me.  The guy was able to go on tangents about anything random, and all of the time.

As a kid growing up in the Grunge era of the nineties, to say I was unwashed would be putting it mildly.  I was a complete ball of grease, long hair, thick goatee, looking like I was twenty when I was only thirteen still.  I was absolutely used to being judged solely on my looks by that point already.  Humanities was a two-hour class because of the dynamics of the way it taught two subjects, and while I thought I was getting into a decent rhythm in that very first hour of listening to Springer talk about whatever the heck was on his mind & discovering his extremely short fuse, after we came back from the break in between hours, I could sense something was different.  We all sat back down in our desks, and Springer pointed a long boney finger at one kid and said, “Hey you – with the eyebrows – Worf.”  He was both cruelly and casually referencing the character from Star Trek The Next Generation and comparing this kid, who admittedly looked like quite a mouth breather, to this fictional weird looking dude from a space show on TV – something that you’d basically never get away with doing today – and said, “you’re going to with a student teacher to learn some of the basics.”  It was kind of a shock really, even though the kid looked like he could use a lesson or two.  Not everyone had the good fortune of sacrificing a whole summer so they could master the English language like I did, poor chap.  Springer’s hand went up again to indicate he wasn’t done.  Pointing to another kid, he said, “Hey – hair helmet.  You’re outta here too.”  I was already trying to figure out what Worf and Hair Helmet had in common, but the only thing I could think of was that they seemed like they might be a step slower than the rest of us.  That was, at best, a guess – we’d only been in class for an hour together, so how could anyone know what any of us were really like?  Still, Springer seemed to feel like he had a beat on us all by that point already, and now he was singling out some unlucky kid that had way, way too much gel in his hair.  That bony hand went back into the air again, circling around until he settled on a blue-eyed, blonde haired kid who didn’t dare look back at him.  “You – kid from the motherland – Nazi kid – I want you in that room with the others too.”  It was harsh but somewhat fair commentary.  Still bold for a teacher, even back then.  It all felt like we were a part of some kind of Don Rickles type of roast comedy.  In any event, you couldn’t help but feel bad for these kids that were being singled out by Springer, and no one had any idea of what was actually going on.  All we could see was that he seemed to be picking on the misfits – that was the real common thread – and just as soon as I realized that, the boniest, longest finger in the world was pointing right at me.  “Kurt Cobain, you can get outta here too.  All you guys, grab your stuff and head upstairs to room 203.  There will be a student teacher there waiting for you, and hopefully she’ll be able to teach you something.  Doubtful, at least definitely improbable, but hey I’m an optimist.  Good luck to you all.”  We were all confused about what just happened.  I was completely dejected.  I just threw away a whole summer of playing outdoors to stay inside & learn, and in what seemed like mere minutes, this asshat decided he could judge me like that?  I didn’t need extra help when it came to learning English in school.  These other three walking the hall to 203 with me?  They looked like they seriously needed major help.

And so we arrived at what I’d consider to be the second moment of my life that would point me in the direction of being a writer – room 203.  The student teacher was just learning her profession at the time, but informed us that she’d basically be traveling over our shoulder throughout the rest of our time in school – not just grade eight, but all the way through grade twelve, she said she’d be checking in on us & see how our progress was going.  For now, we’d have to go there for the second half of our Humanities class week after week.  What were we doing?  Great question!  Ultimately, it’s exactly what I do with my writing here at sleepingbagstudios to this very day more or less – we wrote ‘compare & contrast’ essays every single day.  Take this one thing, tell us how it’s like another, or not like another, have an intro, a body, and a conclusion, wash, rinse, repeat – every single week, all throughout grade eight.  Of course there was no way of knowing that this very specific skill being taught to me would go on to be the one thing I relied on more than anything else later in life as a music critic, so naturally I hated doing any of this stuff.  I resented the fact that I was even in this class to begin with!  I could fuck off for the majority of the class, and simply rip out an article in the last ten minutes, hands typing furiously on the keyboard.  So that’s exactly what I did.  The teacher allowed it.  Thankfully, to her, it was clear that I didn’t belong in this remedial class of misfit boys, and so I got a little more leeway when it came to the actual work being done.  I’m sure I must’ve learned a thing or two, but it felt like I was being held back from the one skill I felt like I’d actually connected with in the summer directly before this new grade I was in.  In any event, I don’t know if it was the teacher not going through with her commitments or slipping through a crack in the system somewhere, but after that year of schooling, we never saw that lady ever again.  I couldn’t even tell you what her name was, but I do still feel like I could pick her out of a lineup based on all the time that we spent with her.  I was looking forward to finding out what all this extra class stuff was for too, but we never got that mystery solved for us.  She disappeared in the transition between grade eight & grade nine, and though I was thankful for that somewhat, it would have still been nice to know that all we were doing had some kind of reasoning behind it, rather than just the weird whims of Mr. Springer.

After having my confidence basically torn apart that year, the next offered new inspiration and a little hope.  In grade nine, I met GRABENHORST.  Go ahead – say that again – GRABENHORST.  It’s just FUN to say, ain’t it?  Ms. Grabenhorst was one of the strangest characters I encountered throughout my entire way through school.  She looked painfully thin most of the time, was a stunning degree of pale white like you’ve probably never encountered, and had very pronounced & drawn features.  To go with all of this, she was scatterbrained to the nth degree and had a nervous laugh that you wouldn’t even wish your worst enemy to have.  I’m reasonably sure that we all remember what kids are like in school – so yes, behind her back and probably more often to her face than she’d have preferred, she was made fun of.  She was a geek and there was no hiding that fact.  What was curiously inspiring though, was that she seemed to embrace this on a level like I’d never experienced yet.  Like, she carried this air about her that suggested she couldn’t possibly care what anyone thought about her, let alone a pack of wild students.  She never seemed to conform to the curriculum in the way that other teachers felt was important, and you could tell she had difficulties of her own in trying to fit in amongst her peers.  Some people on this planet weren’t born to blend in, you know what I mean?  Grabenhorst was always going to stand out.

What she taught me though, was as invaluable a lesson as I’ve ever been taught when it comes to my writing.  She taught us about the importance of identity – about finding our OWN voice – and how we needed to lean into that as much as possible.  She would often start her classes with a writing project, where we would just unload on thoughts onto a page…maybe they’d have proper punctuation, maybe they wouldn’t…maybe they’d be cohesive, maybe they wouldn’t – none of that mattered.  Just WRITE, and WRITE how YOU would say things…in your voice…from your own thoughts.  She’d ask for a page or two when I could have easily written ten in the same time that everyone else was taking for one.  I loved doing that, and still to this very day, every time I make a sentence run on for miles, or use the ol’ … to string my thoughts together, I think of how Grabenhorst gave me the ability to not give so much of a damn.  Writing isn’t about getting all the technical stuff right – that’s what an editor is for if it comes to that – it’s way more about getting YOUR voice into everything you create.  It might take a while before that comes to you, but I assure you, once you discover the freedom in doing that, you’ll never look back.  Incidentally, just to bring things full circle for ya, I was in one of the workshop rooms for one of the Surrey Writer’s Conference about two years later when I was in grade eleven and taking an English Literature course from her, when I stumbled upon a magazine filled with poetry that I felt like reading.  It was a back issue of some kind…no idea what it was even called now…but I do remember flipping it open to find Ms. Grabenhorst’s name attached to a very strange poem.  GRABENHORST.  How many could there be, right?  The identity in her writing was something I could visibly SEE in her work.  So of course I copped the magazine, brought it in to her the next day after school in a writing group that she formed for us, and she looked like she’d seen a ghost.  I didn’t need much more confirmation than that to know it was indeed, THIS Grabenhorst that wrote it.  She blushed red and took a fresh read through it, laughed her nervous laugh, and threw the magazine back towards me with a smile.  “Man, I’ve grown up so much since then haven’t I?” she asked ironically, knowing that she was exactly the same.  When you find your voice as a writer…your identity…it never really leaves you, and you can always see it in your work, especially if you wrote it.  In any event, she taught me massive lessons on not taking myself so damn seriously, but that the craft itself should still be taken seriously at all times.  She taught me that half-assing anything in the writing realm would only be cheating myself…and finally, for once…I listened.

In their own ways, Griffin, Springer, and Grabenhorst all taught me what I needed to know about HOW to write, and I’m thankful for everything they put me through.  I know that I wouldn’t be able to do what I do today without them steering me in the right direction, even if it didn’t always feel that way at the time I was going through it all.  Oddly enough, in case you’re wondering if there are any more signs I saw along my journey to doing what I do now, there certainly were.  For example – I didn’t have books and binders in my locker at school like regular kids did.  Nope – I had a sleeping bag & a pillow on the inside of mine, which I would take out in between classes and take naps in the hallway.  How’s that for foreshadowing, right?  You can’t make this stuff up.  I went from being the kid in a sleeping bag in high school, to running sleepingbagstudios years later down the road.  No, that’s not where the name came from…that’s another story for another time.  For now, if you’re ever thinking of doing what I do for a living with your own life, make sure you’ve got the real fundamentals down…write every damn day, pay respect to the craft, know your shit & what you’re writing about, and put yourself on the page in YOUR voice with YOUR perspective.  These might be the only lessons I have ever really absorbed in my entire life.

I have now passed them onto YOU…and I encourage you all to do what you will with this knowledge.

Go forth and conquer.

Love to you all.

– Jer @ SBS