Work Gets Done

work gets done; author with Christmas lights
Strange man with Christmas lights.

The current situation is this: my reading and writing life is bracketed into the spaces where my kids are either asleep or at school, and sometimes it happens even when they’re home and awake, that is, if a short trip to Barnes & Noble or the Fainting Goat is doable without making things too stressful. The life of my mind, or at least the productive and creative parts of it, limits itself to the fringes: the morning commute*; the evening commute; Mondays (which are part of my weekends, given that I work Saturdays–reference laboratory hours); and after everyone else is asleep; or on those rare mornings when I wake before the kids, feeling alert enough to actually get out of bed, even though I technically don’t have to yet. These are difficult conditions under which to write a novel, much less maintain a regular blog. My blogs haven’t had regular schedules since their inceptions. But the writing is happening. Somehow, some way, the work gets done. Is it a miracle–a disruption of time and space? Or simply a testament to human determination?

When I was an undergraduate art student, the chairman of Union University’s art department at the time, a man of modern artistic vision and a facility with acrylic paint, advised that I pursue my art before taking on the responsibilities of a family. He had my interest in mind, and the wisdom in this is obvious, but I never could seem to make such a reasonable plan work. Now in my forties, I’m certain that the young put too much stock in so-called “callings,” when there’s so little we can actually know about how life will turn out. I’ve always been one to lay out the pieces first, inadvertently tossing a few about without caution, and then seek to assemble them into meaningful compositions later. This is how I’ve done life so far.

Do people really exist who make a plan and then execute it? Malcolm Gladwell says Picasso was like that, and he contrasts Picasso’s approach with that of Paul Cezanne, who was more of an experimenter. Picasso had brilliant flashes and then produced them; Cezanne dabbled and re-tried things, and eventually he’d stumble onto something great. If I’m to produce anything great, it won’t be in a flash like Picasso.

Even now, my body is calling for sleep, but I’m resisting with thoughts of content generation and search engine optimization–blogger concerns. I hear the heater kick on with a roar–a roar that fades into a hum; it’s a cold November night. The heater noise comes from upstairs, right in front of the doorway through which my two boys are sleeping. But this does not wake them. No, they’re waiting for 2:41 a.m., so they can invade our bed with maximum disruption. We haven’t had an uninterrupted night of sleep in months. This is the glorious life I’ve chosen.

*Here are some earlier thoughts on how the commute to and from work proves productive: http://alandrue.com/commuter-blues-two-sides/.

the author
Alan D. Tucker
Content Blogger,
Essayist, & Novelist

Feeling Dead Weight Drop

Screaming Face, by Otiart. See more at otiart.deviant.com.

Have you ever driven off with something on top of your car? If you’ve done this, and had the pleasure of hearing said item slide back and down off the roof at sixty miles-per-hour and counting, realizing too late what was happening, then you know the feeling that drops into your gut like dead weight. The feeling hits, and on its heels is the fear that the item is now, quite possibly, irrecoverable. Well, I was able to find my wife’s keychain. It was in the gravel and dry grass of the median on Saturn Parkway (so named for the former Saturn car factory, not the planet), where I nervously searched as vehicles blew past about ten feet away. Finding the keychain would’ve felt like a victory, except most everything previously attached to it was either missing or obliterated.

That was over a year ago. Yesterday, however, the feeling hit again, this time from a different thing feared irrecoverable: this very blog. Doing a little site maintenance, apparently I deleted a file I shouldn’t have. I knew I had no business tampering with those files, but I figured I’d learned enough that I wouldn’t make any fatal mistakes. Wrong! There’s a reason WordPress offers templates: because people like me have no business tinkering with code. Long story short: whatever it was I did to my website removed access to every single post I’d ever published at alandrue.com. I panicked. So much work lost, I thought. This was a minor tragedy. Since I’ve yet to publish with any outside entities, my blog is essentially my writer’s portfolio, and I’m quite happy with some of the posts. But I thought I’d blown it. I thought I was going to have to start over. Thanks to the friendly, understanding, and level-headed technician at GoDaddy (I wish I remembered his name), my site is running flawlessly now, like I never once got trigger-happy with my sacred files. And as I often do, I learned a lesson the hard way. But at least I learned it.

Alan D. Tucker
Content Writer, Essayist, & Novelist

 

**Clarification for those who’ve never owned a blog or website: GoDaddy is the service that provides both my web hosting and my domain security (put simply, they provide my virtual real estate); WordPress is the service through which I built and continue to maintain my blog. There are other approaches. This just happens to be the path I took.

Invisible Man: Notes, Part 1

Detail from Salvador Dali’s Invisible Man

A landmark and lonely moment is when you realize you’re invisible. The cliche, “hidden in plain sight,” implies a conscious decision to remain hidden (or at least that’s how it’s mostly used), so it’s not that. By contrast, the invisibility of which I speak is the necessary symptom of an introspective and artistic life. Here’s what I’ve come to believe: the more a person moves about in the interior shadowland of his own mind–a space resembling, but not replicating, the physical world–the more that person feels a disconnect between what resonates as reality for him and what those around him seem to accept as the same. The invisible man’s reality is mostly within and is, therefore, closer to the heart. A general understanding of the world, like what close-knit communities often share, becomes nearly impossible for the primarily inward-living person. In the gap between inner and outer, values misalign. In fact, values originate altogether differently.

Probably the disconnect happens for everyone to varying degrees, maybe more for the introvert than for the extrovert. Yet it happens even more for the artist, and here’s a theory why: the artist is obligated to believe in his inner world. There’s no dismissing his most secret thoughts, writing them off as daydreaming or zoning out. Dreams, desires, memories, fantasies, imagination–all are raw materials; all are source material for origins.

I fear I’m viewing this conviction of invisibility solipsistically, though. Because I’m a  writer, maybe I’ve accepted things about myself I’ve merely made up–a functioning self-delusion, in which I’m guilty of believing a problem unique to a few that is really the existential dilemma of many.

Regardless what’s true or imagined, the feeling of being invisible occurs at distinct moments–moments which I could list, if time permitted. That’s why this post is a “Part 1,” because I might return to this idea and try to work through it. That is, unless I decide to just keep it all inside–to keep it invisible.

Alan D. Tucker, MA
Content Writer, Essayist, & Novelist