of Ball Point Pens

Sometimes . . . the universe is out to get you.

Now I'm not one who is easily dissuaded from an idea. I take my dreams seriously. I work hard, and push myself unreasonably toward my goals.

I was told once by an algebra teacher that there was no way I was ever going to pass his class. I was told by an acting coach (and dear friend) that I better learn how to be a character actor because I couldn't be a leading man with premature baldness. I was told by a Grammy award winning producer that my songs had too many words in them.

They were probably right.

Except the algebra teacher. (I aced his freaking class . . . and still had time to smoke a lot of pot.)

My first album, as I have alluded to, was an absolute disaster.

Everything that could go wrong, did. Every song has a story in it's recording that could take up far more time than I have to write about tonight, but the moral of the story is that a six month project took me five years.

But I did it.

And I know it wasn't very good.

And I know very few people liked it.

And I know its neither the pop sensation or indie rock underground cool that I so desperately wanted it to be.

But I did it.

It took everything that I had.

And I did it.

And now, embarking on a far more ambitious project, I am adult enough to leap over my previous hurdles and hope for the best.

But today caught me by surprise.

So far I have endured bad reviews.

Snarky comments and pure dissbeleif on the concept.

And an impinged nerve.

I still don't think "impinged" is even a real word.

I took my little snot monkey to the park. In my bag was a notepad, a camera, and a ballpoint pen.

I decided it was time to write again.

For those of you who don't write, the only method for pushing oneself past the block stage is to sit down and decide to write what ever comes. A free flow of ideas that opens the portal to the otherwise unreachable universe of inspiration. It's not tough, but we forget how to do it all the time when life intrudes and depression sits shotgun. We might catch one good line and then stare at it for hours hoping that it will continue on its own.

It doesn't.

So we push on. And then we forget to push on. And then we read the entire "Harry Potter" series from start to finish because we don't remember how to begin.

I wasn't going to let one bad line stop me from vomiting up all the ideas that have been meandering around in my head since I stopped writing.

I started to write.

Calvin was on the swings.

I wrote some more.

Calvin insisted on going to the other swings.

I wrote some more.

Calvin wanted a big push.

I pushed, and then wrote some more.

Calvin wanted me to help him find his flipflops because he had lost them down the slide.

I ran up the slide, threw his shoes down to him and raced back to my notepad.

I was feeling the pull.

Inspiration had opened up to me as I knew it would.

I had gotten off my ass and started being a man again.

And then my pen died.

Right in the middle of a sentence.

My pen died.

There weren't anymore pens in my bag. And I had my wife's car. And she doesn't keep 50 pens hidden in the glove compartment, seat pockets, or door spaces . . .

cause why would she?

I was running an RPM of 7500 and my pen died.

That's just not freaking fair

Not freaking fair.

Inexcusably unfair.

You know . . .

I haven't read "Lord of the Rings" in quite some time.