Why I Really Write, Part 11: Lots O’ Neuroses

 If not for the "Why I Really Write" series, I would title this blog entry "Caught in a Morass of Baseball, Politics, Economic Meltdown, and Mind-Melting Sleep Deprivation."

The Cubs, my team of personal preference, have the best record in the National League, and if they are not prohibitive favorites to reach the World Series, nothing less would entail a defeat of soul- and spirit-crushing dimensions. Being that this is the Cubs, I should prepare for said crushing.

I have also found solace in wasting time "following" the presidential elections, which is another way of saying that I’m surfing the ‘endlessly for 1) comfort in polls saying Obama is winning; 2) comfort in polls saying McCain is losing; and 3) any and all information on the hot mess known as Sarah Palin.

Did I tell you that after the last week’s economic events, I plan to retire when I die?

And for a kid who isn’t yet 18 months, Baby has quite a loud voice. (He also seems to learn new word each day, much to his parents’ delight. None of the words are of the four-letter variety, much to my amazement, since he’s essentially mimicking me.)

Yes, these are excuses for the improper preparation precipitating piss-poor performance on this blog, not to mention the blogs of many others. They’re the same excuses I have for not writing, except in that case, I only have to lie to myself.

Sorry to have to do this, but let me tell you a little about my history of neuroses:

1. One night trying to sleep when I was about eight, I came to the horrifying realization that one day, my grandparents and parents would die, leaving me all alone in the cold, dark universe.

I started to cry, and my father came in to my room; between sobs, I told him of my overwhelming fear. My father explained as best he could that dying was part of life, and that nobody was going to die for a long, long time — certainly not him nor Mom. He gave me a hug and a kiss, and I soon went to sleep, comforted.

I daresay that if that was not one of the defining moments of my childhood, I certainly won’t forget it.

We’re gonna Zoom, Zoom, Zoom-I-Zoom (to my doom)

2. A couple of years after my father staunched my tears, he betrayed me. A children’s television show had debuted on the local public television station featuring a covey of young children as its stars, sort a local version of "Zoom." I harbored a secret desire to be one of the kids on the show. Unfortunately, I had let my father know in passing.

My mother, who was a budding musician at the time, wrote the theme song for the show, so we were invited to a fundraising party for the station. The director of the children’s show happened to strike up a conversation with my father as I stood next to him, and, much to my horror, my father said to him, "[Bookfraud] has something he’d like to say to you about being on the show."

We were standing near a wall with curtains, to where I promptly retreated. I mumbled something through the curtains about wanting to be on the kid’s program, which the director must have interpreted as, "This kid is insane."

3. Every time I asked out or tried to asking out a girl on a date: projecting calm, internalizing agony.

4. When I was in graduate school, I took an undergrad theater class in comedic acting as an elective. As part of the class, each student had to do a 15-minute stand-up routine before a live audience.

Suffice it to say that the five hours preceding my performance were some of the most agonizing minutes of my life. One can interpret this as mere stage fright or, perhaps, wish fulfillment. Despite the fact that my routine went smashingly well, I can’t say it’s was an experience I would want to repeat, despite the fact I loved being the center of attention.

Rock: Not neurotic

5. Also, consider all the rest of my neurotic embarrassing public moments, too many to recount in this space, though if you buy me a few beers and give me a shoulder to cry on, I’d be happy to share them.

If you don’t understand the gist of these anecdotes in relation to writing, you’re probably a well-adjusted, intelligent, and reasonably happy individual who is probably wildly rich and successful.

But if you do understand without further clarification the connection between one’s neuroses and writing, you’re probably a writer.

Congratulations. Or condolences. Whatever is appropriate.