Nick sets the bottle down and begins to read again. “All I have is a picture,” he starts. I focus on writing this down and in doing so miss the end of the thought. Frazzled, I look around. I see a few teachers from the past, workshop folks in tights and glasses, business students whose teachers insisted they come to the reading for class. Then there are the elite: Patricia Foster, June Melby, and the crime boss himself, John D’Agata; a veritable Who’s Who of the Iowa City nonfiction underworld. I turn my attention back to Nick Flynn who is still talking about pictures and memories.
A lot of my friends are photographers. They have very developed Flickr accounts for which they pay a premium to upload their fantastic snapshots of life. Page after page is filled with well-shot, narrative, beautiful photos. These friends also happen to be great writers. They supplement their photos with thought-provoking, emotional, honest writing that informs and augments the already fantastic photos. Incidentally, I’m a terrible photographer and the jury’s still out on my writing. Not sure how I got these friends.
As Nick Flynn pauses again to quench his thirst, I doodle a pokeball in my notebook. I’ve been doing this for years and still feel out of place. At readings, that is; I’m perfectly in my element where pokeball doodling is concerned. The room is filled with Writers, little satellites spinning out of their heads, ready to pick up on any inspiration that might reveal itself in this room jammed with creativity. I just want to draw Pikachu eating a sandwich.
Mr. Flynn is almost at the end of his bottle and I’ve only written two things down: “All I have is a photo…” and “how is life spent, day by day?”
How is life spent, day by day? It’s a fantastic question and I’m sure there are all sorts of ways of answering. Here’s one:
Today went to the Wild Animal Park it was like Jurassic Park with the dinosaurs replaced with animals
The next day:
Today we had a sub she was so mean. And we played Nintendo when we got home.
The day after that?
Today mom went to go see grandpa and Chris acted like a crazy bloody idiot.
That’s how I spent today, tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow 14 years ago. I wrote these when I was nine years old in a journal I got for Christmas. The journal itself is pretty cute: smallish, with grape designs on the cover and purple binding to match. I didn’t know how I wanted to use a journal yet, so I just recorded the hard facts of my day - personal opinion doesn’t make an appearance until January 10, 1996. Once I realized that entries didn’t have be all factual details, I really took off. I ended up filling five of these journals between December 29, 1995 and May 26, 2006.
All Nick Flynn has is a picture. All I have is five volumes of the most embarrassing tales ever put to page.
I don’t like to call myself a writer because the term is about as descriptive as, say, “Pokemon watcher.” But let’s assume that Pokemon watching is a very specific, universally understood, not to mention honorable, profession and say that I am a writer. A writer sitting in a room full of other writers listening to the writings of another writer; I used to be all about the ritual of going to readings, spinning your satellite and picking up on other people’s threads that you could then spin into your own fabric. It’s still fun and I still do it, but as Snoop Dogg said, “I don’t do it cuz I want to, I do it cuz I GAT to.” It’s part of who I am now.
I used to have a backpack and baggy pants. Now I have a messenger bag and a plaid cap. I used to want to be there at readings taking down diligent, thoughtful notes in my Moleskine ©, and here I am. I used to want to hang out in coffee shops and talk about Joan Didion and David Sedaris and Michel de Montaigne, but now I just want to see how many times I can mention Pokemon in an essay.
This nonfiction life was the best house party on the block, and I was just passing on the sidewalk, peering in, wishing I could be where those people were. Now I’m on the second floor, standing over the keg of Pabst Blue Ribbon listening to some guy argue that metaphysics is a harbinger of misinformation, trying to avoid spilling beer on my new sweater vest.
I came to this party 4 years ago looking for a good time, and it’s been real, but now I just want to go home and watch Jurassic Park.
Alas, I have to meet some friends at George’s first.
