To be able to write… a man must be
sensitive, imaginative, naive, gullible, passionate;
he must be something of an imbecile,
something of a poet,
something of a liar,
something of a damn fool.
He must be a chaser of wild geese, as well as of wild ducks.
He must be prepared to make a public spectacle of himself.
I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve been told by people close to me that I am making a spectacle of myself.
I can’t help it. I’m a talker. I love to tell stories, to trade anecdotes, to argue, to debate, to spar with words. I love to paint pictures in your mind.
I also talk with my hands. Wildly gesturing. I tend to stand while others are seated so as not to incur any injuries. If I have to remain seated, I wrap my hands around a drink or I sit on them. I’m not even kidding. They just love to jump about of their own accord.
My husband is Not A Talker. Ironically, this is one of the subjects we discuss most– the fact that He Is Not A Talker and how it’s not such a big deal, since You Talk Enough For The Both Of Us. Whenever we go into a social situation, I am reminded to Try Not To Bore Everyone Or Embarrass Us With Your Incessant Blather.
I usually start off well. I stay quiet. I answer questions in a way I consider succinct and soft-spoken. But at some point the floodgates break open and those traitors, my hands, they are running about and illustrating points and they goad me on, leading me like a conductor’s baton.
On the way home, I’ll get a You Talked Too Much Again. Sigh.
I think any writer is a talker. They understand cadence and flow and nuance because they have heard themselves talk so damn much. And at some point they have to stem the flow… redirecting it onto the page.
Writers have to write because they have something to say and a need to be heard. Anything else is censorship… and since writers are also READERS censorship is the ultimate enemy.
As for wild geese and ducks… well, let’s just say he wasn’t there when I pulled the car to the side of the heavily traveled highway just off a college campus road and followed this family around. And that’s a good thing, since he probably would’ve been offended by all the people laying on their horns as they whizzed by, shouting “Honk! Honk!”
I am not easily embarrassed. This comes from growing up with a mother who was beyond embarrassing. I developed a fairly thick skin.
To what extent am I bound to not embarrass the people around me?
To what extent am I bound to be the way that I am?
*** Local Peeps: On this particular stretch of road– 273 near Lowe’s– there is a Papa Goose who has an arrow sticking through him. The arrow “currently is not interfering with the goose’s ability to fly, feed or care for its young, according to Tri-State Bird Rescue & Research Inc.” so reporting the goose is not necessary, he is being monitored. In a few weeks the goslings will be old enough to survive with a single parent and at that point the rescue will attempt treatment. ***
Interesting Canada Goose Facts (to me, anyway)
–Canada Geese mate for life.
–They return to their old stomping grounds to nest. Which in turn were the nesting areas of their parents.
–Goslings stay with both parents for a whole year.
–If a goose falls out of the V formation while migrating (say, if it is shot, maybe with a FREAKING ARROW), then two other geese will stay behind with it, bringing food until it recovers or dies.
I’m all about a wild goose chase. Makes me feel good about myself.
My husband also is Not A Talker. It is why I started blogging. He also gives me The Look in social situations.
I refer to him on my blog as The Hunter. As punishment for his censoring me and out of respect for poor Papa Goose, I am now making my way to the garage to 'accidentally' step on one or ten of his arrows.
I've been self-censoring for a long time and I am ready to burst. I am thinking that maybe it is time for less censoring and more goose chasing. Especially when there is a goose on the loose with an arrow piercing through.
I don't mind hunting, in theory. I believe it's healthy to understand firsthand where your food comes from. I guess what the world needs is more hunters that are responsible– and ACCURATE.
I talk and talk and talk. And that's how we became friends. I also sit on my hands. I always thought I just liked the way it feels. Hmm. But now I get paid to talk and argue and express opinions. And I can't stop. I married someone with the same job. There's a lot of talking in our house. Even the cats won't shut up.
I'm sad about that goose and I want to rescue him. I ignore hunting just like I ignore slaughter houses and everything else involved in bringing me my dinner. But I don't like seeing sad wounded animals. Poor birdie.