The Writing Process of Someone with Delusions of Grandeur

Step 1: Clean the house.  I mean deep clean.  Bleach the toilet.  Organize the pantry.  Knock down that spider web in the corner that didn’t matter before.  A cluttered house leads to a cluttered mind so maybe pick up that pair of socks that has materialized in the living room.

Maybe too literal…..

Step 2: Make a sandwich.  There are very few things in life as beautiful as a well-constructed sandwich.  Except for that paper that was assigned two weeks ago.  That will be a thing of beauty.  But, it’s really hard to write a paper while eating a sandwich, so after some reverent glances and maybe an Instagram post, eat the sandwich.

It better be delicious, otherwise it’s just lollygagging

Step 3: Go on Facebook.  It’s been a long day and it’s nice to see what everyone is up to.  Follow that link to Buzzfeed that some random person from high school posted.  A lot of self-discovery lies down that path and it could be useful.  After all, it is incredibly important for everyone to know which character from “Friends” that he or she is.

Step 4: Make an amazing playlist.  Good writing doesn’t just happen; it needs inspiration.  I’m sure even authorial greats, like Tennessee Williams, allowed themselves to be propelled forward by the steady beat of a tune. Make sure the music has no words; they have a funny way of finding their way into papers unintentionally.

Step 5: Start writing.  Repeat steps 1-4 as often as necessary.

Step 6: Go to bed.  It’s late.  Just set an alarm to an earlier time than usual and work on it then.

Step 7: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

I’m told it’s important

Step 8: Uh-oh! The alarm didn’t go off! The paper is due at 5 p.m. and it’s about 11 a.m. now so there’s six hours to finish.  That’s plenty of time!  Just skip Algebra today.

Step 9: Repeat steps 1-5 as needed.

Step 10: Consider checking for grammar and spelling. Read the paper out loud this helps.  Wait, there are how many minutes until 5? Ten? Never mind, skip this step.

Maybe skim it

Step 11: Run.  Run faster than ever before.  Run so fast that the track athletes want to recruit you.  Don’t get distracted by the way the paper flaps in the wind or how sweat stings the eyes or the sore muscles that haven’t run since….well who knows when that happened last?

Step 12: Turn the paper in.  Huffing and puffing, lift a shaky hand to the box and experience the sweet release of the sheets sliding into place among the works of others……

……..or…….

…..skip to step 5 much earlier in the week and don’t do the second part.  Maybe have a friend or two look it over.  Turn it in early.  Get some sleep.

Where’s the fun in that?

Note: Coffee should play a huge factor in most of these steps.

Words to live by

Lost in Transition

Every time I drive somewhere even slightly unfamiliar, I say a silent prayer in the car thanking The Lord that I live in the 21st century.  It’s not because I have a super nice car that gets amazing gas mileage.  In fact, my car, a 1989 Ford Bronco, turned 25 years old this year.  According to the internet (Wikipedia, of course), this makes it an antique.  And let me tell you, it gets antique gas mileage.

I don’t even have to listen to the radio anymore.  The latest technology has allowed me to just plug in my IPod and skip the commercials and all of the garbage on Top 40 Radio.  But even this is not why I am thankful every time.

So what am I continuously thankful for? My Garmin of course.

I would be a flagrant liar if I said that I was an excellent navigator behind the wheel.  I’m so bad at directions that I make Christopher Columbus look good.  I probably would’ve missed the Americas altogether.

Happily, for me and many passengers, I have a nice little GPS device that I have lovingly named Betsy.  I know it’s a bit of a cliché name, but she’s never let me down and I’ve always thought that Betsy was reliable name.

Without Betsy, I would be lost both literally and emotionally when driving.  When I drive, I get the music going and I forget where I am.  Sometimes the only thing that wakes me from my reverie is the sound of Betsy telling me to turn right in a mile.  Who knows where I’d be without her?

We have had our moments though.  One time, I was trying to find some place in Eugene and I had Betsy assisting me.  I turned left on one street and then right on another.  And then she said “Turn left on a street.”  Confused I looked at the screen and sure enough, it said to turn “left on a St.” Was any old street going to get me where I needed to go or was this really a street name?

Being the true millennial I am, I snapped a quick picture at a red light.

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I did end up finding a street.

In fact, I found a lot of them.

Seriously though, a Street was a real place.  It led to a cul-de-sac I needed to be on, but that’s not the point.

Any time I have gone astray while letting Betsy direct me is because I have made an error in judgment: I was in the wrong lane, missed the turn, or just didn’t want to go that way.  However, that is how my roommate and I found a gravel road in the middle of Portland.  I don’t even know how that happens.

All that aside, I would never get anywhere if I had to use a paper map or, even worse, ask for directions to find my destination.  And it’s not because I’m a man, but more because I’m still a big fan of the lesson “don’t talk to strangers” when I was a kid.  Or it might be anxiety.  Oh well.

Maybe someday I’ll have to write a letter to Garmin.  It’d go “Dear Garmin, Thank you for allowing me to be a functional driver.  Sincerely, Levi Bowers.”

Or I could just stick with my silent prayer.

Me and the “Crabby” Old Men

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I generally only use my shellfish license once or twice a year.  The purchasing process is short, usually taking me less time to get it and leave the local hardware store than to actually drive into town.  It’s just a strip of paper covered in numbers and fine print that I don’t read.  I still sign it.  I know it’s wrong, but it’s not valid if I don’t sign it. Then it goes into my wallet until I get a phone call.

“Levi, do you want to go crabbing?  There’s a good tide coming up,” my grandpa asks over the phone.  The answer is always yes. 

Times are set.

Plans are made.

And then one day, I find myself getting up at the buttcrack of dawn to head to Florence with my grandpa and his friend Ellis.  Sometimes we even camp and go out multiple days. 

Crabbing with these two is quite the experience.  In general, crabbing is something you cannot just jump into.  You need a boat, someone who can pilot a boat, crab pots (which are really more accurately described by the word cage because that’s what they are, but who am I to mess with the vernacular?), bait (usually chicken or, as my grandpa uses, quartered nutria), a shellfish measuring device, a long hook to catch the rope on the pots, and the resolve to not only haul up a pot full of crab, but to also reach in and grab the only legal male in the batch who so happened to push his way under every other crab in the most distant corner.

But throw Ellis and my grandpa in a boat together and you get a show.

“Well, I’m gonna start cutting up the bait,” my grandpa says kneeling down to the blue cooler full of chicken thighs and legs as Ellis pilots the boat out to “the secret spot.”

“Alright,” Ellis replies.  We speed along for a while, passing seals bobbing up and down in the wake of the small craft.  Soon enough, we begin to slow as we approach our destination.

“Okay.  We’re ready to go,” my grandpa announces as he returns to the front of the boat.

“What were you doing?” Ellis asks.

“I was cutting up that chicken.”

“Why? There was already some cut up in there.”

“Why didn’t you tell me in the first place? Now my knife is all sticky!”

I don’t hear Ellis’ reply.  I’m way too busy laughing at the exchange.  And it goes on the entire trip, much to my amusement. 

When it finally comes time to pull the pots, my grandpa is driving, I’m standing ready to grab the rope and haul the pot in, and Ellis is next to me with hooked pole, tapping it on the floor of the boat chanting, “I want a crab! I want a crab!”

I bring the first pot on board.  Nothing.

“Move over.  I’ll show you how a real crabber does it,” Ellis says as I throw the pot back.  I move aside as we slowly approach the next pot.  He readies himself as I move aside to try and balance the boat.  This time, there are two crabs.  Two females.  We throw them back, check the bait, and toss the pot back overboard.

“You two clowns,” my grandpa says as he and Ellis switch places.  “This is how you do it.” He pulls the rope.  Success! 

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From there on out, I have to be careful not to be pushed off the boat as the two eager crabbers switch off with me and each other as we make several passes through our line.  The catch isn’t too bad with around 30 crabs (the limit is 12 per person). 

We head home to cook and clean the crabs.  After all, the ultimate goal is a tasty meal of crab meat. 

Such adventures end with not only a belly full of crab, but a soul full of joy and a mind full of memories.  And all for the price of a silly piece of paper.

“Some say that …

“Some say that the age of chivalry is past, that the spirit of romance is dead. The age of chivalry is never past, so long as there is a wrong left unredressed on earth.” -Charles Kingsley