'Whenever my hypos get such an upper hand...'

In my latest self-improvement plan, Version 329, I am taking a writing course.

This class is offered through "The Great Courses," a company that offers classes on DVDs, and is sort of the modern version of the mail-order college class. The company advertises in magazines such as Smithsonian and The New Yorker, so of course I was suckered in by the idea. Kris bought me the class for Christmas. Its title is "Analysis and Critique: How to Engage and Write About Anything."

It's taught by Professor Dorsey Armstrong, an associate professor of English at Purdue University.

This all doesn't sound that appealing does it? I must admit that I was pretty excited about getting the course, even while I was pretty dubious about it at the same time.

Turns out that the class is actually kind of interesting, although I've only watched two half hour lessons.

I was kind of hoping that it would be a video of an actual class, but instead it's produced especially for the DVD viewer. Professor Armstrong stands in a kind of cheesy set, with pillars and some drapes, and she uses her arms emphatically, but again, this isn't about production values or acting ability, but what she has to say. And I like it.

So far she's talking about reading critically, looking for key words that identify mood, time, place, etc. Nothing earth shattering. But...

Professor Armstrong asked me to examine the first couple of paragraphs of "Moby Dick."

The second paragraph:

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off -- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.

That passage sets the tone of the book, Armstrong said. It shows the time period in which the book is set -- "coffin warehouses" -- and lets the reader know that it will not be without humor.

I found it to be an incredible piece of writing, because (holy shit!) Hawthorne was describing me! Replace sea with "going for a bike ride" or "taking a long run," and you've got a pretty dead on description of my feelings. I might be living in 2013, and far away from any adventure that involves a sailing ship and great white whale, but I still get the "hypos" that makes me want to knock people's hats off. Or grab their ties, or push them into a puddle.

Next on my reading list: "Moby Dick," and maybe it's high time for me to get to my own sea, somehow, someway.

Neighbor Dan

My neighbor Dan broke his collarbone a couple of months ago, while taking a nasty fall on a patch of ice.

We are friendly neighbors, but not overly so.  We talk in snippets here and there as we're both coming or going.

He's a Packers and Brewers fan, like we all are, and he likes to go out and have a few drinks, like most of us do. I like the fact that he's a responsible drinker, like too few us are, which I found out last summer when I noticed his truck wasn't parked in his driveway.

"Where's the truck?" I asked him. "Is it in the shop?"

"No," he said. "I might have had a couple too many last night. It's still at the bar."

Dan is a fisherman. That's not his job -- he works as a customer service rep at a health insurance administration company -- but it's who he is. He's particularly passionate about ice fishing, which I find intriguing. He can't exactly describe why he loves sitting on frozen water waiting for a walleye or whatever come by and bite his line, but he does. He's got all sort of interesting equipment and clothes, which he is constantly loading and unloading in his two-wheel drive Chevy S10.

But what I love most about Dan is his talent for understatement.

I found out about the collarbone in typical Dan fashion.

"Hey Dan, how's it going?" I called out as he was coming out of his house one evening.

"Hey Keith, not too bad," Dan said. "Broke my collarbone, though. Fell on the ice."

I knew that he didn't fall which ice fishing, because this was very early in our winter, and water was still open. We had had one snowfall, and the subsequent melt left little patches of ice scattered here and there: Mother Nature's booby traps.

Dan and I talked about the injury a bit. He was off of work for a while, he said. I told him I would do whatever I could to help, and that at least I could shovel his drive when needed. "If you need anything else," I told him, just ring the bell. "Kris and I will do what we can. Except I won't help you get dressed. You'll have to figure that out on your own."

In a subsequent conversation, he went into more detail about the injury. He had to keep his arm in a sling, because there's no cast for a broken collarbone.

"It's taking longer than normal for it to heal," Dan said. "I must have turned or something when I fell. There are fragments in there. The doctors call it a corkscrew break. I saw the x-rays, the bone is twisted. I'm not gonna lie, it's been pretty painful."

This was weeks ago. Dan's thanked me profusely for clearing his driveway, and even gave me a gas card to show his gratitude. I told him he didn't have to do that, I kind of like shoveling, and if the snow is deep, I have a snowblower. "Still, I really appreciate it," Dan said.

I talked to him this morning. He's back at work, and he's got an appointment with his doctor today.

"This should be the last one," he said.

"Wow," I said. "It's a cautionary tale."

"Yep," he said, nodding slowly. "It's been an experience."

Writing

So I've had this love/hate relationship with writing, and this blog was supposed tip the balance to the love side. It's had mixed results.

I'd love to say that I've just simply been too busy to write. But I haven't been too busy to keep up with "How I Met Your Mother," a television show that I'm ashamed to admit that I watch.

I'd like to say that it's all about work, that it consumes my energy, creativity, and by the time I get home, I am sapped of any will at all to look at a computer, much less sit and think of something profound to say.  That's not true either. I get tired, but there always can be some words. 

Maybe if I were to go all confessional, I might say that it's classic laziness that keeps me away from here. But that ain't quite right either.

If I want to look the truth right in the eyes, I guess I would have to say that I haven't written because I don't like to write. Well, it goes a little deeper than that. The reason I don't like to write is because I don't really like my writing. 

This is a self-confidence, self-esteem thing, and I guess that it's been with me for all my life. I don't like my writing because I think it's crap, just like it almost hurts to look at a picture of myself because I feel so homely when I do. When I read my own words, I cringe. 

Here's the thing, I've decided not to care about any of that anymore. So once again I've made this little promise to myself to start blogging steadily, for what, the umpteenth time? I started out this blog in an effort to write about my exercise misadventures, and I've done some of that.

If you like that stuff (and I'm pretending that someone is reading this), please check out my blog at Wisconsin Outdoor Fun. That's a work-related blog, and I'm making a special effort there. It's located here: http://blogs.wisconsinoutdoorfun.com/blogs/wof/wofuhligblog/.

You should know, dear imaginary audience, that although I am making a special effort to update this blog, I'm also making an extra special effort to keep that one updated. Why? I've got a secret plan.

You should also know that in the past I've used this personal blog as rough draft for that blog, and that will likely continue. And sometimes, I will take posts from that blog and throw them in here. So if you read them both, you might notice overlap, and get sick of me, and who can blame you? I'm sorry about that, imaginary reader. It's not that I don't care about you, I do. But I can't afford to care so much so that I don't do anything anymore. Does that make sense?

If you're going to read only one blog. Read that one. You'll help with my special plan.

Anyway, this blog also should be different from that blog. That one is work work, and it will have somewhat of a more professional tone. Not that this is going to vastly unprofessional or anything like that. Can't afford to go all the way there. But this will be fun work, I hope, and it will be more personal, and I'm envisioning that it will be more about the struggles for creativity, trying to stave off depression, and trying to become a real writer. There might be some swearing, too. No nudity though.

What does all this mean?

Damned if I know.