A really lousy fisherman

I'm going to spoil the ending of this post right off the bat. It is going to have so very little to do with fishing and/or the whole genre of angling. Which, on some levels is kind of sad. My father was one of the biggest fisherman that I ever knew. And, I'm sure that given the right set of circumstances and some subtle prodding, I can and will expound on the man and his love for the water and the eternal search for the "next big one". Even now, so so many years later, it brings a smile to my face and it warms my soul to recall all the wonderful memories and recollections of my Dad doing any number of things to get ready to go and fish? You should check back, because simply typing a few lines about it has unleashed a fairly strong reaction inside me and I actually can't wait to write about my father! But, this one is about me, if I may be so vain?! And, I...much to the dismay of my father, if he were still alive, hate fishing. I mean, look at me today? I live in Minnesota, complete with the 10,000 lakes and I have only been fishing maybe one or two times. And, those were just to fulfill the fatherly duties that one must partake in if you have male children. Just because I despise it, I cant assume that my sons will as well, right? Again, getting off track. I live in what might be a top five state for angling, and I come from a man who had has his number one passion the act of procuring fish...and yet, I have zero desire to dive into the the genre of boats and lures and fishing licenses and 5 a.m departures and depth finders and the list goes on and on. I'm gonna come back to the fishing thing. Trust me on this one.

The real theme to this post is the origin and timeline of my personal affinity and love for the act of writing. Arranging a series of words and phrases into a sentence that becomes magical prose. Ordinary words, mundane in their nature, crafted with just the right touch, just the right frame or reference and something amazing begins to take shape. I first started writing sometime around the 6th grade, I think. I wish that I could visualize or recall with vivid detail the moment that I was filled with the adoration of and for the written word, but alas....I can not. I just recall writing for no real reason at all. Those early pages were rough to be kind. I filled spiral notebooks with kind of the made up day to day middle school dealings of myself and a few good friends as well as some of their good friends. Kind of the first forray into the world of network marketing? Back then, there were no obstacles. I dont' think I even knew the dreaded phrase "writer's block". I just wrote and wrote and whether or not it was bad, good, or something in between didn't matter to me one bit. Because, I thought it was great. I thought I was a big and bad writer, and because of it, I was of course better and smarter than everyone else. It wasn't a matter of vanity....it was just the way I viewed my surroundings. I would let a few read what I had wrote and I'm sure they said nice things just to be nice. A sixth grade writer? Uh....not cool, man. Van Halen, and Michael Jackson were cool. Not writing made up things about you and your classmates. These tomes of drivel still exist to this day, in my mothers basement in the "David" boxes. Once every ten years or so, I'll dig them out and stare in wonderment at what passed as writing to the 6th grade me! I'm sure Hemingway started out writing epic sorts of stuff right out of pre-school? My big claim to fame, or maybe my big dip into the pool of controversy back then was building up to the big french-kissing scene between my best friend at the time, Mike and his female love interest at the time, Stacy. Ahh....good times. Oh, then there was the first time I included and wrote the "F" word into my tale. Luckily for me, my parents weren't checking my work out. Oh, what a rebel! But, above everything, and all the kidding and good natured self depracation aside, I absolutely am in love with this period of my writing history. I've read countless books on writing and only one truth or one lesson has ever stuck with me, so as such, I've kind of adopted it, even if I have far from lived up to it. That is the idea that to be a successful writer, you have to write. You have to write when you're inspired and when you're not. You have to bang out pages when you feel on top of the world, as well as when you're a sniveling hot mess. There are no "perfect" or "ideal" times for writing, just excuses and rationales on why you don't. There are plenty of empty promises one makes to oneself. The worst word in the english language is "tomorrow". I am the king of tomorrows. But, not back then. I carried my folders with me everywhere and looked forward to any and every opportunity to record more scintillating depiction of my 6th grade Rockwellian world. Somewhere along the way, life crept in and with it came all the doubts and insecurities that mar the process. Suddenly, I became something of a perfectionist and nothing was good enough. I must have started hundreds of stories, only to have every single one of them flame out after only a few pages, or only a few paragraphs because none of them were good enough. I wanted instant quality. I wanted to sit down and pen a novel on the first draft? Even as I learned more and discovered just what the journed entailed and the sheer magnitude of it, I still sought the impossible. It became too easy to exist as a writer in my mind only, if that makes any sense? I would tell myself that I was an incredible author just waiting to happen and that very soon, magic was just going to shoot out of my fingertips and then the world would see. There would be occasional actual efforts that each ended just as quickly as they began. And with each one of them that was jettissoned, the time between such efforts grew larger. Mind you, none of these failures or shortcomings did anything to dissipate the notion in my head that I was a kick ass writer. I just knew I was. I was, and to a large extent as I sit here in full mid-life mode, am....a writer who never writes? And, thus, we are brought full circle back to the lousy fisherman angle.

I haven't always hated fishing. You just couldn't be around my father for any extended time and hate it. So, as a young teenage boy, I immersed myself in it. And, as most anyone who has known me for any facet of my life will tell you, I can definitely lean towards the obsessive with regards to "things" that I take up in lfe, or things that I latch onto. And, fishing was one of these things. I collected rods, bought lures, read fishing magazines for God's sake, and watched the television shows on fishing, and then there was the times that I got to go with my father. I even wrote about fishing. This whole thing lasted until I was in high school. While in high school, I had a good friend named John Ellmer. I havent seen him since high school. John was a huge fishing fanatic. His dad had the ranger boat, and he too read the magazines and knew all about the tech-ie stuff, and best of all....John lived on a lake. So, he literally fished every other day if he felt like it. I went fishing with John a few times on his lake. There were times we just stood on the dock or on the side of the water's edge and a few times where he paddled out an old silver John boat. I'll never forget it and I'll never forget the impact that this time had on me and my writing career or lack thereof. If I ever get the chance to have my memoirs published, I will owe the title or at least the preface to one John Ellmer. You see....as much as I loved fishing....I was terrible at it. I just didnt' catch anything, ever. Even with the family history and all the obsessive fawning and now with the good friend and his assured influence, I just never crossed the imaginary line of being good at it? How in the hell does this have anything to do with my writing? In a yearbook signing....from so far back in my life I have no business remembering it, John wrote what has always stuck with me and absolutely will be the title of my life story. He wrote....."To Dave....a cool guy who likes to fish, but never cathes any." How perfect is that? Kind of sums up my life as the writer. If John had continued to be one of my life friends, he could have signed something else..."To Dave....a guy who calls himself a writer, but never writes anything." You were the best Johnny!