Celebrating #Inktober
Or, My Continual Struggle to Stop Playing to My Strength
The angular gyrus.
If I have any magic, that’s where it lies. It’s a chunk of tissue in the parietal lobe of the brain that makes reading and writing possible. Over the years, mine has raised my grades, earned me admirers, and paid my bills. It’s the sharpest tool I have. My best trick.
My angular gyrus has been making hay for me since kindergarten, when I read a Dick and Jane book to my entire class. It got me my first published work, an elementary-school book report published in the local paper, and enabled me to skip most of second grade and catch up with my best friend Kevin in third. That little piece of not much got me my ‘writing-intensive’ political-science degree, my journalism career, my teaching career, my master of fine arts degree, and more recently four traditionally published novels and two dozen short stories.
As far as angular gyruses go, it’s a pretty good one.
But I always wanted to be in a band. Or be a visual artist. Or dance. Or sing. Or build furniture. When the COVID lockdown made it hard to write, I made stupid little films. The Energy of Creativity forcing its way out though a new, albeit far inferior channel. I want all the creative outlets.
I also have a touch of dysgraphia. That’s a hiccup in my frontal lobe, a place called ‘Exner’s writing area. It means that, although I took penmanship lessons far longer than my elementary and middle-grade peers, my handwriting is terrible. It shows up in my line work when I draw, too, and in my strumming and picking hand when I play guitar. To be sure, others have overcome far worse to become successful musicians and artists, but my angular gyrus and my choice to pick the least-resistant route put me on the writing path.
I still play guitar sometimes. A couple of times a year I vow this is going to be It, this is going to be the year I really learn to Play the thing. I get out my binder of music and build up my calluses. Earlier this year I almost did an open mic. I brought my guitar to the venue, had a song prepped. The first player was a high-school girl who was better than I’ll ever be. My guitar stayed in its case and when my turn at the microphone came, I fell back on my trick and read a short story.
Cowardice. I felt it. I acknowledge it.
Ink was my favorite medium during the couple of years I thought I might become a visual artist. Even as I struggled, I enjoyed the scratch of the nib on paper. Art classes in high school and college were wonderful and frustrating. I remember a friend saying I spent more time on my drawing homework than I did on anything else. I wanted to be good, but my patience and that side of my ego wore out.
October is my birth month, as well as #InkTober, one of the many creative stunts/motivators the Internet has spawned. The idea is to draw something every day of the month and post it where people can see it. I’ve taken on the challenge this year, posting my little offerings to my Instagram page. I’m no better than I used to be, probably worse, but I’m enjoying it. I catch myself thinking about and anticipating what I’m going to draw next. It feels a little brave to make the thing and put it out in the world.
My angular gyrus isn’t jealous. It’s still doing its work, churning out words and consuming books. It might even like the company. No wizard worth their salt relies on a single trick.
Speaking of which, the guitar is looking pretty good again, too. And there’s another open mic about the time of my birthday …
Happy birthday day! 👍