Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Community service used to unfold over a bubbling cauldron of spaghetti sauce for me, once every few Saturdays, and in hindsight the trips to the shelter were enjoyable because of the immediate feedback. The industrial-sized pot was my domain. Empty in the morning, full around 11 AM, then empty again, and if my quest for the perfect ground beef texture just so happened to feed people, well, that was nice. But ever since the Professor left for the Midwest, ostensibly to the very place where all this beef originated, I haven’t returned in months. These were his church acquaintances, after all, and without him to absorb the small talk I’d be charged with commenting on work or the weather or baseball, my focus duly torn asunder, and not even the flesh of ten-thousand cows could compel me down this path.

I spent the better part of this Sunday volunteering, however, in a different manner. A business associate was in the thick of negotiating her comp for a new job, and the counteroffer letter needed some serious work. Five drafts and three hours later, it was still a hot mess, and around 9 PM I muttered “Fuck it!” and wrote it myself. At the time I was thinking about how those hours could’ve been spent differently, preferably on Mad Men, but finishing the letter turned out to be a rush. Why? Because on Monday, the employer responded with a better comp package. There it was again: immediate feedback, the marinara with the meat, and it was satisfying to know the letter had brought the cheddar. A terrible rhyme, too, apparently.

Indeed, the very nature of writing was placed under the microscope. Its capacities. Its possibilities. Some will call it a craft, a skill rewarding in and of itself, a kind of ritual inviolate to be honed in an honest country cabin. I like to think of it as a tool. Not like a douchebag, mind you, but more of a monkey wrench. It can entertain. It can give. It can acquire. Ours is my favorite dynamic. These posts are a way to collect my thoughts, on one hand, but they also act as a single-serving product for you, consumed in secret and probably under illicit conditions. It’s like I’m the dealer, except I’m the one getting the hits. Take right now, for instance. I imagine you’re at work, sneaking a read befor– Oh holy shit your boss is right around the corner! Better maximize Microsoft Calculator and start pounding on your keyboard with your fists. I’m kidding, of course. You can’t maximize Microsoft Calculator.