Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Scrapping (Sorta) Like Conor McGregor

Yesterday morning began like most others for me: meditate or pretend to, perform 20 pull-ups, jump on a trampoline, eat eggs, drink coffee, read my coveted 15 minutes of Trump news, and then switch my phone to “do not disturb” and set its timer for 60 minutes. It was writing time.

That’s when my morning became unique: I couldn’t crank out words. I was stuck on one paragraph in the middle of a 22-page behemoth essay I’m revising and hoping to get published in GQ, Rolling Stone or Playboy . . . dream big.

Hey brain, ignite! I read the writing note I had left for myself the day before, and then the last page I’d written, and then the last three pages I’d written, all in an attempt to point myself in my essay’s intended direction. The problem was I already knew where my revisions were going; I knew exactly what I was trying to say. I just didn’t know how to say it.

So, I sat at that keyboard and visualized the scene from six years ago about which I was writing; played music that reminded me of the summer of 2011; considered every single word I typed; clarified both my writing and thinking by asking myself simple questions like “Why?” and “What does that mean?” I scrapped, and by the time my timer beeped, I’d typed 164 words inside seven long sentences.

The morning was mine, despite the paltry 2.73 words per minute. My essay now at least had a draft of one of its critical moments of vulnerability. More importantly, my journey towards those 164 words led me to learn something about myself and the human condition.

Time is everything, but sometimes all we need is to demonstrate both patience and scrap to get what we want. Well, demonstrate patience and scrap, listen to the Foo Fighters, and curse at an LCD.

Life Update — I’m going to Ireland!
A few hours ago, while walking towards my Lyft which would take me to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, I said, “Good afternoon,” as I approached a panhandler sitting on a bench.

“Afternoon. You got McGregor?”

I didn’t hear the last word he had said. I stopped and turned around to get clarity. “Do I got what?”

“Conor McGregor. You remind me of him . . .”

Because you think I’m as strong as him?!

“. . . Because of your beard.”

I thought Floyd Mayweather would win in their future boxing match and told this man so.

“I got McGregor. He’s scrappy,” he said.

Sometimes, life gives us signs. I was headed to Ireland for my fourth residency in my Stonecoast creative writing program. McGregor is from Dublin. I thought about how, after my incredible safari in Tanzania last year, I rooted for Tanzanian athletes in the Olympics. Assuming my time in Ireland, which will begin some eight hours from now as I sit at a bar during my layover at John F. Kennedy International Airport typing this story, will also be incredible, I’m going to root for McGregor.

“You changed my mind,” I said. “Bearded dudes unite.”

“August 26, let’s go! I bet you’re scrappy, too!”

I wished the man a nice afternoon and walked away towards my Lyft. On August 27, the day after McGregor’s bout, I’m going to visit that same bench in hopes of seeing that man. We’ll need to discuss the fight.

Appearances
My friends in my writing program and I will be reading on July 13 at 7:30 p.m. at the Dingle Bookshop: 2 Green St, Dingle, Co. Kerry, Ireland.

Some Recent Social Media Posts

2 comments:

Dad said...

Your writing allows your words to come to life in its reading. I am certain that you will have a most successful residency in Ireland. I will root for the underdog McGregor.

Benjamin Rubenstein said...

Thank you, Dad. Glad you liked the story as always.