Writing is Like Living and Loving

Introductions

I always find myself stumped when it comes to writing an introduction. What could I possibly say that could make a person want to read what I have to write? What do I have to write, anyway? This is obviously not my standard type of writing: I mean look at it! There are personalized subjects, there’s a sarcastic voice, and it’s all coming directly from me, as a character. This isn’t the fiction I’m used to weaving… no, this is something different. It’s life that I’m writing now.

Have you ever noticed how much life is like writing a paper? When you’re in school and preparing yourself for “the real world” (whatever that is supposed to be) it’s like you’re doing some prewriting. I’m brainstorming what I will be doing for the rest of my life while I’m sitting here writing this paper. Where will it take me? Will the words that I’m typing now ever mean more than the paper they will become?

The whole daunting task of writing is also quite similar to the fearsome process of entering into a relationship with someone. Writing is like living and loving someone. The brainstorming of a relationship is where we get to know this person, become friends with him or her, and learn about the person. The body of our relationship paper is the actual relationship part, where we go out to eat or out to concerts, and we get all lovey-dovey and whatnot. Then there’s that part that we never want to actually write, and we have a hard time doing it: conclusions, where we pretend to understand what we’ve written.

We’ll talk more about conclusions later, though. Let’s worry instead about how I’m introducing this paper. If you haven’t guessed yet, it is an essay about writing. But it’s not just about writing. You see, I made the decision to write about a specific person, and I told that person that I would. So I’m going to write about this person, but I’m also going to write about writing. I’m also going to write to that person directly, so when I’m writing to “you” you (the reader) should know that I may be talking to “you” (the reader) or “you” (my special person).

I only tell you this so that you don’t get too confused about what I’ll be doing. Without further ado, I suppose we should start.

Prewriting

Do you remember that time when we were in the parking lot? We had just gotten back from that failed attempt to see a movie. You had forgotten your wallet, so I drove us back, and we made the decision to go see it later? Do you remember that? Of course you do.

Do you remember what I told you I was going to do though? I said that I was going to write a story about you. I told you it wasn’t going to be fiction, either. I told you that I was going to write the truth about you and me and us. I told you it would be like an essay or a memoir.

You remember, then, how I told you it would work. I told you that I would set our story inside an essay. I told you that I’d write about us, but I would also be interjecting details about my past, and how I met you.

I remember telling you that I was going to mix up the chronology of our story. Do you remember why I was doing that?

“Our love is timeless and has no chronology,” you said, and I agreed.

Well this is the story that I promised you….


Rough Draft

I was in a bad place with X. He was abusive both physically and mentally. He always put me down, and whenever he got angry, he wouldn’t hesitate to beat me up. I only stuck with him so long because he was the only one I had. When I finally found the guts to dump him, my loneliness almost drove me back to him.

Then Y came along. He managed to help get back on my feet. We became quick friends, and I found myself drawn in by his smiles, and his energetic spirit. When Y and I started dating, he taught me how to stand up for myself. He helped me open up and become more accepting of the gay man that I am.

Of course, we had to fight the discrimination that comes with the whole “gay package.” People gave us dirty looks when we would go out places, and we’d occasionally be called names. But all of the things that used to bother me before didn’t bother me as long as I was with him.

Because of that time together, I’ve become a completely different person from that reclusive kid that I used to be.


Feedback

I don’t know about most people, but I know that, for me, I often get about halfway through an essay, and wonder, “Gee, I wonder how well that will come off….” It’s great to have purpose and desire when you’re writing, but sometimes the things you write become an issue. Specifically in nonfiction writing, the truth can be almost impossible to capture. Things in the writer’s past may be haunting, and devastating to talk about. The truth isn’t easy.

The audience can be a problem too. You may not be writing for the crowd that you actually want to write for. Your audience may be completely against your life and what you are writing about. Your truth may not be the same as their truth.

Consider, for example, that you’re a gay man writing about a gay relationship for a class at one of the most anti-gay colleges in the country. Yikes. Perhaps the writer might want to rethink his choice of topic as well as his strategy. In fact, I can remember one time specifically where a paper that I wrote (one with gay themes) was vandalized with the word “FAG” written across the front.

When considering the difficulties of writing for an audience, you have to look deep into yourself. The audience may be as gentle as a receptive partner listening to your story, or they may be as hostile as my parents were when I came out to them. Sure, I could turn around and write about something else, but if my heart is really into it, and I’m daring enough, then I may just be able to make it through to my reader.


Refining

You remember all those times we sat together watching Doctor Who episodes.

I know you remember the first time that I said “I love you” without actually meaning to. I had been holding back, trying to wait to actually say it so that I didn’t scare you off. I remember the first time you replied in kind.

We both remember that night where we stayed up for hours playing Halo together. We got through a few levels, but we both know we were only staying up until your roommate went to sleep so that we could be together uninterrupted on the couch.

Do you remember when I told you that I thought this would work out? I told you that I believed we could continue to be a “we” for a long time. Well I remember.

I remember that you agreed.


Clarifying

It came without warning. I wasn’t expecting it at all. I was on the way home from seeing him, even. Looking back, I can see the signs, but when Y actually called that day to tell me that we couldn’t see each other anymore, I lost it.

I could try to describe how awful it felt to me, but I’m sure that you’ve probably experienced a bad break-up before. If not, just take my word for it that like an earthquake on the heels of a train wreck.

Apparently Y came out to his dad, and things didn’t go well. He was moving to Myrtle Beach, to his mother’s house. Obviously the distance would be too much for us to deal with, he said. Too much for him to deal with.

I would spend the next couple of months trying to get over him. I ended up crawling back to X again, but then that fell through as well. There were a few hopefuls along the way, but I never really got over Y.

Editing

Wouldn’t it be great if we could just rewrite parts of our lives like we could edit our papers? I guess in some ways, life isn’t like a written piece of work. No matter what we do, we can’t go back and change the facts. Things that have happened are solidly placed in the past.

Or are they?

We can learn from our mistakes, of course. It’s not always so easy though. Sometimes we’re just doomed to repeat mistakes over and over again. The beauty of writing, though, is that it helps us understand our mistakes.

Editing is a magical thing in writing, because you can do a lot with it that you can’t do in life. For example, I can rearrange the chronological order of my work. I can mix up the pattern, or present a different ideas related to other ideas. If I didn’t like the way that I was writing before, I can change it.


Writer’s Block

It was the first week of Winter break when I saw Y again. He had moved back to Virginia and was renting a place with a friend. He invited me to a Christmas party that he was hosting. There would be drinking, music, and fun.

I went, of course. I’m not really a party guy or a drinker—though I did try a few drinks that night—but I definitely had hopes that we might be able to get back together. The party was a bust from the get-go, though. Not very many people showed up. When an hour had dragged by I was bored. The worst part was I could already tell that Y was only interested in using me as a party-filler. He had no intention of actually getting back together with me. But my self-esteem was so low that I deleted that draft of my life.

Then he showed up. Z.

I did not want him there. It was obvious from the start that there was something going on between Z and Y. I was ready to get out of there, but I was already a few drinks in at this point, so I wasn’t going anywhere.

So instead, we played Kings. I sat there are enjoyed watching Z get sick after only a few drinks. I enjoyed watching Y make a fool of himself.

And then I realized I was drunk, too.


Finishing Touches

Do you remember that time, Z, that I was drunk at Y’s party? You kept me from taking my self-loathing to too far a level. You were there for me when I needed someone. And you didn’t even know me.

Do you remember passing out on the couch with me? It wasn’t even because of the alcohol. It was because we stayed up all night just talking to each other. I remember how bitter I felt during that entire party. I remember wanting you dead. I remember telling you all of this, too. Do you remember how you felt when I told you? I remember you asking me out on our first date. I’ve remembered every date since then, too.

You may not have been the one that I was after that night. You certainly weren’t what I was expecting. But you ended up being the person that I needed.


Conclusions

Conclusions suck. They’re hard to write. What can you really say to end a piece that leaves the work tied up neatly? You don’t want to just repeat the theme. You don’t want to summarize, but you also don’t want to introduce an entirely new argument.

The conclusion of a relationship can also be hard to deal with. A lot of the time, we just don’t want things to end. Sometimes they end in ways that we aren’t expecting, as well. But that’s just the funny thing about expectations: reality will trump them every time. I never would’ve guessed that I would end up with Z, and not Y, but that’s the way these things work.

Z is nice to me in a way that I’ve never experienced before. He’s gentle and thoughtful; exciting but occasionally reserved—he gives me space in which I can be myself, but is always there when I need him. In a way, meeting Z is a conclusion: my relationship with him means no more abuse and no more feeling alone. We’re both out and proud, but we’re not loud about it: our families accept us being together, even if they don’t want to see us that way; they see that we’re happy though, and that’s all that matters.

Reality trumps expectations every day. Even in writing. Sometimes you set out to write one thing, but the completed result may turn out to be completely different. This, of course, isn’t necessarily bad, and often it’s actually a good thing. I never expected to find someone quite like the man I’m with, but I did, and it has made all the difference.

Winter Nights at the Fun-N-Games

        The Fun-N-Games arcade is located in the remote corner on the second tier of Bridgewater Plaza. It rests right below one bar, and directly above another. During the summer, Bridgewater is thriving with tourists coming off the lake; they chat about how they’ll spend their days, whine about the heat, and drip ice cream on the decks. In the winter season, however, the plaza dies. The bars remain open for their loyal patrons—both the Franklin County locals and the Bedford bums from across the lake—but the Ice Cream Cottage, Harbortown Golf, and the Mousetrap all close down. Aside from the bars, it is only the Fun-N-Games arcade that stays open.

        That arcade holds many memories for me. It used to be my favorite place to go as a kid. It was owned and run by my best friend’s step-dad, so I usually got away with being able to redeem my tickets for extra prizes. Sometimes I would even get extra quarters. During my teenage years I would work there. The Fun-N-Games was my first experience as a part of the work force: four years of minimum wage work where I dealt with screaming children and broken arcade games. Time passes and places change, though. Memories come and go; some remain in stasis while others alter—for better or worse.

Child’s Play

        My earliest memory of the arcade isn’t the memory of my first visit there: I can’t quite recall the first time my mom took me and my siblings to Bridgewater. No, my first memory was on a winter night. Mom and Dad had been loud that night, which would’ve normally been upsetting, but then Mom said we could go to the arcade. We barely had time to put on shoes before she rushed us out the door—she must’ve been as excited as I was.

        We pulled into the parking lot, and my mom handed me a twenty.

        “Split this with your brother, okay?” she said. I nodded enthusiastically, and took off down the stairs, brother in tow.

        We pushed straight through the glass double doors into the warmth of the game room. The games blinked and whistled all around us, drawing us in. I can remember going up to the woman at the counter to exchange the cash for quarters.

        “Little Walter!” she blurted. “How ya been?” Anne had worked in the arcade ever since it had opened, so she knew my brother and me pretty well. I remember that she was always joking with us, but every time we’d walk away, she’d get a sad look in her eye. I never thought too much of it at the time: the games were calling for me, after all!

        My brother and I were always very strategic about the way we played the games. It was a redemption arcade, so some of the games would give you tickets based on the points you earned. You could then spend those tickets to win prizes from Anne. Jon—my brother—and I would hone in on the games that had the highest ticket payoff: Spin-to-Win, Storm Stopper, and Bonus Jackpot. In the end, we’d collect our tickets at the counter, and get our prizes. We’d always load-up on candy because our parents never let us get any at home.

        When we were done, Anne waved goodbye to us with a smile, and Jon would race me up the stairs to Moosie’s Bar. I remember this particular trip so well, though, because when we stepped in the bar, my mother was nowhere to be seen. We looked all around, but we couldn’t find her. Eventually, the bartender asked what a ten year old was doing in his bar. He told us that she had just left, so Jon and I went to look for the car. It was where Mom had parked, so we decided to go wait in the arcade for her; she would come to get us.

        Anne shook her head, puzzled, when we came back in. “Didn’t I already see you gentlemen in here tonight? Don’cha know I was just about to close up?” we told her that we were just waiting on Mom, so she let us stay while she shut down the games and counted the money for the day. Five minutes became ten which became thirty, but my mother still hadn’t shown up. Anne had begun to get worried, and had insisted that we call home, just to make sure she was coming.

        “No,” I told her. “Mom was upstairs and the car is still here. And if we call home, Dad’s just gonna get madder!” After more persistence, though, I caved and called home. I kept getting the answering machine, though, and started to cry. I didn’t know why, but I assume it was from frustration. I ended up calling my grandmother, who picked up immediately. I told her where we were, and she said that she’d come get us. Within minutes (she lived right across the bridge) she arrived and led us out to the car. She went back over to the arcade though, and started talking to Anne. As my brother fell asleep in my grandma’s van, I watched the two women talk. Anne kept looking over at the van with that same sad look in her eyes. My grandmother had it too, as I recall. It wasn’t until years later that I actually realized what had happened.

All Work and No Play

        I started working at the Fun-N-Games while I was in high school and spent four years on their payroll. Summers were always busy, and I made plenty of cash, but the winters were cold in more ways than one: my hours were cut to only weekends, and then, only weekend nights. It was only Anne and I during winter because the owner couldn’t afford to keep more of us on, and I worked nights because Anne didn’t feel comfortable doing it.

        Most nights I sat alone doing homework at the counter. I might occasionally walk around and play a game or two, but I had lost that childhood interest in the place the same year I started working there.

        We usually had a customer or two every night. More often we had older couples stumbling in from one of the bars to play Mrs. Pacman. The alcohol heavy on their breath, they’d come to me asking for quarters; when I redirected them to the change machine, I’d watch in silent bemusement as they fumbled to get the dollar in.

        Aside from the occasional customers, though, I was alone. Despite the happy music playing from the games, or the brightly colored lights all around, I could feel a deep-seated despair in my heart. This place used to be so cool. The games were fun, and the prizes were neat, but now—now I could see how run down the place was getting. The walls were grey and there were a few stains in the ceiling: remnants of kitchen floods from the bar above. There was a constant fight to keep many of the games running, but it was a losing battle. I became suddenly aware of the duck-tape fixes and the improbability of winning the high-stakes games. I grew dismay for the people who would come in and blow $20 on games, just to win a few packs of Skittles.

        Closing up was even harsher. When I flip the breakers to turn everything off, there is sudden silence. There is no fade-out—just silence. Every night I’d count what little money had been made, log it, and lock it up. I’d wipe down the games, pick up any trash that might’ve magically spawned during the day, and restock the prizes for the next day. Then I finish the routine: grab bag, grab trash, set alarm, lock door.

        The plaza is silent on winter nights. The arcade stays open almost as late as the bars do: a place to babysit their kids while they escaped their troubled home-lives in the comfort of a drink. Some nights I’d find my mother outside of Moosie’s, crying on the bench. I’d take her keys and lead her, without words, to my car. Nights like that I would drive her home in near silence—quiet, save the sound of an occasionally pout. I’d take her to her bed in the “guest room” and tuck her in. The next day I’d wait around the house and endure the awkward silence between my parents. When I leave for work, I take her along so she can get her car.

        Anne would know the days that I come in after one of those nights. She remembered that time when I came as a kid and my parents were fighting; she told me that my dad had come to get Mom, but he hadn’t realized that my brother and I were with her. Anne would always have that same sad look in her eyes. I had it too, by then. She knew then—as she knew before—what I’d been through that night…all those nights. Some things, after all, never change.

Round Three

        Fun-N-Games switched ownership during my last year there. Anne wished me luck in college, and told me that she was retiring: her fibromyalgia was preventing her from working any longer. The new owners were making changes, so that meant a change in staff, too. But that was fine. I had school to attend, anyway.

        I came back to the arcade again, though, as I’ve always done. My first winter home from college and nothing has changed; in 18 years of living in that place, nothing ever changed. I need save no space for memories of home because I can relive any moment at any time. The first week back, my parents drank and fought. They yelled at me and my brother. I left. I never knew before what it was about that arcade that would always draw me back, but it always beckoned to me: in my time of need, when home life was colder than the world outside, I’d find myself crossing that bridge again; I’d find myself staring at the double-doors smudged with fingerprints; I’d find myself pulling them wide and entering the cacophony of familiar sounds.

        But things do change at the arcade. My home may be static, but the Fun-N-Games has evolved since I left. The walls look like Easter Bunny came in and exploded, smearing pastel greens and purples all over the walls. Newer games have replaced the old, and there was no duck tape in sight. Instead of Anne’s warm greeting, I’m greeted only by the slightest nod of some punk high-schooler hiding behind his laptop. I investigate the changes and see things that wouldn’t have flown under the previous ownership: coin jams and trash on the floors; finger-print smeared windows and games with empty ticket dispensers.

        Despite the flaws that I see, there’s still a small gathering of the typical winter clientele: fat balding middle-aged men playing Pacman, middle aged women that reek of cigarette smoke and booze paying little attention to their kids running amok, and stoner teenagers with nothing better to do in the boons of Franklin County than hang out in a noisy arcade.

        I can’t stand the changes for too long, and I leave to walk along the docks by the lake. The moon reflects on the still waters making it light enough to see the docks since the street lights are out. I can see the neon signs from the arcade shining up at me from the freezing water as well. These reflections, to me, are just like the arcade itself. The Fun-N-Games is a place for nostalgia—it is the home of memory and reminiscence. As a child, I built my memories there; it protected me from the reality of my home life that I couldn’t understand at that age. When I grew up, the memories changed and were replaced by blurred reflections of the originals: the arcade became a place that reminded me of the harshness of reality; it pulled up those repressed memories of my childhood. Now that I’m back again, I can see that the arcade brings back memories for everyone. People come back here to relive their pasts and to build new futures. These middle aged drinkers want to forget their problems, so they stifle them with booze and video games—the keys to their past. They bring their kids here to hide their innocent souls from the marital problems of their parents. The Fun-N-Games arcade may have changed and my memories may have been spoiled by experience, but at least the memories are still there. On the corner of the second tier of Bridgewater Plaza, situated beneath one bar, and above another, the Fun-N-Games stands as a constant reminder that, no matter how bad things get for me, there’s still a place in this abysmal Hicksville in which I can hide on a winter’s night—there’s always a place there where I can drown my sorrow away in sweet nostalgia.