Today, LiP features guest blogger, Mary, a long-time friend of Elizabeth’s. She met Mary her senior year on the yearbook staff, when Elizabeth was trying to worm her way out of taking Mr. Brame’s Spanish 5/6 class (as we all know, wrestling coaches-turned-teachers are a disaster waiting to happen). Their friendship evolved over a shared love of thrift stores; Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood, where they once witnessed a cupcake smashed into the crotch of the bronze Lenin statue that overlooks the burrough, and proceeded to write a song about it; Archie McPhee, the world’s coolest store; Waiting for Guffman, Elizabeth’s favorite film of all time; NPR’s This American Life, where Mary once made a cameo appearance; and yes, writing.
My long-divorced parents, who haven’t agreed on anything since approximately 1983, insist to this day that Sesame Street taught me how to read. Once I began, I couldn’t stop. I blew through the Dr. Seuss oeuvre and more Golden Books than you knew existed. After moving on to the Mad magazines my parents left in the bedroom, I learned an important lesson: it’s not always appropriate to repeat things you read in the Mad magazines your parents leave in the bathroom. Especially at the dinner table. Later, around 10 or 11, not long after giving up on The Babysitters Club, I inexplicably started reading Tom Clancy. A strange trajectory, I admit, which thankfully didn’t result in the Republicanizing of young little Mary. But my voracious reading habits, I think, helped propel my writing.
As long as I can remember, I’ve been a strong writer. My teachers noticed it early on, so much so that at some point I think they stopped bothering to read my stories or essays and immediately marked them with an A. In high school, writing for the school newspaper, while co-editing the yearbook, I was able to choose my own topics instead of being assigned a story. Looking back I probably chose some inappropriate material (including, but not limited to, a review of Leaving Las Vegas – because, clearly, suburban teenagers need to know about a movie in which a writer drinks himself to death) but, for better or worse, it reflected who I was at the time. Some of these stories were reprinted in the local newspaper, which, to my knowledge, has nothing to do with the fact that said newspaper is no longer publishing. In college, a few ‘zines (you may have heard of, like, one of them) published some stories of mine; in fact, in one instance I didn’t know a story was published until I saw the issue in an out-of-town ‘zine store. Seeing my byline when I didn’t expect it made me feel like a “real” writer.
But soon thereafter, I stopped writing.
When I looked back on the stories I published, I was paralyzed by embarrassment. I was convinced that the articles were crap and I hated myself for thinking they were good enough for public consumption in the first place. By this time I was working at a newsstand, which later turned into a position with a magazine distributor, so I was literally, albeit subconsciously, surrounded by writers who were far better than I could ever be. It was better to not write at all.
Similarly, my husband grew up playing music. He studied it, he breathed it, and he had quite a gift for it. But a bad band experience in his early 20s soured him on playing music, especially as part of a band. He doubted his talent and let his lack of confidence limit him to browsing record shops and devouring music autobiographies. In other words, he was just a consumer. Like me.
The years passed, and friends would inquire as to the status of our respective creative endeavors. The question hit like a ton of bricks and eventually became harder to answer than the inevitable queries about our future procreation, both being an emphatic “no”.
Then, recently, something interesting happened. Three good friends of ours have been in a band for quite some time, and lately they have featured guest players at their live shows, inviting friends to join them onstage for a few songs. My husband asked them, half jokingly, when they were going to ask him to sit in. To his surprise, they asked him. Even more surprising, despite his nerves, their practices went really well.
Around the same time, I sent an email to Elizabeth, half jokingly volunteering my services should she and Anne need a guest blogger. To my surprise, Elizabeth took me up on my offer. Therein lay the challenge: not to hate what I write as soon as it is typed.
Tony playing with Mighty Shiny at his gig on September 5
Everyone had a great time at the show Tony played, and when we returned home from the gig, he was sweaty, happy, and proud. The next day he listened to a recording of the show, but it took him over 24 hours to get past the first song – all he heard were the mistakes. Which, really, gets to the heart of why neither of us have done this sort of thing in so long: all we hear (or read), despite what our friends and even strangers tell us, are the mistakes. So I guess it should some as no surprise, then, that his inner-critic would make such a quick appearance.
Ultimately, though, he was able to look at the evening’s events with some perspective and came around to liking what he did, more or less. While he hasn’t vowed to come out of the performance closet completely, it’s certainly given him some food for thought, art-wise.
As for me? I’m not at that stage yet. Hell, as of this writing, my story hasn’t even been posted yet. But I’m going to hazard a guess and suspect that my own inner critic will be visiting me in 3…2…1…
Mary Wyninger lives in Seattle, WA, with her husband, Tony Trunzo, and their cats, Shug and Goofy. In preparing to post this article, Elizabeth revisted her senior yearbook, where Mary penned in blue ink, “Artists Rock.” Indeed.
