Different (Pen) Strokes

September 23, 2004

You may have heard me mention Jerry before. He's a guy I've known since the day I was born. His family lived across the hall from my family in a small apartment complex in suburban New Jersey. The day my parents brought me home from the hospital, Jerry and his mother came to visit. Of course, I was only a couple of days old, and Jerry only a few months, so we didn't have a whole lot to say to each other, but living in such proximity and being so close in age, we were destined to be friends. Best friends, in fact.

I probably spent more time with him growing up than I did with my own family. We walked to and from school together, were in the same class, and after school we'd play until suppertime. When my family moved to a neighboring town, Jerry's family followed close behind. Whenever we had to choose partners for a school project, it was always a given that Jerry and I would work together.

In the fourth grade, the two of us did a group report on the human body (at that age, we both entertained the idea of becoming doctors). Jerry’s section of the report was about the human brain, while mine was about the heart. I remember being jealous when the teacher showered Jerry with praise over the brain chapter, but had little to say about the heart section. "You should be a writer," the teacher said to Jerry.

Of course, my report was plagiarized in huge chunks from the encyclopedia, so I should've just been happy that the teacher was generous enough not to bust me for it. At the time, I thought I was being pretty clever, but when I think back, it must've been obvious. But I'd spent so much time making nice illustrations that I guess she chose to cut me a break. In any case, the teacher was right, Jerry was a good writer -- and sure enough, it's exactly what he turned out to be. He writes commercial scripts and ad copy and things like that, and he has a rather successful career doing so.

He lives in North Carolina now, is married to his second wife--a beautiful yoga instructor--and has a son old enough to talk to like an adult. And even though he and I can go through long periods without speaking, we remain good friends to this day. Needless to say, his opinions mean a lot, so when I spoke to him on the phone the other night, I was happy to hear him praise my writing.

"You can tell a good story," he said. "It's something I can't really do. I mean, I know I can write a good sentence. I'm good at the kind of writing I do, but I have a difficult time telling a story. You have a great style."

I was flattered, of course, but tried to figure out what my "style" was exactly. I mean, all I do is simply write down whatever it is I remember, leaving out the parts that are too difficult to explain.

"There's a talent to that, though," he said.

"I guess so."

"Oh yeah," he said, suddenly remembering, "My mother found your blog recently."

"Oh no."

"I asked her how she found it, and she told me she got bored one night and googled you."

"What did she say?"

"Not much. I asked her what she saw, and she said, 'Oh, it was just a bunch of stuff he wrote about what's going on in his life. It wasn't very interesting, and I couldn't follow it.'‘

Oh well, style or no style, my brand of bullshit isn't for everyone.