Damn you, Genevieve Crudden! Or Mrs. Crudden, as she was addressed back in the day when I attended the equally appallingly named St. Eugene’s Secondary School. It was this wily little mother of God knows how many that first recognized my writing skills. She was my English teacher.
Mrs. Crudden encouraged imagination in her writing class, and as one essay assignment required a detailed account of a dating experience, imagination was the only tool available to put words on paper. Being in a class in a rural village, in a rural county, in rural Northern Ireland, in the rural 1980s didn’t exactly nurture growth and creativity. However, Mrs. Crudden took to my imaginative writing and in doing so planted a seed of belief that I was a good writer. Hence, I went on to college to study building and engineering. My career advisor informed me that there would never be job opportunities for skilled writers and the world would always need builders. When I graduated in 1992, the world didn’t.
Through a series of events that will someday become a monster worldwide hit movie, I landed in Minnesota. Now I am sitting at the dining room table on a laptop, attempting for the sixth consecutive day to convey some threaded thoughts onto the screen in front of me. Other idiots are writing reasons to fight a “war on terror,” but this one just wants to write something that will at least keep the procrastination echo at bay.
It is a series of roller-coaster thoughts that penetrate the mind of someone trying to write for a purpose. I play tricks in my head. I pretend no one is going to read this crap. Why do I torture myself? The Twins are on TV. I hate baseball. The Twins might win. I dislike baseball. It is almost the ninth inning. Giving up cigarettes was a piece of cake. I should check my email. There is a little envelope symbol that will appear if I get one. What about junk mail? Argghhhhh!
There is a pile of mail; photographs, frames and scattered stationery on the dining room table need to get sorted. Why didn’t I do it earlier today when I was lounging on the couch? Well, I hadn’t decide to write then. My wife will be home soon. I will have to talk; I promised to at the altar more than five years ago. Am I going anywhere with this writing right now? What is it I am looking for? Gratification? I wonder how the Twins are doing. OK, here is the deal: When the wife comes home, I will mention the Twins game and she will put it on and we will have to watch and I will have a get-out clause of this torture. Actually I am starting to enjoy it. My mind is starting to ease. However, when I read this later to my wife and her reaction is less than a Fourth of July fireworks display, then I know it has all been a waste of time.
Yet, somehow, I will have this urge to go through this again and again . . . damn you, Genevieve Crudden.
John Cosgrove is an Irish trivia quiz master who gives company motivational quizzes.
