another possible career option?

BACK WHEN I WAS AN UP-AND-COMING WRITER IN HOLLYWOOD I HAD A BIGSHOT literary agent lay into me for wanting to pursue a career in screenwriting and sitcoms. "Pick one and focus," Elliott advised me. "You don't wanna spread yourself too thin. You wanna work hard and make a name for yourself in one area. Find your niche."

Twenty years later I'm utterly convinced I've still got at least a few solid screenplays in me. And writing for a show like Six Feet Under or Entourage would be great and not beyond my abilities. I still think that those career paths have the potential to flourish at some point during my lifetime.

But what's different today is that these things are no longer the be-all/end-all for me. Because as I get older, I'm consistently stumbling onto new things that intrigue and excite me—writing songs, telling stories, publishing books, making videos, photography, painting, graphic design. Even farming, for crying out loud!

It sometimes seems a little ridiculous how many things I'm interested in. Various people in my past have made negative comments about my rampant curiosity and hunger for creative outlets. For some, these were just pretty words for "unfocused" and "undisciplined." But my girlfriend, God bless her, she is a continuing source of radiant energy, with wise, positive spins on just about every situation. Especially the ones where I'm used to hearing resistance.

Like 2 days ago. When I told her that, as of today, I'm gonna seriously think about going around to different schools talking to language arts classes about writing and poetry, equipped with my stories, my kids' books, my guitar and my goofy songs.

"Noah's teacher said her school hired some guy to talk to her classes and they paid him $1200 bucks for the day!," I excitedly told Tamale on Friday. "She told me I should seriously look into doing it. How fun would that be?"

I wouldn't have blamed Tamale for scoffing upon hearing of yet another one of my ideas for creatively making a buck. The potential, as more than one person has reminded me, is to end up with a string of half-completed projects.

Instead, sweet, wise Tamale reminded me that all these various projects don't have to be viewed as a threat to one another.  "They're all connected," she reminded me.  "Don't look at them as being separate or like one thing is taking you from another.  They're all part of the big picture.  You're exactly where you need to be.  And you'll do what's supposed to get done when it's supposed to get done."

At least, that's what I think she said.  Or something very similar.

The bottom line is, she confirmed my suspicions about this new side business.  Could be very cool.  And it doesn't have to keep me from doing the other things I want to do.

Another possible creative option practically falling in my lap. How sweet it is!

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I knew I might be on to something Friday afternoon out on the schoolyard at lunch. I had just finished my 2nd and final "presentation" of the day to Ms. Skoom's pair of 5th grade writing classes, which I think went pretty well. Well enough for my host to suggest I think about making a living doing this sort of thing, a potentially lucrative and highly gratifying idea that suddenly had my wheels spinning.

After that little jolt of encouragement, I went outside, guitar case in hand, to say goodbye to my 11-year-old nephew. But before I had a chance to spot Noah on the soccer field, I was intercepted by a group of 5th grade girls who'd sat through my "writer guy" schtick.  After we talked for a bit, the girls were eager to share their writing class-mandated nicknames with me. 

At the start of 5th grade each kid adopts an adjective nickname for the entire year that fits their personality. So while I waited to get Noah's attention before heading home, I hung out with "Philanthropy" (the chatty teacher's daughter), "Chic" (the girl in Ugg boots) and "Whimsical" (the shy Hispanic girl). 

What a brilliant way for kids to expand their vocabularies.

Anyway, minutes later Noah—a.k.a. "Commotive"—had quit his regular lunchtime soccer game and was hounding me into pulling out my guitar.

"C'mon," he pleaded. "I really wanna play the harmonica."

I love this kid's enthusiasm.  He doesn't even play harmonica.  But he's eager to dive into a little improv jam session, while his buddy P.J. jumps in with my purple percussion egg.  (P.J. is a robust, good-natured Pechenga Indian kid with a braided ponytail halfway down his back who introduces himself as "Noah's bodyguard."  As if every 5th grade student council president needs a bodyguard.)

When Noah begs for a schoolyard jam session, a few of the kids who sat through "The Onion Song" less than an hour earlier begin clamoring for one more performance.  I had already played the song to both classes, screwing up the lyrics and missing a chord change or 2 for each class.  Still, the kids seemed to like it.  A few even asked if the song was on iTunes and said they'd buy it if it was.

So that was the mojo we were working when Noah convinced me to bust out my trusty borrowed Ibanez (thanks Eddie) and break into a rousing version of "No Onions, Please"—complete with enthusiastic harmonica work and a steady percussion egg beat from a pair of music novices from Ms. Skoom's 5th grade writing class.

When we started the song there were probably a half dozen kids around us.

But by the end of the first stanza—which we rocked pretty hard, I must say—I looked out through my sunglasses and saw kids swarming towards us from every direction, dozens of children literally running to listen to our impromptou performance.  It was truly one of the strangest sights I'd ever witnessed in my life.  (The first image that came to mind was of a fallen piece of pie at a picnic being converged upon by an army of ants.  But I didn't like that metaphor.  It was more somewhere between the Pied Piper, JC happening upon a flock of devotees and George Harrison walking through Golden Gate Park during the Summer of Love.)

Granted, my moment in the sun was of a much smaller magnitude than what those 3 fine men experienced.  Still, I couldn't help but laugh at my micro-taste of what it feels like to incite a gathering crowd.

But as it so often happens in my life—to an almost absurd degree—my flow got interrupted.  (Which I've gotten much better at accepting over the years.)  This time it was the lunch bell.  I would've powered through to the end, but I didn't want to be the inappropriate rock 'n roller and keep the kids from getting back to their classes.  Especially with the eyes of the principal staring down from the small hill just behind me.

So I cut short my performance and left the crowd wanting more.  Let 'em buy the song off iTunes.

Then I walked home, guitar in hand, dreaming of the day when Mr. Bob was pulling in $1300 bucks a day for teaching kids about writing and poetry and living with gusto.

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Friday was the 3rd day I'd ever been invited to speak to a class about writing.  The last time occured when today's photo was taken. 

Back in the fall of 2003 I spent a week at the home of my friend GC's Aunt Lisa in Virginia, who I'd never met before I showed up at her little-used side door one Monday night.  Lisa's son, Cutter, was studying screenwriting, Thoreau and non-conformity at HB-Woodlawn, his progressive high school in Arlington.  (In Newsweek's 2006 ranking of the top 1,300 high schools in America, "HB" ranked #13—down from #5 the previous year.)  After hearing my story, Cutter went to school and asked his language arts teacher if I could come and speak to the class about my personal relationship with writing and nonconformity, seeing as how I was in the midst of wandering around the country in my VW bus for a yet-to-be-determined length of time.

In one of those delicious coincidences that seem to crop up in my life with great regularity, I came home Friday—after my first invitation to address a language arts class since the Thoreau-inspired trip to HB-Woodlawn more than 4 years ago—only to find Thoreau reappearing in my world later that night.  Remember that gift I got for Christmas, Wisdom of the Ages: 60 Days to Englightenment, the excellent Wayne Dyer book that uses a passage or poem from a different author every day to illustrate a different concept that will lead the reader to blissful enlightenment?  (Or not.)

Well, after my inspiring day in Noah's class, I got to thinking about my gratifying experience at that Virginia high school—which is why I couldn't help but smile when I opened up my Wayne Dyer book and saw the theme for the day.

"Nonconformity."

Once again, it all comes full circle.  Cue the Louis Armstrong:

"What a wonderful worrrrrrrrld..."

I leave you now with a little Thoreau, a personal hero of mine.  This is the passage that introduced Friday's chapter on nonconformity:

"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.  Let him step to the music he hears, however measured and far away."

Indeed, indeed.