Writing Crap!

This isn’t actual crap. It’s a root beer-flavored marshmallow Peep that only looks and tastes like crap–a small-yet-significant difference!

“Writing Crap” is the title of my guest post for The Writer’s Circle’s blog. Fear not; the post isn’t actually crappy. In fact, I kinda like it! I hope you do too.

Click here and give it a read!

Gerbilishly Challenged

A blurry Dusty, milliseconds before rejecting my offering.

I have loved and cared for many rodents over the years.

I’ve had two rats, one fancy rat and one sewer rat (posing as a fancy rat).

I’ve owned the world’s most ornery guinea pig.

I’ve cared for wild mice.

And I’ve had gerbils. Lots and lots of gerbils.

I love rodents because they’re cute and small and easy to care for. They’re fun and playful and full of vim and vigor. They have big personalities.

But I think what I love the most about rodents is their intelligence. Rodents are dang smart.

Lucy, my fancy rat, figured out the latch on her cage and would explore the house whenever the mood struck her. Ethel, my sewer rat (and Lucy’s roommate), was also smart, but in a different way. When Lucy escaped, Ethel stayed put; being a sewer rat, Ethel understood the harshness of the wider world and had no desire to leave the cushy existence I had set up for her.

My childhood gerbil, Jerbs, also escaped from his cage repeatedly—not to explore and raise hell like Lucy, but just to see if he could. It was a puzzle he enjoyed solving. When I would come down to breakfast to find an empty cage, Jerbs would immediately traipse up to my side and stamp his feet boastfully as if to say, “Hey! See what I did? Awesome, right? I am so awesome!”

My guinea pig, Pigamajig, potty trained herself. This bears repeating: I did not potty train my guinea pig. She potty trained herself. Because Pigamajig was a lady, and ladies don’t just go pee-pee on the floor.

My gerbil, Salt, was observant in the way all mischievous children are, waiting for me to glance the other way before misbehaving. Salt’s buddy, Peppa, was the architect of the duo, arranging his toys and toilet paper tubes into a network of walls and tunnels that rivaled the engineering marvels of the ancient Roman aqueducts.

I could go on, but I think the point is made. Rodents are brilliant.

Well… until I got Dusty and Oreo.

Dusty and Oreo are the newest additions to my household. They’re gerbils. They’re cute. They’re friendly.

But wowza, they’re dumb.

Oreo is terrified of my presence and races behind his exercise wheel to avoid me at all costs. I understand this, of course. Rodents can be very timid and often need time to get used to someone. Despite my apparent threat level (and Oreo’s terrified squeaks of “STRANGER DANGER!”) he’ll always accept treats from me, which is something you really shouldn’t do if you think the treat offeror is an enemy.

But that’s good news, you’re thinking. The fact that Oreo is accepting food from you means that you two are establishing trust, right?

Well, no. Moments after I feed him, Oreo forgets me entirely and repeats his terror run whenever I happen to pass by.

Dusty is different. He associates me with food and races to the cage door whenever he sees me coming. Once I give him the treat, however, he decides that he doesn’t like it.

He’ll drop the delectable morsel and mope off, both disappointed in me and life in general—until I give the same treat to Oreo. Then Dusty wants it. He wants that dang treat more than anything else in the entire world.

So Dusty chases Oreo around the cage demanding the treat. Oreo, the beta male, does as Dusty commands.

Poor Oreo, I think.

So I offer Oreo a second treat. But Oreo runs behind the exercise wheel because I am an evil stranger.

Dusty, after stealing his treat back from Oreo. Camera shy Oreo is hiding behind the exercise wheel.

It should be noted that my gerbils need these treats because they’re starving. The gerbils are starving because they can’t find their food bowl. They can’t find their food bowl because they bury their food bowl under bedding. Then they forget that the food is there.

Sometimes I think I can almost hear their anguished conversations:

OREO:
I’m so hungry Dusty!

DUSTY:
I know, my friend. I am, too.

OREO:
Maybe we should look around for food?

DUSTY:
There’s no point. Searching for food will only weaken us further.

OREO:
I guess you’re right, Dusty. You’re so smart.

DUSTY:
I know, Oreo. I know.

So every day I scoop bedding out of their food bowl and say, “Look dummies, food.”

They stare at the bowl in wonder. “FOOD!” they squeak. They scarf it down. A minute or two later, however, they begin to worry.

The Food is really important! they think.

We need to protect The Food!

We’ll protect The Food by hiding The Food!

We’ll hide The Food under the bedding!

So the gerbils bury the food bowl and, in a twinkling, forget that the food bowl is there.

I sigh. Alarmed by my sigh, Oreo hides behind the exercise wheel.

“STRANGER DANGER!” he cries.

So much dumbness.

But oh, how I love them.

Downtime Doodles

What is this thing, you ask? I do not know.

In addition to doing the children’s book thing, I teach creative writing classes for kids via Zoom. I love the work. The students are fun and enthusiastic; the commute is fantastic (just one flight of stairs!); and, most importantly, I can do my happy, jokey, dog ‘n’ pony show while wearing jammies.

Every job is better in jammies.

The goal of these classes is not to teach the regimented mechanics of writing, it’s to build confidence and generate enthusiasm for storytelling. One way I do this is to assign in-class writing prompts. These prompts are designed to push each student’s brain in interesting and unexpected directions.

For example:

1. Your efforts to speak to the dead go badly.

2. You’re running for president in an alternate dimension. Write and deliver your campaign speech.

3. How did that giraffe get in the Hudson River?

You get the idea.

The prompts are a hit, usually. The kids have a good time discovering new stories. And I, in turn, love to hear the twisted tales they share.

The regularity of these prompts results in chunks of class time where I don’t teach much. I’m a fellow who likes to keep his brain busy, so I tried to use this time to work on my own stuff. I had no intention of sharing the work, of course—these classes weren’t about me—I just thought it would be a fun way to pass the time while everyone else was silently scribbling away.

It didn’t work. Almost instantly I recognized that I couldn’t simultaneously concentrate on a story and keep an eye on the class.

Doodling on the other hand…

I’m assuming the dog on the left is Snoopy’s nearsighted satanic younger brother.

Doodling, for me, requires no focus at all. I can look up from my “work” at a moment’s notice to fulfill my teacherly responsibilities—answering questions, addressing concerns, and, once in a while, sending an urgent message to a student via private Zoom chat (“I can see you picking your nose, Martin!”).

So now I have legal pads stuffed with drawings—half-baked ideas and unfocused weirdness that will never see the light of day.

Until now. Because, hey, why not?

Monster and Muppet,

So! Do you like to free your mind with a few doodles? Or something else? Lemme know in the comments!