The Problem
April 10, 2000
7:27 a.m.
Proper storytelling technique says I should start with the character or the setting, or perhaps the problem. That's the purpose of the opening, after all. To plant the character, setting, and problem into the reader's mind. So, let me start with a statement of problem. The problem is that life is a b**ch and then you die. Too vague? Okay. How about this. The problem is that I'm not a good enough person. Not catchy enough. Hmm. Then let's try this: The problem is that springtime grass is wet. I think that's about got it. You see, I went out to cut the grass yesterday morning. This was the first time the grass had gotten sight of the blade this year, and it had been having quite a party up until then. Let's say it was long enough that in the process I found a pack of cheetah using it as cover for their stalking of an antelope. Got it? That's the setting, for those of you who may not be totally following. See, here it is. Character: Me. Problem: All the above. Setting: Front yard suddenly transmuted into African veldt. So, I pull the starter on the mower. First try, first fail. The mower cowers in the driveway screaming something like "Heck no, I won't go!" At the time I didn't realize how smart that approach was, but then ... I'm trainable. After a few more pulls, I get the contraption started and get going. It's cold outside. The wind is blowing, and it's not gentle. The sun is out, but it's a hollow sun with no heat. I get halfway through the first cycle around the yard wherein the problem rears its ugly head. Remember springtime grass is wet? Well, it is. It's also heavy. The back is full. I think I cursed for the first time then. I unloaded the bag and started the engine again. The mower had learned its lesson and went on the first try. The front door opened, and Lisa stuck her head out. "What?" I said in what was certainly a pleasant voice after shutting down the engine. "Wow, it's cold out here," my beloved replies. "Indeed it is, my fairest of all," I reply angelically. Well. That's what I meant to say, anyway. I may not have the exact wording correct. She looks at the swath I've cut. "Man, that grass is really tall." "You are among the most observant in the land, milady," I reply. After a few more hearty jests back and forth, I'm off and running again. Actually, off and barely walking, for I find I must restrain the mower's automatic drive in order to keep the input to the bag from clogging. Remember. Springtime grass is ... yeah, yeah, yeah. You've got it. By now, I'm actually not really pleased. I can't get around the yard even a single time before I have to unload the bag, and it's cold, and the input keeps clogging. By now, I'm actually getting mad. The bag gets full, and I stop the engine. As I'm filling another garbage bag, I her Brigid inside practicing her piano. She's really getting quite good. I can't help but smile. As I get started, I think about why I'm mad. I'm mad, I decide, because I want this to be a decent job. Yes, I could take the bag off, but then the yard would look crummy when I was done, and the mower wouldn't be any better for it. So that gets me to thinking about my career. I think about it as I unload a couple more bags of grass. I think about choices I've made. If I were a big-wig, I could have someone doing this for me, I think. But then, I remember that I had thought about being a big-wig once. I could have gone down that path. Seriously. I looked at their lives, though. Eighty hours a week. All focused on business. Yuck. Brigid is still playing inside. I chose then, I realize. I chose to stay closer to the creation of things side. That's what I love. I enjoy making things happen. I enjoy being the one responsible for the real stuff. Mostly, I enjoy making things I'm proud of. It's what makes me good at what I do. Still. It's cold. I think about my writing. I start cutting smaller swaths to let the grass go into the bag better. This makes things go better. I think about the story I'm working on. I think about Perl, and the design of this site. I think about Brigid. Normally it takes an hour to cut the grass. Today it takes closer to four. I think a lot. That's the real problem, I realize. I think too much. Because you see, I lied. The real problem is that I don't have a problem. I have a really good life, that's gone (for all its odd occurrences) pretty much just like I wanted). But I seem to want to have a problem all the time. Why is that, I wonder? People are all like that, though--aren't we? Why are we always looking for a problem when generally there isn't one? Then I was done. The grass was cut in the uniform plane that smells so good. I looked at it as I pulled the mower in. I smiled. Because, you know what the real problem here is? Do you? The real problem is that I let stupid stuff get in the way of what is real. Or maybe it's just that the rules of storytelling are too constrictive. You tell me, okay?  I've seen your yard, Ron. You missed a spot. Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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