When Did You First Do the Thing You Most Love in Life?

I wrote a book when I was a little kid. Like five years old little.

I know what you’re thinking: “Sure you did, and I bet your mom helped more than just a little.”

In fact, Mom didn’t help at all until it was published. Once she had a copy in her hands, she took it around to try to get some buzz about the book. Honestly, she wasn’t very good at that.

The book wasn’t great. What can you expect from a five-year old?

It was called All About Trees, and in it I related everything I knew about trees. It was a pretty slim book.

Still, it was a fine effort for a kid who had problems going to the toilet.

The Opposite of Incontinent

The previous year, I’d ended up in the hospital because I was stricken with severe back pains whenever I needed to pee. Basically, I was holding my water which triggered kidney pain. Just a kid being dumb. The pains sent me writhing and screaming to the ground.

It didn’t happen every single time, but often enough that my parents were convinced I was in serious trouble. They sent me to the hospital for a week of tests and observation.

Also, I was frequently constipated. Not just “Oh, I guess I haven’t pooped yet today” constipated, but more like “bust a blood vessel pushing out a poop and scream in excruciating pain“ constipation. You’d think someone who ate almost nothing except Miracle Whip on Wonder Bread, and a Ding Dong for dessert, would have smooth running bowels, but there you go making sense.

Despite these challenges, I enjoyed reading so much that I decided to write my own book.

Before you get the idea that I was a child genius, let me describe the books I enjoyed reading.

My early favorite books

Curious George was high on my list. I got such a kick out of a monkey who could fuck things up royally but then make everything okay by doing a trick.

I read the hell out of Ten Up on Top, and Go Dog Go. Dr. Seuss might have been a lousy physician, but he sure could write a book that this incontinent kid (me!) loved to death.

There was also Harold and the Purple Crayon. Here was a kid in his pajamas going on wild adventures with the simplest of art tools. Looking back, I think the crayon was a metaphor for psychedelic drugs. Still, I’d recommend it to four- and five-year old kids today.

Lastly, there was the Andy and the Lion, which was based on African folklore but set in turn-of-the-century agrarian America. The story is implausible—like, how could a huge lion just be hanging around and not kill anyone—but implausibility never stopped George Lucas, either, so who am I to judge?

Back to my first book

My first book was about trees. Basically, it was a compendium of the several trees in our backyard: apple, plum, oak, mountain ash, and maple.

I also included cherry pie trees because I saw those on McDonalds commercials.

I wrote on tiny squares of scrap paper provided by my aunt Olga. Back then, Olga was a creative muse to me and my brothers and cousins. She was single, worked a machine at a printing company for a living, but had amazing talent to draw and sculpt. Her talent was mostly hidden from the world, as her personal desires were suppressed by family and society. (I could write a book about Olga.)

I illustrated those tiny squares of paper with images of trees, including the cherry pie tree, and added the occasional bird or squirrel. It was the level of artistry you might expect from a five-year old with a hand-me-down box of eight crayons.

I dedicated one page as a cover and then stapled them together along one edge. That was my book.

With great, swelling pride, I presented it to my mother as proof of how special I was, or something. Considering all the trouble I’d made for her with my bathroom problems, she seemed pretty pleased. She showed the book to her sisters, who also got a kick out of it.

She kept that book in a box on her dresser. I salvaged it years later and I have it somewhere—I think, I hope!— in a box of my own. I’d like to be buried with it (when I die, not before), along with the books I’ve created since then.

Perhaps none of my books will ever be hailed as a masterpiece, but I sure put a lot of love into writing them. I still remember the joy I felt when I finished that book about trees, and I’ve been chasing that rush ever since.

Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…

I went with my family to Disney World last week, and we tried to do too much stuff. It was fun, but I didn’t advance the novel. Fear not, as I’ll be kicking it into high gear this weekend.

Also, the whole Disney thing is weird. It’s like our Mecca, as we go there on pilgrimage every few years. There are true believers who live nearby and visit the parks on a daily basis, sporting Disney-themed outfits.

At EPCOT, we came upon a live concert. Crowded in front of the stage were 50 adults dancing together, like they all learned the same steps. That’s when we developed a theory that some of the locals get the annual pass and show up multiple times a week to, like, check out the scene, refill their popcorn, and get their steps for the day. Oh, and dance to the music if their friends are at the stage.

Probably a book in that scene, once I write the book about Aunt Olga…