OFF THE PAGE

OFF THE PAGE

A monthly column that takes us off the page and into the life of Raymond Atkins

You guys can consider yourselves lucky, because you were about this close to finding yourselves reading a column about writer’s block, and reading about it would be every bit as enjoyable as having it. Yes, I have had a bad case of it this past month, but in my defense, it is really cold outside, and I have been needing to scrape and paint the shed, and it has been forever since I watched all eleven seasons of Doc Martin on Hulu, and the Atlanta Falcons have had me very upset, and boy, where does the time go?

The scourge known as writer’s block descends upon all writers at some point, and it is so common with me that I have developed a series of protocols to deal with it. I tried all of these early in January—freewriting, brainstorming, employing speech-to-text software, hiring hungry grad students to do it for me—but none of them seemed to work this time. Finally, I pulled out The Big Gun, which I haven’t had to do since I wrote myself up into a corner while trying to finish Camp Redemption. I put on my beret and flew to Paris, where I sat at a table in front of Shakespeare and Company, smoking a Gauloise while sipping a French cognac as I waited patiently for the muse to wander by.

Unfortunately, when she arrived, she only spoke French, and I don’t. Well, that’s not 100 percent true. I took three years of French way, way back in the day, and I still remember how to ask where the bathroom is, and I can sing all three verses of “Dominique,” but neither of these was helpful. So I came back home, sat at my computer, cued up some music—"Fields of Gold” by Sting—and prepared myself to bore you with a treatise on writer’s block. The slant was going to be that writing about not being able to write would be sort of an example of meta-writer’s block, but then the second song in my playlist began—"Night Moves” by Bob Seger—and miracle of miracles, the logjam was broken, and you were spared.

I have always liked music, but for the sake of clarity I suppose I should stop right here and define my terms, although to be honest, music is one of those things that is difficult to define, because each of us understands it differently. Music, to me, involves melody, and rhythm, and most times meaningful lyrics, although the occasional shoo-bop is allowed. Good music is evocative, and it attaches itself to memories and enhances them. It is sometimes complex and sometimes simple, and music that is worth listening to changes us and helps us make sense of the world around us.

To finish my definition I must slip into curmudgeon mode for a moment to explain that in my world, the best music was produced between 1960 and 1990. There are a few exceptions to this rule, of course, but for the most part I like the old songs, and these are what I listen to still. Also, and I apologize in advance if I am about to step upon a toe, but music that finds itself in the genre that rhymes with flip-flop just does not speak to me. Oh, and opera. I once watched Der Ring des Nibelungen over five consecutive nights while staying in a bad motel named Ed’s Beds in beautiful downtown Lufkin, Texas, and that did it for me on opera.

At one time I was a musician. I wasn’t a cellist or anything like that, but I was the bass player in a band called Skyye. I became the bass player after the old one got drafted, and I was offered the job because I was the only person the other band members knew who could afford the payments on the amp and the guitar. Plus, I had a pickup truck. Some men are born great; others have payment books thrust upon them. The experiences I had during this period of my life became the backbone of Set List, my most recent novel, and if you were one of the dozens of readers who perused those pages, I hope you enjoyed the story.

My music career began and ended way back in the early seventies, and in those days it was considered cool to add extra letters to perfectly good nouns when naming a musical group, particularly if the musicianship in the band wasn’t as tight as it might have been. Considering the level of musical expertise in our ensemble, we probably should have tacked on three or four more y’s and a couple of additional e’s, just to be safe.

Many decades later, I still like music, but it sometimes seems as if music no longer likes me. All I can figure is that I must have bad music karma, that perhaps I was bad to Slim Whitman in another life. I am surrounded by music I want to hear, but life sometimes conspires to keep me away from it. I’m serious about this. Let me share with you when I believe this phenomenon first began to manifest itself, so you can decide for yourself.

My wife and I raised two daughters, and when they were little girls, I used to spend an inordinate amount of time sitting on narrow, uncomfortable seats in hot gymnasiums and auditoriums watching what are commonly known as recitals. For those of you who haven’t been subjected to one, huzzah for you. Just keep doing what you are doing. Recitals are torture rituals devised by wives, mothers, and grandmothers to keep men from having too much fun during their off time. They generally last about two hours, which scientists have determined is the maximum amount of time that the adult human male can hold a fake smile without incurring permanent facial injury. Two hours is not a long period of time, but recital hours are sort of like dog years, so each hour at a recital seems like seven in normal time.

By my figures, so far during my life, I have spent thirty-eight full calendar days fake-smiling at recitals. I say “so far” because my grandchildren are out on the recital circuit now, and grandfathers are not exempt from recital duty even though they are senior citizens, and even though they have already been through this once. All I can say is, at the exact moment of my exit to the next world, I am going to want all of this time back.

Anyway, what happens at recitals is this: little girls and sometimes little boys show off their talent to everyone their mamas can railroad into coming to the venue. Sometimes the recitals showcase singing, although my progeny always went in for the dance, so I’ll limit my remarks to that art form. There is no actual entertainment involved, since 90 percent of the participants couldn’t get a decent dance step going if they were standing on a large hill of fire ants. Now, don’t get me wrong. I loved my daughters when they were little, and I love my grandchildren just as much, but the truth is the truth, and once they are grown and no longer perform, I think I might love them even more.

And it’s not that recitals are inherently evil, or at least not completely so. It’s just that they always seem to conflict with other activities I would rather take part in, such as listening to the aforementioned great music I am surrounded by but cannot seem to get to. Thus when Percy Sledge came to town on his farewell tour, I was watching both of my daughters hop around a stage with ninety-nine other little girls wearing Dalmatian costumes at the very moment that Percy was belting out “When a Man Loves a Woman” for the absolute final time.

And when Johnny Rivers came to town, I was otherwise occupied appreciating my daughters dance the fairy dance—complete with wings, antennae, and wands—while Johnny busted into a rendition of “Memphis” that they say brought tears to the eyes of longshoremen and pulpwooders and which is talked about in serious music circles to this very day.

And I don’t even want to talk about what I was doing instead of listening to Lynard Skynard the last time they came through town. Let’s just stipulate that it involved bumblebee costumes and let it go at that. And yeah, I know, they’re not the real Lynard Skynard, but some of the originals are still in there, and they’re head and shoulders above Skyye, even after I learned all the bass riffs.