It’s Never Too Late to Jump in Puddles

Or to pick up a pen

Sometimes I like to think of the person I used to be.

Humble, soft-spoken and respectful. I was the type of person to see an old lady crossing a busy road and think strongly about going to help. I wouldn’t — of course. My lack of initiative and crippling indecisiveness were a greater disability than her ‘arthritis,’ and ‘heart disease.’

If anything, she should have been helping me.

At some point in time, I realised I could eke out the rest of my days as a person who thought a great deal about a great many things but never did shit about it.

It’s evolution, after all. Who am I to think I should intervene in the tangled mess of fates squirming about in the cesspool of life? Just don't get my shoes dirty and I’ll be alright.

But no one ever experiences catharsis by stepping around puddles.

You fucking jump in them.

I fantasised about jumping in them, over and over, in the hope that one of those puddles wouldn't have a bottom. I’d just sink down to something deeper, darker and thicker than the air I could feel myself drowning in, ever so slowly.

I pictured myself emerging, coughing up a lungful of brownish-grey fluid and spitting — no, purging my body of all the doubts that weighed it down.

If only it were that simple.

I began writing almost four years to the day. An idea had been circling around my brain for a couple of years before that. Doing laps, each time drifting closer to the centre. Or maybe further out.

One day, I caught it. I said to my partner and her friend, midway through an afternoon sesh on a rooftop bar, half-empty stein glass in front of me, ‘I’m going to write a book.’

I hadn't written anything since a short story I completed in high school English. The story was about an anxious teenager who attempts to convince his parents to stop smoking and fails.

It was funny. I remember my English teacher saying so. It might have even been good — he encouraged me to enter it into a Metropolitan Newspaper’s writing competition, in which it was highly commended. I can't remember much else about the story.

What I remember most, is making my parents proud.

Later, when I failed at life (and for a good few years of doing so) the shame of disappointing those who believed in me was outweighed by the anger to rebel against those expectations.

The anger seeped away over time, and I began to emerge again. Not bright and flapping like a butterfly, more like a bear stumbling out after a hibernation that went longer than planned.

Talking to others after years of isolation was awkward and skin-deep at first. But as I listened, and was listened to, I appreciated the value of my own thoughts as much as I did theirs. Confidence takes years to build and a moment to destroy, but its discovery is thrilling.

The light I had extinguished began to flicker and glow.

I pieced together a life from where there was none. I found love, friendship and a career. It was a life to be proud of, to be happy with. But I wasn’t yet whole.

When I said, ‘I’m going to write a book,’ I never clarified when.

Procrastination has bogged me down for as long as I can remember. Growing up where I did, every new section of footpath laid down by the council came with a hand-drawn penis, courtesy of one of the local kids who completed their artwork before it could dry.

I learnt not to set anything in concrete. It was easier to exist in the spaces in between. What if I realised I didn’t want to be that dick one day?

In hindsight, I could have taken a completely different lesson from the concrete penises. This was an action that couldn’t be delayed. If the kids waited too long — for the council workers to leave, or for the cover of darkness — the concrete would set before they could lay down their phallic masterpieces.

The problem for me was I didn't know what sort of penis I wanted to draw.

Despite my unproductive relationship with procrastination, there have been times in my life when I set myself a challenge and know I will do everything in my power to achieve it.

Like the time my local Macca’s (Australian slang for the big yellow arches) introduced unlimited soft drink refills, and my mate and I were determined to actually get our money’s worth. We estimated the cost price of a small soft drink at about 5 cents, whereas Ronald marked it up to $1.50 (those figures could be completely off, it was a long time ago). We needed to drink roughly 30 refills to get our money’s worth.

We could have made it easier by sharing the cup, taking turns to drink and pacing ourselves. But our plan was to slam as much fluid down as quickly as we could before our bodies realised what the fuck was going on.

I made it to thirteen.

I remember feeling tingly and light, and we stumbled the half-kilometre walk home, stopping 3 or 4 times to urinate in front yards while cursing Ronald’s scrooge-like nature.

Or the time I signed up for the Oxfam trail walker, which was a challenge to walk 100km through the bush in 48 hours. This one I achieved, and the exhilaration I felt as I crossed the finish line was like a fire hydrant had been set off inside me. I wanted to feel that again.

I began writing my novel on January 3rd, 2019.

Kind of like a lazy new year's resolution. Most new year's resolutions fail, so waiting a couple of extra days seemed sensible at the time.

The story and main characters had been dancing around my head and slowly revealing themselves for several years, so I sketched out the main plotlines and filled in the blanks. For the most part, the writing process went smoothly, and I finished my first draft roughly 13 months later.

It may not have been a masterpiece (it certainly isn’t, but I am hacking away at it over time, as I learn and grow as a writer), but it was something to be proud of.

Writing a novel was one thing, but exposing my writing to others was like leaping into the mother of all puddles. I imagined a swirling mass of rejection, scorn, and derision.

I took the plunge, submitted short stories to publications, and when I sustained no spinal cord injuries from doing so, I realised the puddles were never as scary as my muddled mind made them out to be. I had forgotten the joy a child feels on a rainy day, splashing and exploring.

In writing terms, my journey has only just begun, but the changes in my life have already been monumental.

I see the world differently now.

The mundane has the ability to be fascinating. Conflict is not something to be feared but rather understood. I listen more, see further, and closer, and care less for my reflection below. No longer do I slink and skirt around the edges of murky puddles.

I jump in them.

I was inspired to write this story by a comment from Michelle A. Cmarik, who encouraged me to step out from behind my shield of humour and reveal more of what lies underneath.

Michelle writes with vulnerability and honesty which is both admirable and terrifying. Check out some of her work:

Thanks to Rose Butcher for her helpful editing.