Last week I asked for some criticism. Some of you were up to the task, no one was too brutal, and the general responses were kind. The general tone of the feedback was for me to be honest and more vulnerable. I have no issue with being honest, especially if I can attach humor and sarcasm with that honesty. I do enjoy laughing at myself. (usually in retrospect.)

Vulnerability is completely different. Letting my guard down, showing the man behind the curtain, the one who cries every single time he watches It’s a Wonderful Life when George Bailey reaches for Zuzu’s flower petals. The one who snuggles on the couch every evening with my lab, Dixie. The proud grandfather whose heart absolutely melts at the smallest of smiles or giggles from his grandchildren. That’s much more difficult. Writing this for strangers to read is easier than if I were sending a text to friends. I want to keep my tough guy persona, the one who played twenty years of rugby, who still coaches linebackers at his high school, where he works. The guy who has been in a fist fight or three. Telling the world how afraid I was to show anyone what I had written, wow, that’s much harder.

I have always been good at embellishing a story to an audience, creating an impromptu bedtime story, and inventing a scary tale around the campfire for my children. I had thoughts of stories that, with some effort, could be written down and possibly make an interesting book. Thinking about and actually doing it are ideas so far apart. I had not written anything, besides a sweet and funny note to my wife, for anyone else to read. I was almost fifty years old before my ego and maturity would allow me to think of the possibility of writing a book. I’m a terrible speller and a hunt-and-peck typer. One night, I had trouble sleeping and got up and started writing. I had most of it written and still waited almost a year to show that first friend and ask them to do me a favor and take a look. If that person had given me a bad review, I might not be writing this blog today. I had no reference inside myself to know if I had any ability to write.

Writing is very personal;  your thoughts are your own until you express them out loud or on paper (or digitally). It’s been a little over four years since I began to put a real effort into writing. I enjoy it, I can take breaks, it’s not any sort of meaningful income. I find it challenging.

Expressing complete honesty is difficult, also, so don’t expect my real golf score, how many fish I really caught, or how big they were, or how many beers I actually drank.

Coop