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I have heard often over the years, “Wow, you know how to do so many things!” 

It’s true, I do know how to do a lot of things, and during lockdown I added a number of new items to that list—ceramics, silversmithing, painting, yoga instruction and, yes, making sourdough bread. 

I didn’t intentionally set out to be someone with a long list of skills. And to be clear, of the many things I can do, I can’t necessarily do them well. I’m cool with that. Getting older I have come to realize I’m in love with process and learning far more than I am with excelling or outcome. As an added bonus, I find that when I’m undertaking something new, and fumbling with learning, this deepens my appreciation for those who are experts in their field. A great example of this is jewelry making. Now when I see someone wearing a beautiful ring or bracelet or necklace, my admiration goes beyond the surface as I marvel at the details and try to understand how those details came to be. 

There are all sorts of reasons I’m forever pursuing new knowledge. Three things in particular have fueled this drive. The first is analogous to necessity being the mother of invention. As a poor single mother trying to make it as a professional writer I was forever taking on side hustles to support my kid, myself and my art. This landed me in all sorts of jobs I wasn’t particularly qualified for but managed to talk my way into. Once I was asked in an interview if I could write white papers for Google. I responded in the affirmative, though it wasn’t true, not because I’m a liar but because it occurred to me that once the call was over I could probably Google how to write white papers and then apply what I learned to writing white papers for Google. 

I was right.

Another reason I have pursued so many different outlets surely has to do with my ADHD. I remember calling one of my sisters during lockdown, after someone suggested that I qualified for this diagnosis. I expressed my surprise. My sister laughed long and hard. “Is this seriously the first time you realized you have it? We all have it!” she announced. I defended myself, pointing out that I’d been so focused on my chronic anxiety, depression and PTSD that I never stopped to consider other applicable labels. 

I added “Study ADHD” to my long list of other pursuits. Researching, I felt like I was reading my autobiography. Here was a psychological reason for my perpetual jumping from activity to activity, skill to skill, hobby to hobby. I felt no need to try to “cure” myself, though I did learn some practices to help me manage the more challenging aspects of the condition. Mostly I was fascinated by what I learned.

The third reason I know how to do so many things overlaps with both my side hustling and my ADHD. I am perpetually throwing spaghetti at the wall. Not all of it has stuck. For all of the things I’ve accomplished, the list of failures surely is longer. Whatever sense of disappointment these failures brought with them faded quickly. No time to dwell on what didn’t work when there was (and is) still plenty of more pasta to hurl. 

Last week, after dragging my feet for decades, I finally decided to try something new, something I’d been feverishly avoiding. I created an online variation of my writing workshops. My prior resistance to this endeavor was based in part on experience. Very briefly at the start of lockdown I tried to transition my in-person workshops to Zoom. It just didn’t feel the same. There is something very powerful about being in the same physical space when sharing writing with others, a palpable energy that simply cannot be duplicated virtually. I quickly ended those meetings.

And yet. I’d had enough requests over the years that I began to cave, wondering if I could create an online experience that would be useful and fun, if different from real life gatherings. So I grabbed a handful of spaghetti and I threw it at the wall.

That pasta stuck the landing. 

I doled out a few writing prompts over a few days and the responses have been delightful. One prompt in particular has yielded so many wonderful submissions. The assignment was to make a list (by name not number) of five people whose phone numbers you still have memorized, then pick one person on the list and write a story about them. My list includes: my son; the friend who helped me raise my son; my dentist; my own childhood number (which fittingly makes the sign of the cross); and Tony the Hunter, a dude I dated for three weeks in Knoxville, summer of ‘88. 

Reading all of the submissions was a fantastic trip down memory lane. The technological wonder of the super long phone cord played into more than one essay, which sent me way back to my angst ridden teenage years when I would, thanks to the long cord, hide in the upstairs bathroom and talk for hours to Anna, my best friend, as we dissected the dynamics of high school life and swooned over Bruce lyrics. 

The essays also brought back memories of answering machines, call-waiting, and the era predating these advancements, when using the phone involved standing or sitting in one place for long stretches and never knowing that you missed a call because any person calling you while you were already on the phone got a busy signal. 

Then I remembered something else—in my childhood home we had an old-fashioned wooden phone booth that stood like a vertical coffin in the rec room. We kids did not have bedroom doors and so this tiny space with its folding glass door was the only other place besides the (oft occupied) bathroom to get any privacy. Thinking about the phone booth brought back more memories still of many other wacky features of my childhood like my devoutly religious “father” retreating to the basement to blast disco music to block out the stress of having nine kids, his homophobic self having missed the memo about The Truth Behind The Village People. 

Beyond the delight of reading everyone’s offerings was reading the responses and watching connections being made. Suddenly there was an animated conversation as one person’s memories beget someone else’s memories. Talk about a joyful noise. 

Spending a week immersed in so much positivity has had a wonderful impact. This dovetails very nicely with my lofty goal of trying to be as absolutely nice as possible in 2024, a goal inspired by knowing what a rough, rough, hateful ride we are in for this election year. In all honesty my kindness batting average so far has been mixed and I confess I totally lost my shit on a twenty something stranger who flipped me off recently. The sea of happy comment exchanges over at the new substack helped me to correct course after that unfortunate confrontation. I’m back to focusing on kindness. Like Madge’s hands immersed in Palmolive, I find I am softest when I am soaking in it. 

Perhaps this latest experiment of mine will gain true purchase and continue to explode with positivity. Maybe it will fade fast. I’m vowing to not get attached to the outcome and to instead enjoy the adventure as it unfolds, however it unfolds. 

So tell me, please, what skills do you have that maybe you didn’t foresee ever becoming part of your repertoire? What are five phone numbers you have memorized and why?

NOTES:

I invite you to come and join the fun over at WriteWithSpike.substack.com. In March I am putting up a paywall ($8 per month/$80 per year) but for this month it’s 100% free. See if you like it. Even if you don’t fancy yourself a writer it’s a space where you can read some really cool reflections. 

This here substack will remain free with voluntary subscriptions. If you dig these weekly offerings and can swing $5 per month or $50 per year, I cheerfully ask you to consider a paid subscription. This buys me time to write and helps me feed the menagerie. One-time donations also gratefully accepted at Venmo: @spike-gillespie. It also helps if you share this substack with someone you think will dig it.

My next free writing workshop at Hampton Branch Library in Austin is tomorrow night, Feb 6, 5:30-7:30 pm. I hear the reservation list is full but if you want to just show up and take your chances we often have a few no shows. It’s super fun. 

My next six-week Memoir Writing Workshop for Women starts on 2/27/24. We meet in person at the ranch on Tuesdays from 11 am til 1 pm. $150. This is a group of badass women and we keep it super real. Email me if you want to join—I have a few spots left. 

Thanks for reading y’all. I really appreciate you.

Love,

Uncle Spike