Across the Middle

The mayor of Payne City was the last person to cut my hair, and if I didn't think he might actually be mad at me, I'd go there right now for a trim. His name is Richard Mullis, a former Bibb County Sheriff. He is, as best I can tell when he's holding scissors to my head, a great guy. The mayor of Macon has a mouthpiece named Andrew, and he's the one that told me that Mayor Mullis is a barber. That's half the reason why the mayor of Payne City cut my hair. (The reason I think he's mad at me is that I promised to attend a Payne City Council meeting, then forgot, and someone told me that Mayor Mullis told them that he is mad at me. He could be joking.) If you don't know, Payne City is a speck of land inside Macon's city limits... "A town inside a city."

A few weeks ago, Ballentine Books sent me an advance copy of Man of the House, the recently released sequel to Ad Hudler's Househusband. If you don't know, Ad wrote a comic novel based on his time in Macon and called it Southern Living. Well, long story short, I'm a fan of Ad Hulder the author, Ad Hulder the person, and Ad Hudler the blog, and between those two things, I lucked out with an advanced reader.

Both books--Man of the House and Househusband--are about a cool, finicky, opinionated caregiver named Linc Menner. That is to say, both are largely autobiographical as Ad Hudler is a cool, finicky, opinionated caregiver. It took longer for me to get into Househusband, but I fell hard and fast for Man of the House.

In the book, Linc's daughter has grown to the point that she's no longer so dependent on him, and his wife is busier than she's ever been before. He's alone, bored and without purpose. Through a series of events than I shan't spoil, Linc finds himself trying to find out where his manliness went. (Before becoming a full-time househusband, he ran a successful landscape architecture company.) He hangs out with the guys (unnecessarily) remodeling his house, taking up hobbies like carpentry and freaking out about hurricanes.

I have no kids, and I am not married, but I totally get Linc's urge to seek out what he might consider his long, lost manhood. (That line is probably going to end up in my trash-talking Fantasy Football league message board.) When you're remotely smart and self-aware, you tend to think you eschew the male stereotype, which guys WANT to fulfill--beer, boobs, football and profanity. In his fascination with what "being male" is, he stumbles on to some of the nuances of the stereotype, things that might actually be admirable.

Like silence. He goes to a barber (a-ha, you see where I was going now, don't you?) to infiltrate the fraternity of stoical men.

And like utilitarian practicality. He goes back to wearing "tighty-whities" because it just feels better. Well, I have to because it does feel better, especially in these humid summers.

There's more, of course. That's what books do: more. And I'm going into all this because I hungout with Ad Hudler this weekend because he agreed to be a panelist at the first ever Crossroads Writers' Conference, here in Macon, which I helped organize.

Back to the feeling slightly smart and self-aware... I'm pretty damn sure I've cringed every single time someone has called me a writer. I grew up in Macon, in Shurlington, near the Jones County line. My dad has worked in either a factory, a yard or a house under construction his entire life. I played baseball, mostly on a sandlot with some great folks, most of whom came from similar stock as I and then went on to do what their daddies did. For a while, I did too.

Calling me a writer makes me cringe because it's like saying I've outgrown my raising--AND wanting me to take pride in that. It's also like giving me credit I don't feel I deserve, despite the fact I have technically been writing for publication for the last three years or so. Though I'm more comfortable admitting I write for The 11th Hour, I'd really rather you just didn't know about it. I'd rather you think I'm in construction or something equally valuable, not something like writing.

Yes, putting on a writers' conference, being an editor and writing tons of content, I still have this weird feeling that writing isn't valuable.

But then Ad Hudler reminded me why I do what I do (I can't help myself) and why I wanted to put a writers' conference together (to be around other people who can't help themselves). After his speech last Thursday in Warner Robins, I not only regained some confidence about this one thing that I do that I love more than anything else (even karaoke and smoking), but I understood what the trick is.

Being a writer is like being an alcoholic. You have to admit to this thing before you can get help for it. I'm sure there are plenty of alcoholics who wonder if they're one, just like there are writers who wonder if they're one, but they don't get better until they decide to embrace the damn thing. Once they do, there's a community ready and willing to embrace them.

And that's what I got out of the Crossroads Writers' Conference. Sure, I picked up some handy tips, and I made some new friends. But embracing (or getting really, really damn close to embracing) this thing is the most meaningful. I may wait tables, but I'm a writer. I may hang trim, but I'm a writer. It is what I am. Ad said you have to create the space to write and demand to be left alone when you're there, and I'm going to.

It's better not to fight it.