It’s time for my regular Q&A column, the column where I address letters and answer questions instead of doing actual research. I’ve compiled the most commonly asked questions into a generic Q&A column.
Here we go:
Q: Dear Sean, I am 2,198 years old and I hate you. You have a social platform you could use to bring social change, and yet you won’t speak out against [fill in the blank]. You are a worthless, spineless worm.
A: First off. Worms are not worthless. Spineless, yes. Worthless, no.
Q: You’re still a worm.
A: Shows what you know, Mister. Worms are responsible for life on earth. They help the earth supply food which makes life on this planet possible.
Q: What?
A: You heard me. For starters, worms clean contaminated soil by a process wherein micro-organisms consume and break down environmental pollutants converting them to non-toxic molecules. This process is called “bioremediation.”
Secondly, worms break down and recycle organic matter within soil, fertilizing the earth and ensuring the topsoil is supplied with nutrients which are essential for the growing of food.
Q: You’re still a worm.
A: Maybe so, but have you ever seen those little mounds of dirt on top of the soil? They’re called worm castings. Literally, “worm poop.” Worm poop is the byproduct of this recycling process. This worm poop contains five-times more nitrogen, seven-times more phosphorus, and 1000-times more beneficial bacteria than the original soil, which is essential for plants to thrive. Simply put, without worm poop the organic world would cease to exist.
Q: Huh. I never knew that about worms.
A: Neither did I. I just looked it up on Google.
Q: But, what if the critical reader above had called you a “spineless turd” instead of a “spineless worm”?
A: Google has nothing positive to say about turds.
Q: Dear Sean, how do you remember interviews with people you write about? It seems like you write about people you’ve met in public. Do you keep notes? Do you have a photographic memory?
A: I’m sorry, I’ve already forgotten the question.
Q: Sean, you are from Florida. Why do you live in Birmingham now? What made you choose to move?
A: I moved to Birmingham because this city has more breweries per capita than actual capita.
Q: I am a very fundamentalist person and I sometimes like your writing. But I don’t like it when you write about beer. Why must you always push that envelope? Don’t you know that it breaks God’s heart?
A: Beer hasn’t always been sinful, you know. That’s a pretty new concept. And it’s an almost exclusively American idea. For the first 1,800 years of Christianity devout people consumed alcohol which often came in the form of Boone’s Farm.
And let me tell you, friend, Boone’s Farm assorted wine flavors will destroy your life. If you so much as look at a bottle of Strawberry Boone’s Farm you will be sick for 40 days and 40 nights.
I do, however, understand what you’re saying. And I sincerely apologize for offending you. I, too, was raised as a fundamentalist. Southern Baptist, actually. So I get it. The mention of beer can be offensive to some. Especially when you mention beers like Natural Light, Keystone, Miller Lite, and Mick Ultra which are not beers at all but the byproduct of worms.
Q: Why do you write about the topic of mental health all the time?
A: Because it’s a lot more fun than writing about, for example, the IRS.
Q: Can you be serious for one moment?
A: This has yet to be determined.
Q: You write about depression pretty often. Is depression something you’ve gone through yourself?
A: Yes. Although I don’t know if you ever go “through” depression. Meaning, I don’t think true depression is like the common cold where it suddenly goes away and you’re all better.
I think certain people have depressive tendencies, which are the results of either personality, trauma, or circumstances. But to answer your question, yes. I have been depressed before.
I grew up in a fractured home of abuse, suicide, and general crappiness. Depression is something I’ve struggled with all my life, from age 11. Right now, I’m good. But I haven’t always been.
The only reason I’m doing okay right now is because very wise and loving people have helped me get through some pretty hard times. That could all change if my life circumstances went to pot. In which case, I would need to depend on strong people to help get me through.
Q: What is your favorite color?
A: Yellow.
Q: Favorite movie?
A: It’s a toss-up. Between “Music Man” and “Dumbo.”
Q: “Dumbo?” Really?
A: If you have ever watched “Dumbo,” there is a scene where Dumbo’s mother is imprisoned and little Dumbo visits her. The song “Baby Mine” is played, and Dumbo’s mother rocks him like a baby. If you don’t cry at this scene like the little wretched sinner that you are, you have no soul.
Q: Favorite TV show.
A: Andy Griffith.
Q: Favorite candy?
A: Werther's Originals.
Q: Favorite food in general?
A: Anything at a Southern Baptist potluck.
Q: Dear Sean, I am a writer. Will you read my poem and give me some feedback?
A: Absolutely. You are awesome.
Q: Wait. You probably say that to everyone.
A: Yes, I do.
Q: Why?
A: Because you ARE awesome. You need to believe that. Moreover, you don’t need anyone to tell you how great you are. You don’t need anyone’s validation except your own.
And who cares what ONE person thinks about you, anyway? They’re just ONE person with ONE opinion. And you know which orifice of the body they say opinions are like, right?
Someone’s opinion of you—whether positive or negative—should have no bearing on your life. You are a beautiful human being, you don’t need anyone to certify that. It’s true because it is true.
Q: Even if they call you a spineless worm?
A: Even if.
Lol - even if.
Sean - you are becoming my modern day Mrs. Barnes. When I was in the 3rd grade, I had Mrs. Barnes who was an inspiration to my life. She was very keen on creative writing and she surprised us often with writing prompts and a time pressure to produce a paragraph or a page or two. I loved this. I considered it a surprise; my classmates considered it a plague. I kept my opinions to myself - I had to go out on the playground for recess later. Playgrounds and recess were quite the arena for establishing pecking orders, righting wrongs, or settling disputes. I understand they don’t have playgrounds or recess anymore. No wonder the country is in such a mixed up state. Anyway, when Mrs. Barnes would say, “Take out a piece of paper and a pencil,” then turn to write the prompt on the board, I would keep my cheer and glee to myself, but my eyes would widen, I couldn’t suppress a smile, and my pulse would quicken. I was ready for Mrs. Barnes’s challenge. It was a writing challenge. We were asked to write what we did on summer vacation, what we did over the weekend, all about what we had for dinner the night before, a funny story, an exciting story, a new fairy tale, or such like that. She did this a couple times a week.
Back in those days, grades and achievement in school were celebrated. The excellent papers were taped up on the wall for all to see. My papers were always displayed. I was all but useless in gym class or in playground games - I couldn’t throw, catch, or run fast. Even my jump rope skills were only mediocre. What I could do was manipulate numbers as asked for in math class, and I could write.
One day, Mrs. Barnes wrote on the board to the groans of anguish of my classmates, “A Day in the Life of <blank> <blank>” We were all, “Huh?”
She went around the room then and everyone was asked to pick an animal, any animal. We were not to duplicate. When it came around to me, I picked raccoon. That filled in the second blank on our story title. In the first blank we were to select a name. I picked Rory. What else would you name a raccoon? Then we were to write a story about “A Day in the Life” of the creature we had just invented. I started writing. My brain exploded with possibilities and story lines. I got completely lost in Rory Raccoon’s day.
Suddenly the bell rang. It was time to go home. Mrs. Barnes asked for all our papers to be turned in, and I howled in anguish. I wasn’t done yet. I tearfully delivered my paper to her and begged her to let me take it home to finish. She looked over what I’d done so far and her face brightened. She liked it. She agreed to allow me to finish my day with Rory if I handed it back to her in the morning first thing. I went home and finished my masterpiece. They did very little homework back in those days, so it was unusual for me to have this to do after school. My parents wanted to see it. As I shared it, their faces brightened. They both liked it.
I turned it in to Mrs. Barnes and her face did the same thing. She put my paper with a big A on it on the wall with other excellent papers. Later in the day, someone else came in the room to watch us as we were practicing our cursive writing. (They don’t teach that anymore either - we are all going straight into the trash heap.) Mrs. Barnes left the room and took my paper with her. What was that about?
Later my parents filled me in. They’d been called to the school, even Dad who worked! There was a meeting about me in the principal’s office. Mrs. Barnes had been so gobsmacked by my little story that she was asking permission of my parents to be my agent in getting my work published.
Published? Me? I was bedazzled.
Mrs. Barnes, the principal, and my parents talked about it back and forth for a week or two. No one invited me to the meetings. Suddenly it was over. My parents, who were undeniably by me and many, the best parents to anyone ever, had decided it was not time for me to be published. Fame and notoriety, in their wise opinions, were not good for childhood development. Becoming a published writer would and should wait until I was old enough to make those choices and decisions myself. In the meantime, I was to continue my education in search and attainment of a proper day job. Being a writer was not in that category, much like rock star, prima ballerina, or movie star. All of those choices are iffy propositions. Not everyone that wants those careers gets to have them. We all need a day job.
On I went. When a teacher would make a writing assignment, I could bank on an easy A. In college when we’d get the word that a large percentage of the grade would be a long paper, I was all, “woot woot!” as my cohorts rushed the door to withdraw. I found my other passion, an excellent day job, and proceeded to spend 43 years as an aviator. My people noticed my flare as I began to write a family Christmas letter that expanded to the point that we had to go digital due to the expense, and I would contribute now and then to group newsletters. As my exciting career collected many stories, as one might expect of a life flying airplanes, people started telling me that I should write a book. I spun right back to Mrs. Barnes. Published! Me!
I’m retired from flying now, due to state-endorsed age discrimination (don’t get me started - as can be seen, I tell long stories), and well situated after a lucrative career. I wanted to be a published writer since Mrs. Barnes’s 3rd grade class. Now I are one. Two novels down, another in work, others spinning around in my head. The road we travel is winding, but we end up where we want to be eventually. One step at a time wins the race. I just wish I still had my Rory Raccoon story. One of these days I’ll have to rewrite it. I’ll dedicate it to Mrs. Barnes.
I enjoy your writing and also the comment section Have never seen anyone call you a worm or other ungracious names. Do these people write you directly ?