Extra Pedestrian.
No. Not one more guy walking down the street.
This isn't about that. That's a superfluous sequel to a horror movie about a murderous hitchhiker, or another warm body hustling down a New York City avenue. Or perhaps an unpublished verse to that terrific James Taylor song. This is not that sort of extra pedestrian.
I'm aiming for the other definition, the one more self-deprecating.
Wildly mediocre.
Especially ordinary.
Markedly uninteresting.
Spectacularly... meh.
For years I've had myself convinced that writing is one of my strong suits. And it may very well be. Or it may also be a study in self-delusion. Either way, I've decided to start keeping better track of the occasional stories I've told, the hours I've killed behind a keyboard -- a record of all of the time I have wasted, a little of yours, scores of mine. There will likely be some underwhelming material, and occasional expanses of difficult-to-follow passages diverting away from central points. I do that when I talk, so I might as well do it when I write. But every so often, I hope I hit on something. Either something in you, or something in me, and hopefully in a way that adequately conveys a very specific memory or feeling.
What happens from time to time is that I get something in my head, whether it's a story from my past, some curious idea I've had, or a question I'm not really sure I want answered, and I feel like it'd be nice to put it down in writing -- even if only in a note-taking, outline-like format -- in case I want to think about it again later. Or in case I want other people to know about it. Sometimes I pretend I'm going to organize and compile these into a single, coherent concept that explains why I am whatever it is that I am. It'll be some grand manuscript around how experiences shape us, or a guidebook for being JustSomeGuy, or a one-way conversation with yet-to-materialize Craig generations. More likely is that I'll peak by having some sort of grandma-tribute published in Reader's Digest.
Here at ExtraPedestrian some of you will recognize older pieces that I threw together and shared via social media sometime between 2005 and 2015. I'd like to revisit a lot of those diatribes and clean them up into something useful at best, inoffensive at worst. And as time, opportunity, and particularly inconsistent inspiration present themselves, I'll add newer pieces to keep the monologue alive. Maybe start a series recollecting grade school humiliations and 20-something heartbreaks. Perhaps I'll see if my sole remaining grandparent will divulge his life story, to the babbling brook-like din of my fingers bludgeoning an unsuspecting keyboard. Then again, I may just post this intro and decide that you've already heard enough out of me.
Which, for now at least, you have.
This isn't about that. That's a superfluous sequel to a horror movie about a murderous hitchhiker, or another warm body hustling down a New York City avenue. Or perhaps an unpublished verse to that terrific James Taylor song. This is not that sort of extra pedestrian.
I'm aiming for the other definition, the one more self-deprecating.
Wildly mediocre.
Especially ordinary.
Markedly uninteresting.
Spectacularly... meh.
For years I've had myself convinced that writing is one of my strong suits. And it may very well be. Or it may also be a study in self-delusion. Either way, I've decided to start keeping better track of the occasional stories I've told, the hours I've killed behind a keyboard -- a record of all of the time I have wasted, a little of yours, scores of mine. There will likely be some underwhelming material, and occasional expanses of difficult-to-follow passages diverting away from central points. I do that when I talk, so I might as well do it when I write. But every so often, I hope I hit on something. Either something in you, or something in me, and hopefully in a way that adequately conveys a very specific memory or feeling.
What happens from time to time is that I get something in my head, whether it's a story from my past, some curious idea I've had, or a question I'm not really sure I want answered, and I feel like it'd be nice to put it down in writing -- even if only in a note-taking, outline-like format -- in case I want to think about it again later. Or in case I want other people to know about it. Sometimes I pretend I'm going to organize and compile these into a single, coherent concept that explains why I am whatever it is that I am. It'll be some grand manuscript around how experiences shape us, or a guidebook for being JustSomeGuy, or a one-way conversation with yet-to-materialize Craig generations. More likely is that I'll peak by having some sort of grandma-tribute published in Reader's Digest.
Here at ExtraPedestrian some of you will recognize older pieces that I threw together and shared via social media sometime between 2005 and 2015. I'd like to revisit a lot of those diatribes and clean them up into something useful at best, inoffensive at worst. And as time, opportunity, and particularly inconsistent inspiration present themselves, I'll add newer pieces to keep the monologue alive. Maybe start a series recollecting grade school humiliations and 20-something heartbreaks. Perhaps I'll see if my sole remaining grandparent will divulge his life story, to the babbling brook-like din of my fingers bludgeoning an unsuspecting keyboard. Then again, I may just post this intro and decide that you've already heard enough out of me.
Which, for now at least, you have.
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