Getting over Winesburg, Ohio Syndrome

Last week had a lot going on. I turned 32. I try not to make a big deal about birthdays, but one can’t help but reflect on his life on his birthday. This year I found myself reflecting on what I thought I would be when I was 16; a writer, or maybe an artist, or a filmmaker. I believed in these possibilities pretty firmly well into my twenties. Then somewhere along the way I gave up those dreams and went to grad school for library science. I still don’t know why I did that, except that I love libraries and hopefully I will one day actually work in one.

The trouble with the writer/artist/filmmaker dream is that I almost never write/make art/film. It seems all I can do just to write in this blog a couple of times a week, and sometimes I can’t even do that. I’m just not an innate writer. I’m a reader that wishes he could be a writer. Still, I get some personal satisfaction in writing now and then, and from time to time someone tells me they liked something that I wrote. So, here’s to writing as a hobby. Cheers!

Another fantasy that has faded over the years is what I might term the Winesburg, Ohio Syndrome, which has to do with self-inflicted exile, something that many a great writer engages in. I call it Winesburg, Ohio Syndrome after the Sherwood Anderson book of short stories called Winesburg, Ohio. I must confess I haven’t read this recently (not since 2005 by my reckoning) but I remember that all of the stories somehow relate to one character, George Willard, who represents the author. As it happens, George Willard is the only character who leaves Winesburg and makes a name for himself in the big city. Each of the stories showcases the various peculiarities of people in a small town, and subsequently vilifies small town life as repressive, isolating, alienating, almost some form of imprisonment. 

Growing up in the small town of Dryden, NY, I sensed a similar resentment to small town life from my peers. I guess it sort of rubbed off on me, because I started planning my departure in my teens, and eventually found myself in Philadelphia at the age of 23, not entirely due to my own planning. I will readily admit that my desire for self-exile was based on some completely unfounded self-perceptions, which I think could be accurately termed delusions of grandeur. 

City life has had its positives and negatives. I’ve met a lot of great people and had interesting experiences. I don’t regret the decision of moving here, but it has made me realize that some of my dreams were unrealistic, and it has given me a respect for what I lost by leaving my hometown. There are certain social opportunities a small town affords that can never be fully realized in a city.

Now I am coming to a point where I may consider something completely different for my life. I must investigate the opportunities. I don’t think I’m ready to move back to my hometown, or the vicinity thereabouts. But maybe I am? I know that I still want to see more of the world, but not necessarily move there. I don’t think I like the idea of Philadelphia as a home-base.

Anyway, these are the types of things I think about on my birthday. Right now, I am not looking to leave Philly, but I could see it happening. Moving back to Dryden isn’t the only option though. Other places under strong consideration are Asheville, NC, or somewhere in Tennessee. 

Here’s a picture of me on my birthday:

P.S. That night someone asked me, “Why Ron Paul Forever?” but I sort of shrugged it off, not wanting to get into a political conversation. In retrospect, I think the answer is somewhat simple. Obviously the notion of Ron Paul being “forever” is at best wistful, and a bit ironic. But I would say “Ron Paul Forever” because, as politicians go, Ron Paul seems to avoid political power games when possible and I think we need more politicians who are not afraid to express the views of their constituents. I think most politicians follow the party line, and Ron Paul deviates, and I want to see more deviation. So that’s my answer, in case you’re reading this Colleen.