I don't agree with much of what my free-thinking, free-wheeling, writer friend, Mykel Board, says, politically speaking, nor can I stomach the scatalogical and anti-feminist riffs and humor in his blog, but there is something about this guy—a former Yippie, a musician, a punkster, a jokester—I find both endearing and inspiring. Underneath the costume—and sometimes outrageous assertions—is a big-hearted man who loves talking to people all over the world, a true internationalist.
He has a unique lifestyle. A linguist by training, he teaches English at a Japanese language school in mid-town Manhattan, which is where I met him many years ago. In between his teaching gigs, he'd travel somewhere he'd never been before for a month at least, couch surf, build his FB coterie of friends, take voluminous notes, and write. Only someone single and child-free can do this, I said to myself. I used to feel amused, annoyed and ever-so-slightly envious as he put the language school job on hiatus for a month and disappear. Or sometimes he'd go off for a year. He has taught English in Mongolia and written a book about that experience. He has taught in Japan. To this day, my first question when we meet for lunch or a coffee is, "So where to next, Mykel?" And he'll usually tell me with the excitement of a little kid. He's already found new friends online, often people who read his blog, has places to stay, is reading books by local writers, and can't wait to set out.
Last time, however, was different. His destination was under wraps; he refused to tell me. I asked if he thought that was a good idea. Shouldn't someone know where he was headed? But he said, no, not this time. Then he was back.
We met for a coffee before my NYU class last week. "So where have you been, Mykel?"
"In Pennsylvania," he said, deadpan.
"You stayed Stateside? What gives?"
"A whole month in a Punxsutawney, the groundhog town," he explained. "I put an ad in the local paper asking for a rental and had the top floor of a house. The landlady didn't want my budgeted $1000; she'd only take $600. I couldn't believe the generosity. I've had an idea for a novel for a long time and needed to research it in situ. I wrote 40,000 words while I was there."
I tried to imagine city punk Mykel in Fedora, trench coat, and big black boots nearly up to his knees, in this little town, population 5,788. On the other hand, I thought, what an admirable thing to do. It was typical of him to follow his curiosity into a writing project. Total immersion, he hung out, got to know people, the local library, the bars. He even was invited to a writer's group and read a few of his pages.
"I had to catch myself," he said. I assumed that because I was in a rural area, the writing wouldn't be any good. What a prejudice. It was sophisticated, terrific. The group liked my pages, too, except for the vulgarity."
"No suprise," I said. "I don't either."
He's going for 90,000 words, he told me, a huge book, because he's read that's what publishers are looking for these days.
"Have you made progress beyond that initial 40,000 word spurt since your return?" I wanted to know.
"Not much," he said.
The writer/teacher's lament. I can relate. If I am not already in the midst of a project, I try to get one started before term begins. Otherwise I begin to feel resentful of my productive students.
Mykel is still single, has no obligations other than to his authentic self and the words he puts in his books or in his columns. But even that statement requires explanation. He's been a devoted, constant friend to many, including Josephine, also a former teacher at the language school, who is now in a nursing home. He visits her at least once a month when he's in town. Who else that I know would do that?