When writing replaces talking

Sick of the sound of my own voice

Check—one—two—hey—ha—blubbadoodle-doe-rae-me! Ready in the truck? Roll tape.

I’ve spent a lot of time on camera and on the microphone—a ton actually. I’m good at it. Most of the time I liked it. Ironically—although I did it professionally for many years—I will only now do it as a volunteer. As a hobby or a favor.

What happens when you have a lot to say but are sick of the sound of your own voice?

You write.

Check. Mike check. 3,2,1—I’m standing atop Ajax Mountain looking over the historic mining town of Aspen Colorado—beside one of the legends of ski racing Franz Klammer—winner of today’s Jeep King of the Mountain Downhill here at Aspen.

Hello everyone I’m Dee Rambeau (and you’re not) I’m standing here on the wide sands of Hermosa Beach with volleyball’s GOAT—Karch Kiraly.

Where the fuck am I this weekend? There’s snow—or is that sand? There’s the vibrant green of some golf course somewhere. Achoo! Is that allergies or a reaction to the blow? There’s always a microphone and a different view—and there I am again—talking.

I know I know—boo-fucking-hoo—tough life. But until you’ve walked in another man’s shoes…

Airports and hotel rooms and bottles of Scotch and cans of cold beer and lines of blow and lots of new instant friends. Each weekend destination on the schedule is the summer event for the local fans—for us it’s just another stop along the way. Party on Garth. Woohoo. Middle of the week was spent sitting in a dark production studio doing voice overs and finishing off the shows for air before heading once again to the airport. A blur—48 weekends out of 52. For a decade. Whew. We were carnies.

There I am again talking—often without thinking or writing or planning—just talking out of sheer habit.

Most of that was 30 years ago. What remains are great memories of a way of making a living that was unique and fun. What remains—as even now I host a weekly radio show—is a profound sense of gratitude for the gift of natural talent and a developed skill. What has emerged is a different man who writes thoughtfully and speaks more intentionally.

Is this change all about sobriety? Much of it—yes.

There’s a saying that goes something like this: wherever you go there you are. As much and as fast as I was moving—outrunning myself wasn’t possible.

For its only through sobriety and the resultant self-awareness that I have begun to apply these talents to a different goal—of helping people—rather than just for self-enrichment and fun.

Writing on a regular schedule is a muscle that I’ve just recently begun exercising. The words don’t flow quite as easily as did the blather off my tongue—but I’m growing. My writing voice—although you may have noticed is much like my speaking voice—is somehow different. Somehow it means more. To me at least.

Was there purpose then?

Sure—I’m a sports fan and I enjoyed witnessing, elevating, and being entertained by the world’s best in these niche lifestyle sports. People loved it.

Is there purpose now?

Yes. By writing about my past with a Sober Mind and a keen eye on the present—my burning desire is that I give hope to those still struggling. Hope that no matter how far down you’ve been—or are—you can make a change. It can get better. It’s not easy but it’s better. It took me 4 major attempts over 30 years for sobriety as a lifestyle to finally take root. Hospital. Rehab. Day treatment. And finally—Betty Ford in 2009.

I’m not an alkie—everyone around me drinks like I do. I just need to stop doing coke. I’ll get it under control. Give me one more chance. Sorry I couldn’t make it—I was blah blah lie lie blah lie…

Moderation—as if.

Half measures—I tried them all.

Fellow Stacker

Eliza Butler

asked me recently how I find balance. My response was that I have found it only after decades of pushing hard at the opposite edges—finding the breaking point and blasting right through it in most cases. I know peace now because I knew raging then. I was young and invincible and 10 feet tall. Not a recipe for a long life—but by the grace of God I’m still here telling you about it at the ripe age of 66. I’m one of the lucky ones—a survivor.

I’ve been asked to do a podcast many times. I’ve toyed with reading my essays aloud. Dee it’ll build your audience! Each time I consider it—I bump into that old resistance. If I’m sick of hearing myself talk—surely others are too, right? I know it’s not rational—I don’t know that any resistance that holds us back as creators is ever rational. That doesn’t make it any less powerful.

I did try to read one of my essays back a few months ago. Hated it. It was too much like a script. My gift is spontaneity. Even in professional settings when leading a training or a presentation—I much preferred to internalize the content and then wing it. Fuck the PowerPoint. Is there anything more tedious than someone reading their own slides? Yawn.

I’ve read Rick Rubin and Steven Pressfield on resistance. I recognize it when I feel it. I’ve moved through it in other aspects of my life. The idea of talking into a microphone for a paycheck these days just sits stuck in my throat like a big ole phlegm ball—like a fresh drainage of Bolivian marching powder that needs to be spat up—brrrrlecchhh.

I prefer conversations between and among. Engagement. Connection. I loathe the monologue—particularly from those that consider themselves important. Channeling Sargeant Schultz on Hogan’s Heroes.

I much prefer reading good content to listening to a talking head. If there’s anything we need less of in this world—besides politicians and terrorists—it’s talking heads. Sorry I was being redundant.

Gonna keep doing my radio show. For everyone’s sake—please don’t offer to pay me for it. Funny how the desire comes back when the effort is volunteered.

The self-examination continues—I am truly curious how this one flawed but committed human being operates in this crazy world. If you can relate I’d love to hear from you.

Thanks for indulging me. After wishing my dad a very happy Father’s Day—I’ll STFU.