Between Work and Sacrifice

Hi.

I’m back.

If you hadn’t noticed—and I bet most of you have—I’ve been sadly lacking in my blog posts for the past several weeks.  Six, to be precise.  That’s not something I’m particularly proud of.  Over these last weeks, I’ve had to make some sacrifices to stay sane.  Unfortunately, I decided to sacrifice the wrong thing.

You see, work—the thing that gave me a paycheck every other Friday—was dragging me down.  Stressing me out.  Something had to give, and I chose the writing.  Why?  Not because I wasn’t dedicated to my craft, but because I have responsibilities and the pay was good.  So I chose the thing that paid the bills, not what made me happy. 

Now, I sit here before you, unemployed.  I’ve been in many different states in my life, denial being the other one I’m particularly fond of.  Fond, of course, being used in a most sarcastic way.  Because, you see, I had myself fooled that this job was worth the time, effort, and sacrifice.  Clearly, that wasn’t the case.

That burns a little.  More than a little, if I’m to be honest.  I worked, sweated, cried, and sacrificed for nothing.  To make matters worse, I gave up all those things that make me who I am—my passions.  I became a robot and a fool.  No one likes to be made a fool of, even if it’s only in his own head.  There were days that I couldn’t make myself write more than a few lines or edit a page or two before stopping for the night.  Let’s forget about writing blog posts.

The thing was, I was all right with it.  My parents did a lot for me growing up.  The older I get, the more I learn they did for me.  That being said, one of those things they got through my thick skull was the importance of working hard, and, if you care enough for something, you sacrifice for it.  Before now, I’d been sacrificing everything for my writing.  I lost time with family and friends.  Money that could have been used for other things—some frivolous, some not—instead went to an editor or supplies.  Let’s not talk about my health.  But I was fine with it. 

You see, throughout my life, I’ve been smart enough to skate by.  As an adult, this isn’t something I’m proud of, but as a kid?  “Good enough” was, simply put, good enough.  But when things got hard, I stopped and gave up, moving on to other, easier things.  This bad habit has stuck with me into adulthood.  And even though I know I’m doing it, it’s hard to fight. 

Writing was one of the first things I didn’t stop doing when the going got tough.  I don’t know how many times I was knocked down, but each time I picked myself up and started at it again, pounding against that wall with fists, ink, or whatever else was available.  It’s made a difference.  Now, it’s a solace, a place of refuge.  I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

But I did.

That’s why it grinds so much.  I gave up a passion for a paycheck.  As a kid, way back when, I promised myself I’d never do that.  Yet, here as an adult . . . Yeah.

I betrayed myself.  I betrayed my family and friends.  I betrayed my dream.  The last is nearly impossible to live with.  So, despite my dreams, it feels blatantly wrong sitting here writing something for a blog when I have cover letters to type up.  What right do I have to spend my life enslaved to the written word if I’ll give it up, give up my dreams, at the promise of a paycheck?  Is any amount of money worth giving up your dreams?

I am a fan of trivia game shows.  For years, K has been trying to get me to sign up and get on one.  Various excuses have kept me away, the main one being pride.  Well, yesterday I had a realization forced upon me by a friend.  Pride only goes so far, and eventually you’ll be willing to sell it for the right price.  He pointed out to me that pride prevents me from going on a game show, but I’d do it if it meant my novel, my dream, would become a reality. 

And he’s right. 

Knowing the man, he’s probably the only person who could make me see it.  He’s sacrificed for a dream and now does what I want to do for a living.  Not running a comic store like he does, but rather making a living off my passion.  You will sacrifice so much if you’re able to do what you love for the rest of your life.  I don’t think anyone else could have made that connection and made me accept it as readily as he did.

If I’m to be honest, it makes a fatalistic sort of sense, too.  Everything since I took the first steps on The Red Dress has pointed my feet toward writing.  All roads lead to Rome.  Rome being writing.  I’ve met some great people doing this.  My friends and family are fully behind me.  Can I count the personal satisfaction and happiness, too?  Encouragement comes from too many directions to count.  It’s too late to give up.  I’m too caught up in it.  This is my life, and I only get one of those.

So I can’t feel guilty about it anymore.  I need to be focusing on this blog, editing The Red Dress, and writing the follow-up.  No, I can’t do it all the time.  I do need to find a job.  Cover letters need to be written, and bills need to be paid.  But all this feeling-bad-for-wasting-time nonsense has to go out the window.  This experience, if nothing else, has forced me to realize what’s important to me.  And while money’s nice, it sure as hell isn’t everything.  Peace of mind and happiness stack up for quite a bit.

It isn’t so much that I have to make amends for my time in the land of the misbegotten.  Rather, it’s another instance of picking yourself up after hardship, dusting yourself off, and going right back at it.  I never completely stopped writing, you see.  Just mostly.  And that was bad enough.  This was a learning experience.  Now I know what’s important.  Now I know what to sacrifice for.  And that’s just as important as the will and ability to give it all up for a greater cause.

I’ll never stop writing.  Not for the rest of my life.  But now, I’ll never let it get so far away, either.

Solace

At one point or another in our lives, each of us must choose something to find solace in.  Where we find that solace changes depending on the person.  Sometimes it’s an activity, sometimes it’s a hobby—all too often it’s a bottle.  My grandfather finds solace in his woodworking.  My mother in her needlepoint.  I really don’t know what my father does, but I’m sure he has something.  Myself, it’s this—the writing. 

Mind, if you could see me right now, all I’d need to finish the stereotypical-writer look would be the smoldering cigarette.  I sit in a nearly dark room, lit mostly by the computer screen.  A streetlight shines through an open window along with a faintly chill wind.  Melancholy music plays through computer speakers.  A tumbler of rum, uncut, sits to my left within easy access.  Rain pours outside, and I am lost in the thoughts that run through my head, the drumbeats echoing more on my soul than on the roof just above my head.

Bob Seger wrote one of the greatest songs ever about the life of a touring musician, “Turn the Page.”  In it, he writes about “the echoes of the amplifiers ringing in your head.”  The same goes for writers and their prose.  You can’t ever seem to let that go.  Words bounce around your skull like some sort of mouse amped up on both sugar and speed.  Those words are your saving grace when you’re seeking that solace.

Sometimes, without them, I don’t know what I’d do to stay sane.  It’s saved my marriage, kept me from staying inside that bottle when I crawl in to avoid the outside world, taught me ways to live that are not easily described, and allowed me to communicate with my fellow human beings when the spoken word has failed.  It’s no wonder that written communication has survived hurricanes, floods, tragedies of all kinds.  That no matter how much we try to ban the written word, to control its influence, it always backfires. 

I put this to you.  The written word has the ability to transcend you, me, and everyone.  To mold us into something greater than the parts of the whole.  Each word we write has the opportunity to become more.  We recognize that as a species.  For those of Faith, we find God in the written word.  For those not, we find something else, something just as spiritual. 

So what’s this have to do with solace?  Think about it and you’ll get it.  It’s a way of centering ourselves.  There are times when I wonder about the wisdom of this drink at my elbow, but I never once question the wisdom of why I write.  Does everything get published?  No.  But they are always the right words to soothe a troubled soul. 

It beats a bottle.  I’ve crawled into one of those before.  And crawled back out.  Not on a regular basis, but sad to say, I’ve experienced it.  Tonight’s one of those nights when I want to shut out the world around me.  Work.  Family.  Friends.  Television.  Everything. Just gone.  That’s why I love that I’m a lazy guy.  The glass holds a finger’s worth and the bottle’s downstairs.  And I won’t go downstairs again until tomorrow morning. 

But tonight I’m troubled.  I’ll admit it.  I’m questioning decisions and reactions, unsure if I’ve chosen the right path in my life.  Should I be more than I am?  Less?  Life gives you only so many bridges. Have I crossed all the right ones?  My thoughts are my own, these concerns overwhelming my thought processes for over a week now.  And I have no answers.  At least none that satisfy. 

So instead of trying for answers, I’m looking at a new path.  Just acceptance, for tonight at least.  To find solace in those things that I love with those people I love.  That’s why I’m here, in a dark room before a computer screen when I have books to read, video games to play, movies to watch, with a drink in my hand.  Peace. 

But now that drink’s gone, finished.  And with it, my time here.  K’s home and the rain’s stopped.  That wind has turned downright cold, and the window needs to be shut.  The cigarette never was.  “Turn the Page” has transitioned into “Her Strut.” The light turns on, diminishing the computer’s brightness, and a kiss is welcomed.  Not too long, but long enough.

Fade out.