Uncle Nick?

So, last weekend I saw my younger sister for the first time since October of last year.  Things have changed a little since then—the biggest being that she is doing a rather poor job of hiding a beach ball under her shirt. 

Yes.  My sister is pregnant with her first child.

This is important for my family.  My nephew-to-be is the first grandbaby for my parents.  Granted, it feels a little odd having my sister—who has followed behind me in every important step of our lives—suddenly leap ahead.  That’s just a point of view, but not an inaccurate assessment.  And I am happy for her, for her husband, and the entire family.  Hell, I’m excited as all get-out to have a baby to play with. 

But this momentous event has brought other things to the forefront of my mind.  First off, let me give you some background.  My wife and I both want kids.  As to when . . . well, that’s up in the air.  We’re not feeling any giant urge right now, and neither of us is exactly unhappy about being twenty-nine/thirty years old with no responsibilities, save for a very needy puppy.  The biological urge is there, but it’s just not a strong one.  Perhaps that will change with time, perhaps not; either way, there’s no rush.

Perhaps that’s why I am so caught up in my first nephew.  I’m unsure exactly why.  Yet, there’s one thing I do know for sure.  Just as I’m positive I’m excited about the little tyke, I have one thought running circles through my head:

I’m not mature enough to be an uncle.

Please notice I said mature enough, not old enough.  I’m well aware of biology and when I hit that puberty mark.  So I’m old enough to have kids, but mature enough?  That’s a whole different story.  We joked around about it last weekend.  There was a shirt I spotted on Facebook that summed everything up in a nice little package.  It read:

“I’m the crazy uncle your parents warned you about.”

Now, everyone in my family knows exactly how crazy I am—or not.  Fun loving?  Yes.  Prankster?  Yes.  Occasional buffoon?  More than I want to admit.  But crazy, I am not.  Still, it provided a laugh and a smile, and we all moved on.  It was true enough. 

There are some aspects of my psyche that are rebelling at the idea of growing up, of putting another person’s needs ahead of my own.  But then the rational part of my brain cracks its whip and points to my wife and screams, “You already have!”  And it’s true.  So what is the difference?  Maybe it’s that K is an adult and can fend for herself.  Maybe I am just too fond of being immature unless I’m forced to change.  I don’t know.  But it scares me at times.

I work with the public on a regular basis.  In fact, if it wasn’t for John Q. Public, there would be little need for my position.  But one of the questions I’m asked repeatedly during our many conversations is, “Do you and your wife have any children?”  Obviously, I say no.  And the most common response  I get has two parts:

1: How old are you?

and

2: Good.  Wait as long as you can.  I wish I had. 

Seriously, that phrasing itself almost never changes.  All these people from different walks of life say nearly exactly the same thing with nearly exactly the same wording.  It’s uncanny. 

But maybe my wife and I aren’t mature enough to handle kids.  I don’t know.  But it’s something that we accept as a possibility.  There may be some subconscious reason floating to the surface.  All I know is this joyride will be coming to an end soon enough.  It’s time to grow up.  Just a little bit, but not too much.

But then again, my sister doesn’t seem to be the least bit worried about having me around her son, so this all could be in my head.

A Side Note on a Few Things

So, I feel I am going to have a lot less free time in my life.  Maybe I just mishandle the time I have, but I’m trying to form better habits for the foreseeable future.  How does this affect you?  Primarily in two ways:

Starting next week, I plan on changing a couple things regarding this blog.  Before now, I’ve always tried to post something new every other week.  I’m trashing that schedule, and I am going to try to post a least a little something every week.  It may not be spectacular, but the goal is just to have something there for you to read.  I just hope it’s entertaining.  Also, I’m thinking about tossing in some reviews and opinions about things I’ve seen or read.  Feel free to disagree with me.  I’d love to have some conversations from different points of view.  Love seeing that stuff.

Secondly, this also will allow me to generate a better quality of work than what I am currently putting out.  Practice makes perfect and all that jazz.  More time focusing on my craft.  I know my novel will benefit from it.  Or any current writing project, really.  All I have to do now is just stop playing so many video games.  Put down the TV remote and pick up a book.  But you should see a growth here as well.  I need to push myself more, and it’s time to start. 

Well, that’s all for now.  See you next week.  

How I Write a Blog Post

After the serious tone of my last post, I felt it was perhaps best I take a lighter turn this week.  So, today I present to you how I write a blog post.

Step 1:  What day is it?

Monday:  Don’t think about it.

Tuesday:  Don’t think about it.

Wednesday:  Don’t think about it.

Thursday:  “Oh, I need to write a blog post to upload on Monday.”

Friday:  “What should I write about?”

Saturday:   Mad dash to throw down 1000 or so words and send it off to my editor.

Sunday:  Imagine my editor grumbling about my timing and pulling her hair out because of me.

Monday:  Fix and polish edited blog post before uploading it the same day.

Spend the next seven days not thinking about the new blog post due in two weeks.

Step 2:  Pick a topic.

I have to admit it.  Rarely do I have any clue about what my blog posts are going to be about until I start working on them.  Perhaps that’s because I’m lazy.  That’s what K would say.  My personal point of view on it relates back to the type of writer I am.

We all know and recognize the two main writing schools: outliners and discovery.  Outliners plot out the book, the characters, the action, whatever, in greater or lesser detail so they know in advance what will happen.  Discovery writers do just the opposite. They take the stories and run with whatever feels right.  Some writers combine the two schools.  Brandon Sanderson is one such person.  He outlines the novel, but writes the characters using the discovery method.  There is no right or wrong way to do this, no matter what Mrs. Harris, your 3^rd grade teacher, said.

I am firmly in the camp of discovery writing.  If I plot out a single thing, my mind shuts down.  For example, in my current project, you get to meet Stephanie Hawthorne’s mother.  I only know a few things about her at this point:

1) You shall never hear me refer to her as Mom.  Too familiar.

2) She did a number on Stephanie and James when they were growing up.

and

3) You thought Stephanie could be a bitch?  Just wait. 

This will be fun.  I only just met the woman, and then only through a four-line letter, and I already dislike her as a person.  But she’ll be a blast to write. 

With that in mind, why should my blog posts be any different?  Most of the posts I’ve tried to plan out in advance have never been published, mainly because I never finished them.  And those that have been published aren’t my best work. 

Have I ever told you about Monty Python and how they did their scripts?  No?  Let me illuminate.  They, like so many shows, performed before test audiences.  The bad stuff?  It was pitched.  The good stuff?  That was where they differed from others.  If the skit performed too well, they threw it away as well.  So think about it like this: all the classic Monty Python we know and love—“Dead Parrot,” “The Spanish Inquisition,” “How Not to be Seen”—was actually mediocre Monty Python.  We’ve been laughing at their mediocre stuff.

Mind Blown.

Step 3: Writing

Self-explanatory.  Get computer.  Sit down.  Put fingers on keys and write.  Let the words flow, and don’t worry about where they’re leading.  The hardest thing you’ll ever do, but you wanna be a writer?  Just do it.

Step 4: Editing

Again, self-explanatory.  When writing, we don’t see the errors, but if we go back?  Like a baseball bat to the face. We’ve all been there.  Someday, I should post for you the first draft of some of the stuff I’ve written.  The final work looks much different from what is originally placed on the paper.  That is, by necessity, a good thing. 

I’ve heard stories about people—Rex Stout, to be precise—who never edited a single thing they wrote.  Somehow, I don’t believe that, but even if it’s not true, I’m not of his caliber.  There are those you look up to for inspiration, for education, as role models.  He’s one of mine. 

So I edit.  Go through.  Reword and rework phrases, sentences, and paragraphs.  You know what I mean.  Make sure it comes through clearly.  As the writer, that’s your responsibility. 

Do your job.

But here’s one of my little tidbits for you when it comes to my editing and writing.  Unless I am trying to prove a particular point, the same word never begins any sentence within the same paragraph more than once.  Look at this one.  No word begins the same sentence twice.  It makes things “work” better.  Also, if you can arrange it in the same pattern for your paragraphs, you’ll be in great shape.  I haven’t perfected that one yet.  

Step 5: Post it

Ok, I skipped a few substeps there.  Send it off to the editor.  Follow her suggestions.  Add pictures.  Tried that a few times.  Not sold on the practice.  Whatever those substeps are, do them as needed.  Me?  I just listen to my editor. 98% to 100% of the time, I agree with what she suggests. Then post.

The big thing is to be aware of what you’re saying.  You are ultimately responsible for your content.  Stand by it or don’t post it.  If I have concerns about something I’ve written, it is removed during the editing process.  I stand by what I’ve written, even if it isn’t pretty.

So that’s about it.  Maybe you’d call this fluff, but, hey, it’s what I got.  Welcome to my little world. Till next time.

About Me: Part Two

As I sit here at my computer, I’m conditionally writing this as a blog post.  I say conditionally, even to myself, since I’m unsure about whether or not it will even make it onto my blog.  Do you really want to hear what I have to say?  It isn’t pretty or kind or all puppies-and-kittens. 

Truth is, my life isn’t like that.  I suspect most lives aren’t, but I refuse to hide that fact.  More than once, I’ve received looks and comments—dealt behind closed doors when they thought I wasn’t listening— about my refusal to bury my feelings behind fake smiles and platitudes.  And more often than not, it brings me into conflict with others.  Those who don’t get “it.” Those who only want the superficial, despite what they say.  I’ve known countless fair-weather friends who don’t really want to know the reason you’ve withdrawn into yourself, no matter what they say. 

I won’t point fingers.  They’re scattered through all points of my life.  The fact still exists, however, no matter how much we’d love our problems to be covered up or ignored.  It’s especially hard on K and me.  We’ve met untold people who are positive, upbeat, and wonderful people who just don’t understand that we’re just not that way.  It worries me when I meet truly great people—kind, caring people who are just a simple joy to know—and we hit it off.  They want to spend time talking and getting to know each other.  Then, we slowly seem to turn them off ’cause we’re not like that.   

It’s lonely.

Recently, my wife asked me why it seems like she has no friends.  I ignored the question and changed the topic.  Why?  Because it was neither the time nor place to discuss it.  Truth is, it isn’t just her.  Both of us have issues keeping people close to us.  They see us having problems and withdrawing into ourselves—for sanity’s sake—and they assume that we’re angry at them.  Of course, they don’t consider asking us what’s wrong.  They only say, “Well, you could always come and talk to us.”  We don’t always want to talk.  We want our problems to go away.  If we’re doing this, then they obviously aren’t normal problems.  They are all–consuming, and we’re holding on by our fingernails. 

It’s the rare person who goes out of their way to ask.  But even then, nine times out of ten, I’ll still lie and say everything is all right.  It isn’t, but what good does it do?  I’m unsure about that point.  I’m pretty sure I suffer from textbook depression. It’s unconfirmed, but also hereditary in my family.  How can I explain to you that while the birds are singing, the sun is shining, and the world looks beautiful, I am miserable?  Most people can’t comprehend that.

But you want a sure way to piss off someone like me?  Just tell us to change our mood.  Tell us it’s all in our head, and, if we really wanted to, we could change the way we feel.  Act like it’s just a switch we have to flip and then—presto!—everything will be wonderful.

IT DOESN’T FUCKING WORK LIKE THAT PEOPLE! 

There is no switch, no magic button.  You think we haven’t tried?  You think we love being miserable?  Anyone who says they do—guess what? They’re lying.  We’ve just lived with the depression and the sadness and all those issues so long that we forget at times what it feels like to be happy, what having a smile on your face looks and feels like.  Happiness can seem almost mythical at times, like unicorns or dragons or some Disney fairytale character.  And the worst thing about saying that is, it reinforces the idea that we have the ability to fix it ourselves, to believe whatever we want to believe.  If we only tried hard enough, it would go away on its own; we should be able to handle our own problems with ease.  That misnomer has probably killed more people than it saves.  I struggle with that idea daily—that I should always be in control; I should be able to fix it myself . . .  if I only wished and focused hard enough.

Tell that to cancer.

A. A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh is fantastic in many ways:  beloved children’s book, fan-favorite Disney show.  But it’s also a fantastic character study.  You can label everyone you know by the characters in that book.  Your spouse is an Owl; your mother a Pooh.  That annoying guy at work?  Tigger.  Definitely a Tigger.  I am an Eeyore.  But here is the second part of the lesson.  Read the book, watch the show—whichever you prefer.   Here’s the thing.  Each character is unique, including Eeyore.  But never—NOT ONCE—do the others try to change who he is.  They still invite him along on their adventures, accepting their friend for who he is.  That’s a lesson for all of us.

Depression is an illness.  It isn’t a disease that can be cured with chemo or radiation.  It’ll always return.  We are stuck with this monkey for the rest of our lives.  It’s torture, plain and simple.  But we still try to move forward.  We just want you to be aware, to help us lift that burden on occasion.  Take us out for a beer, invite us over for lunch. 

Just. Say. Hello.

So when you talk to me and I don’t answer or only grunt, I’m not mad at you. Trust me, I’ll tell you when that happens.  Depression is like carrying several tons around with you daily.  You grow tired.  Sometimes we need to put the burden down for a bit.  Care when that happens.  Be worried when we have trouble lifting it again, because each time we have to, it gets harder.  Depression isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a sign of being strong for too long. 

Trust me, I know.

Thoughts

This time as he rode the train home,  the sun still lit the sky.  There was no hiding from the outside world as much as he wished to. Trees, roads, farmhouses flew by a the same emotions filled him as before. In a room full of people, he still felt alone. In a room of friends, he still felt single. He knew where he was going but still felt lost. Had his whole life. That only made the loneliness worse. What he'd give for a whiskey or a cup of tea. To soothe his soul or drown it. The trip was bittersweet. Home was ahead but his future behind. People left behind as he grew waited to greet him, and he them with open arms and a full heart, but he also wanted his home, his bed, and a place to contemplate his problems at unhealthy levels. That's where his mind was. Behind and still ahead. Heart still hopeful and yet hopelessly lost. Worry consumed the rest.

Sorry I've been away.

It feels like forever since I wrote anything substantive here.  There’s plenty of reasons for that, but none worth going into.  Though I will say that a damaged finger doesn’t help matters any.  It’s doing better, though I will have a scar.  Most definitely a scar. 

Unfortunately, I don’t have 1500 words of wit or wisdom to pass on today.  Life’s been too heavy for that lately.  Instead, I give you my second miscellaneous blog post (the first one being my second or third post).  It’s just the odds and ends going through my mind right now.  And to start it all off, I give you—

Money:

Yes, the infamous denomination which makes the world turn.  It’s been getting to me lately.  To be more exact, though, it’s the lack thereof which is getting to me.  Not like I can’t deal with my current level of income.  I can.  But it wasn’t until recently that I understood what lenders meant when they called my debt-to-income ratio too high.  Oh God, is it!  Maybe this isn’t the place to be discussing it, but it’s on my mind, so it shows up here.  The good news is that I have a plan.

Many of you have probably heard of Dave Ramsey.  If you haven’t, look him up.  Your life will be better for it.  If you have, you should know where I am going with this.  Mr. Ramsey has a foolproof method for getting out of debt.  Or maybe not.  I’ve screwed it up once before, but that was on me, not him.  It is sound financial advice, which I suggest you consider.  The gist of it is this: work hard, apply your money to your debts smartly, and build financial wealth.  Oh, and don’t accrue more debt.  I fell short in a couple places.

But I’m back on it now.  It’s hard, but I’m more motivated than ever before.  So I’ve started selling my stuff on eBay.  I’ve got lots of it, so it can go.  Things are things, but peace of mind is more important to me right now.  Besides, I can always re-buy all of it later if I truly miss it.  I doubt I will.  

The Red Dress:

Well, despite my finger being injured, I’ve finished it.  My first novel, The Red Dress, is done.  Don’t be jealous.  Okay, you probably aren’t.  But I finished it last week.  Or it’s done until and unless I want to get a copy edit done on it.  I’m not sure I can do that—from both an impatience aspect and a financial one (see above).  Either way, it’s a great relief, to say the least.  I am done (for now) with Stephanie Hawthorne.

But this raises the next question:  what to do with it.  As my wife sees it, there are two options.  I can publish it or get smothered in my sleep for wasting all the time and money involved with the process.  I also see two options, but they are a tad bit different.   I could try to publish the novel through traditional means.  That would mean query letters, publishing companies, agents, more editors, and, I’m sure, more headaches before seeing it in print for the first time years from now.  The other option is to self-publish, which as anyone can tell you, has its own set of difficulties. 

I’m just not sure which one I’d prefer to crack my skull over.  It’s going to be a hard decision with a lot of work behind it, regardless of my choices.  The worst part about all of it is, I just want it done and out there and in your hot little hands.  

I’ll post an excerpt or two soon.

Writing:

So with the end of The Red Dress, I find myself free—free from that novel but with the desire to write something new.  All of us creative types know the joy that feeling brings.  And I’ve been planning on something for a while now.  Been world-building and planning out every little detail for the setting (I never plan out the plot.) for probably two or more years now.  Think of it as a cross between Jim Butcher’s Dresden Files and the movie Ocean’s Eleven.  Last week, I even started writing it. 

Then there was last night.  Actually, it was two nights ago.  And two nights ago from when I wrote these lines, not when you’re reading this.  What happened?  I’m glad you asked.  Stephanie FUCKING Hawthorne is what happened.  You want to know?  Let me tell you.

FYI, I feel like a late-night infomercial right now.  Heh.

So I go to bed.  It’s late.  I’m tired and asleep almost before my head hits the pillow.  But I did have two thoughts before I drifted off to La-La Land.  The first was a single line which I shall not mention here.  The other, mere milliseconds before I fell asleep, was: “That would make a great opening line for a Stephanie Hawthorne novel.”

Fast-forward to the next morning, when I wake up with the first chapter plotted out in my head. 

ARGH!!!!

As of right now, I am pretty solid on the first paragraph—as in, it’s scripted out in my head without me putting a single line on the page.  I mean, that’s good, right?  It is, but knowing me, by the end of the week, it’ll shove everything else aside.  Honestly, it’ll probably be tomorrow.

My Silence:

This one I can’t be as glib about.  As some of you who keep track know, I’ve kinda disappeared for a bit from the web, from this blog, and from Twitter.  Things have been hard for me professionally, personally, and in all matters of my life for the past month.  There are plenty of reasons for that.  For part of it, look above at the whole get-out-of-debt thing.  That gets to me a lot.  So do . . . other things.

I’ll try to be online more, but those other aspects of my life do take precedence.  My wife, my job—those win over everything else, including the writing I love so much.  Actually, truth be told, I’m getting the writing done at work during my lunch periods.

Yay for hour-long lunches!

But I promise to try.  Hopefully, we’ve turned a corner this week.  I’m looking for the end of the rainbow, that yellow brick road. 

Okay, some nights I’m just looking for a glass of wine.

Something Else From My Past

Okay, I will admit I'm a bit embarrassed to post this. My original idea "The Right to Arm Bears" was too uncomfortable—too racy—so I dug through my personal archives.

And found this.

I originally wrote this in 2006 in a very different time in my life.  It was a very different time in all of our lives to tell the truth.  But there's still something about it that resonates to me.

I hope that all of you enjoy.

But if you don't, remember this was written by an idealistic college student who didn't know the real world.  It took me two more years to graduate with my bachelor's and move on to graduate school.  Two more years from there before I actually entered the workforce and saw what the real world was like.

Damn, I was a different person—a kid—back then. :)


LIFE

For years, I’ve wanted to say something profound.  I’ve been wanting to say something that would make everyone go “shit” or “wow” or something exclamatory, and thing that that kid, that guy, hit the nail right on the head.  That day has been a long time in coming, and to tell the truth, it probably will never arrive.  It would be too much if I were to peak now.  That just isn’t life.  But then again maybe it is. 

Last time I checked, life was a pretty fucked up gig.  I mean I have heard of some messed up stuff before, but life is just one of those things.  The joke between men and women is that just when a man comes close to figuring out how the game is played, the women go and change the game.  But life not only changes the game but the rules also.  What was once a foul, now will send you directly to go where you will get $200.  It doesn’t make any sense.

But that is the beauty of it.  It never will, as long as we let it.  And yes, it is up to us to make it change. 

We are a culture who is obsessed with the latest gossip about Bradalina, or what happened last week on Impetuous Homemakers, or the latest CD coming out.  We look for solutions amidst ads of women’s perfume and dromedary cigarettes.  Our kids debate which is better, the big, purple dog or the red dinosaur.  The media tells us what to wear, what to do, what to think?

Where does that leave us?  In years before, generations had things to rally around.  Our parents had Vietnam, our grandparents the Nazis, our forefathers the Stamp Act; but we are a generation in a void.  What rally cry do we have?  Iraq?  Sure.  Which side do you want?  Global warming?  What global warming? It is colder now than it has been before.  Animal rights?  I like my meat.

We are a generation that is lost in nothingness.  We want hope in our breakfast cereal, love in our job, and absolution in our sex.  We are obsessed with being happy and not upsetting anyone.  We are offended by people profiling, but yet we buy music that openly uses such phrases as “niggers” and “bitches and hos”.  Our lives are contradictions upon contradictions.  We look to sports stars to teach us wrong from right, and are shocked when they use “performance enhancers”.  The family has been degraded to such a place that if a mother has the AUDACITY to reprimand her child for throwing a fit in a store, that she will have child services called on her.  It is suddenly Un-American to question President Shrub when the freedom to question is one of the key points of our country. 

This is the world that our children are growing up in.  A world where common sense is outlawed and intelligence banned.  Where we are scorned for following the rules and rewarded for cheating. 

Where has the happiness gone?  When did it become fashionable to brag about being lonely or to drink yourself into a stupor each night?  Day in and day out we drug ourselves through the pain of another day, just to have the life sucked slowly out of us. 

We must cut ourselves free.

I listen to people complain that they cannot fly.  I hear people bitch that they are constrained by rules and politics. That they are unhappy with what they have and nothing seems to make it better.  We all know them.  They stand there, day after day, slowly dying and doing nothing.

Life is an interesting thing.  We hear the turn of phrase “Get a life” and think of it meaning for us to get more into the grove of the culture.  The ironic thing is that instead of freeing us, it binds us tighter. 

When things get tough, we talk about just putting one foot in front of the other and just trying to make our way to the next day.  We put our heads down and force our way forward, despite everything else.  But the thing is, that it will slowly kill us, just as the daily grind will. 

Life begs to be lived.  We need to look up.  We wish to dull the pain, but the pain is what tells us we live.  What would evil be if there was no good?  What would black be without white?  How can we truly know happiness without knowing the depths that the spirit can fall?  What is height without depth?

By crushing one, we crush all.

Without a rallying cry, each person in our generation must find their own.  Sometimes they will scream it loud and long and never be joined.  But sometimes others will join in.  And then we won’t be alone.  We fear to be alone, but we fear rejection more.  No one understands me. 

Bull.

We are never alone.  Our supports are always there, we just need to know where to look.  To explore.  We feel that the popular people must be happy—look at their groupies.  But a man with too many friends has none. 

We must cut the ties that bind.  We must free our minds until they are alone and then we can bind them to friends, to family, to lovers, and even to haters.  Instead of looking for happiness in the bottom of a box of Cracker Jill’s, we need to find it within ourselves and what we already have.

"But it isn’t that easy," the masses say.

The thing is….. it is.  We really don’t know what we have until we lose it, or think we have.  We really don’t know what we can do until we do it.  We really don’t know anything about ourselves until we push ourselves to the limit and beyond.  What I am talking about is not a physical thing, but rather a mental or spiritual thing.  Only we can judge our self worth, and if you have to drink yourself to sleep each night, or over the letter “M”, what does that say? 

As we go through life and hear the commercial jingles and see the sex on TV, we must stop—completely—and think.  How much of this is real? Will it really help us through the crucible and save us?  Can we trust those pushing their ideas?  Or can we trust ourselves and those around us? 

Who am I to judge for you?  All I know is that there is hope for everyone.  Redemption is not just an idea from whatever god you believe in, but nor is it something given away by them.  Redemption can only come from within.  When we have a clear conscience, we are truly free.

 

And then we can live. 

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.