Near the start of The Road

     I love today’s information superhighway. Thanks to YouTube, I can watch clips of Classic Sesame Street and TV commercials from Saturday morning in the 70’s. I recently listened to an album using Rhapsody Music Service that I hadn’t heard in probably 40 years. Back when I was young I would put a record on and just to sit and listen to. One of the ones was a record of singing nuns harmonizing with an acoustic guitar.

     It’s astounding to hear something again after 40 years. The lyrics make a lot more sense now that I hear them right. They make more sense, but they’re not as fun. One of the songs says “Walk in love with the wind on your wing, and cover the earth with the songs you sing”. They sang about wings. I thought they were flying. I pictured these girls flying high over rocky landscapes while singing. They flew so high and far they covered the whole world.

     The song began with the lyrics, “It’s a long, long road to freedom”. I didn’t hear the word “freedom”. What I did hear made less sense. It was some kind of made-up name that sounded like it belonged to a city in a fantasy story.

     For 40 years I remembered this song and never considered it meant anything other than an epic story of a journey. It was a long quest to find this magical city and you could fly to get there if you sang enough.

     That is what my young imagination came up with. Who could blame me for liking my imaginary world better than the real one?

     I don’t know where I got the image of the landscape you could fly over while singing. Maybe I had the song in my head while on a road trip to Sedona, Arizona. Whatever the elements were, the result was nothing like a bunch of singing nuns singing spiritual songs.

     Listening to the song recently and learning the correct words brought part of me back to earth. And it also showed me something that I think may be true for a lot of children. The imagination does not always take the path of least resistance. The most reasonable assumption of what the song was about didn’t matter to me. My mind took a different path. How many other kids are presented with a reality that they don’t fully understand or perceive, so they create their own fanciful reality to suit them?

     Now that I think about it, I know it’s not just kids who do this. I just described living in denial.

     God gives us a creative imagination. Young minds can take off with it. It couldn’t have just been me. Try striking up a conversation with a 5 year-old and see.

     One last thing I may have discovered when I heard the song the other day. As I mentioned, the song begins with “It’s a long road…” The idea of a road always intrigued me and 40 years ago that may have been the beginning of that enthrallment. Maybe it was, maybe not.

     As I work each morning on my memoir I’m straining to dredge up old memories that may be relevant to the overall story I want to tell. Some of them are not relevant, but still warrant a good looking over. It’s like organizing old photos and putting them in the correct order and seeing the progression of things. Who’d have thought singing nuns would play such a role?

Is this a healthy hobby?

     It’s not enough to say “it could be worse”… that I could have worse hobbies. I could also be a worse person, the fact that I’m not doesn’t improve my character. I am defined by who I am, not what I’m not. Sure writing might seem like a harmless hobby, but when I get into what I’m doing, put on my headphones and focus hard on my laptop screen, I am neglecting the rest of the world. That world is the real world. One of my biggest problems, even from far back in my childhood is my coping mechanism is to escape from the real world into creations of my own.  

     So while I might say that “at least my hobby keeps me at home”, it doesn’t really. I can’t say “at least I’m not out on the golf course or bowling every weekend”. If I was doing that, I might be interacting with real people. That could be preferable to sitting at home with Rhapsody Music Service turned way up in my head, banging away at my keyboard about imaginary things of my own creation. Call it escape, denial, idolatry, anything but a healthy way to spend time, and you could be right.

     Thanksgiving evening after sleeping off a big noonday meal I sat down at my laptop and stuck in my earbuds. I thought I could finish my November novel that evening. At one point, I was aware of my son, Jamie standing close to me. I resisted the urge to wave him away like a mosquito, even though I still shuddered in annoyance. Jamie asked if I wanted to go sit in the living room and watch a movie. Which movie? One I didn’t care for. That made it easy to say no. I probably wouldn’t have watched anything, but because I really don’t like that movie there was no conflict in saying no. Prajna questioned me, didn’t I want to come watch it with the family?

No, I hate that movie.  

You haven’t even seen it.

I’ve seen most of it. I don’t like that actor in anything.  

I went back to my writing. I was thrilled to finally be at a good part of the story. For weeks, I had trudged through the middle of what I had hoped would be a good novel. The beginning was good and I knew how it would end. The middle had been rather dull. Now I was finally at the end. I was writing out the culmination of the story, it was all coming together, the story I had been thinking about for almost a year. The ending that I had been thinking about for months was finally happening. The climax happened. I wrote the last few sentences and exhaled in a thrill of relief. The ending was as good as I had hoped. I would work the next day on a short scene of falling action, a sort of epilogue, but the story was done. I felt high.

Then the evening went downhill. The movie ended at about the same time that I was done writing. The younger boys were squabbling and I was having a hard time stepping back into the real world where my family lived. I ended up upsetting people. Finally Prajna let me know that I had hurt her feelings by not watching the movie. That had been family time. We were together as a family, it was Thanksgiving and everyone had been watching a movie together, minus me.

I was incredulous. That, watching a lame movie, was family time?

Yes, it was. And I had skipped out on it. Regardless of how much I wanted to write, I had hurt other people’s feelings choosing to not be with them. It wouldn’t have killed me to sit and watch the movie. And it would have been spending time with the family.

I felt ashamed and let down after learning that. I was ashamed of myself for neglecting my family and I felt let down for having something I had looked forward to for so long finally come, but at a price.

So this year I learned something unexpected about writing and National Novel Writing Month. I already knew that family should come first, but I learned that I need to actively look for how to prove I believe that.

 I wrote the epilogue to Sidewinder the next morning and validated the novel. It was a bittersweet victory. I had put more into the novel than I should have. Now that it’s done, I want to keep working on it. It is indeed a good story. For now, it has a good beginning, a dull middle and a great ending. If the novel was a sandwich, it would be on a fresh toasted ciabatta bun, or maybe even French toast, but the middle would be a broiled chicken breast that was rather dry. I need to go back to work on it. The middle needs seasoning, some gristle cut away and definitely some spicy sauce or something. But it can work. It can be a good story. What it can’t be is a hindrance to being a good husband and dad.

I was going to go back to work on my memoir after November. The thing is, Sidewinder was a lot more fun. Sometimes any writing in the winter is an achievement. But it’s not really the writing that’s tough, it’s keeping my head above the murk of despair and pressing on.

In truth, nothing is easy sometimes, not even the stuff I love to do. Am I going to go for it anyway? I can’t write my novel at the cost to anyone else. That means I need to get up early if I want to write and do it all before people are up. Most days in November I was up at 4:45. Can I still do that? We’ll see what happens. At least today I blogged. More blog posts call, so does Sidewinder, so does the memoir. I’ll keep you posted.

The Sad Balloon

     I didn’t write much the week before last. This past week I did better, writing for three mornings. I think writing should be fun. Why else would I do it? I am really looking forward to National Novel Writing Month and have my story, Sidewinder vaguely planned out. But what I am working on presently is not so fun to write. One reason is that I am convinced that it isn’t that good right now. I am working on the first draft of my memoir and writing as much as I can remember, which it turns out is a lot. This first draft is almost like casting a huge mold that I will eventually carve down to size. Before carving it down, I have to make it big enough for its eventual shaping down. So I’ve been sitting down to write, many days knowing that what I am writing will never make it to the final draft, or even survive the second draft. Yet I feel I need to write it anyway.

     And now I am at the part in my life when Naomi had cancer but we didn’t know it yet. Naomi was finally admitted to Maui Memorial Hospital for tests. That afternoon I went to a grocery store to buy her a balloon. Last Wednesday I wrote about that day. And I learned some things about myself that I had not realized before.

     I used to be pretty withdrawn and bitter until I met Prajna. Having her in my life and going back to church helped me to come out of my shell and go back to being more amicable. I stayed like that for a long time. But years later, I found myself plunged into an abyss of depression and mistrust. It hadn’t happened overnight. It was clear that Naomi’s illness and the loss of her are partly responsible for putting me there. But when did it begin? Last Wednesday while I was writing, I think I found out.

     This is an excerpt from what I wrote. (I don’t blame anyone in that grocery store back in July of 1999 for anything. The passage is written in the voice that I was feeling at the time.)

Later that day I went to the grocery store to buy Naomi a Mylar balloon. I wandered through the crowded store. It was a weekend afternoon and the tone of the crowds seemed terribly cheerful to me. I got to the balloons and choose the most cheerful one. I was stunned. Touching it made my eyes start to well up. This happy Get Well Soon! balloon in my hand matched the world around surrounding me where everyone was happy. But it didn’t match my world.  How was this little balloon supposed to cheer up a little girl in the hospital?

I wanted to shout to the store. Didn’t anyone see what I had here? This balloon was for a spindly little three year-old girl was lying in a hospital bed, miserable and lonely, missing her brothers and sister. Didn’t they care about that?

I walked through the store with the balloon and felt everyone looking around and through me. A new thought came to me, or perhaps an old, old thought that I hadn’t felt for so long that I had forgotten it.

No-one cares.

It sure seemed apparent to me there as I walked through the store, feeling ignored. Emotional pain began to rise up in me. It took hold of my bones and weighed down my shoulders and spine. I was hurting, and no-one cared. Maybe if someone had come up to me that afternoon in the store, maybe if someone had looked at me and asked me who the balloon was for, I could have told them.

My little girl is in the hospital, I thought to no-one. We don’t know what’s wrong with her and she’s sad and miserable and the only thing I can do right now is buy her this shiny balloon and hope. I can just hope that maybe this balloon will make her smile just a little.

No-one spoke to me and the friendly casher rang up the balloon and bade me goodbye. I walked out of the store with that emotional pain still. With the balloon lifting up, something new was just beginning to pull me down. The thought that people are not going to be there for me. They didn’t understand and they wouldn’t be a part of my life. I was on my own.

On my own. That was where I had wanted to be for so long. If I was going to take care of Naomi I would have to be strong. And if I was going to be strong, I should not be relying on anyone else to take care of me. That was how it had been in my past, and that was how it was looking to be now.

Naomi liked the balloon. But it didn’t brighten her mood much. Later that day they told us that she would have an MRI the following day.

That was an unhealthy attitude. But I didn’t feel like that constantly starting then. Even the next few weeks had bright spots. When Naomi was diagnosed we were surrounded by prayer from friends, acquaintances and even people we didn’t know. The support was comforting. People did care.

But here is the point. When I wrote this last week, I saw where it began. The start of a long fall. It took more than just time to heal, it took Celebrate Recovery and other people being there for me. Once again, writing allowed me a discovery. I can look back and see it and fortify my life to not let it happen again.

Aside from discovering this leaden milestone in my life I realized something else. Or maybe I was just reminded of something. People are out there having bad days. I might see them right there in a grocery store, maybe even holding a balloon. I wonder if there is anything I could do for them. Is there anything that might make a difference?

     I don’t know what would have happened if someone had stopped me in the store and asked about the balloon and how I was feeling. It wouldn’t have re-directed the course of my life, I’m sure of that. But it would have been a little light in a dark day.

     When I wrote that, and as I reread it now, I feel moved to go to the grocery store and see what kind of light I might be able to shine. Let’s be there for each other.

Treasure in the River

     I have been doing the best I can to wake up at 6 every morning. Mondays I write my blog, or polish it if I wrote it the day before. Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays I have been trying to write my memoir. I want to write a novel that tells the story of my life with the loss of Naomi and the subsequent years of recovery after. It’s not going how I thought it would.

     I have discovered this: A memoir is like a river. As fond as I am of the road motif, this writing is not like a road. There is no fixed centerline that I can set my sights on and aim for as I stride away. No, this writing is like a river that must take its own course. It moves forward, sometimes gaining speed and power is it rushes down. Other times it ambles along so slow that stagnation gathers that I have to skim off. But like a river, I have not been able to direct this story, not yet. It is meandering all over the place and I have to follow it.

     Keeping with this river analogy, there is something else that this writing project is doing. A river will cut through existing earth  and rock to make its way, sometimes exposing things long hidden. As I write this and allow it to go where it will, fascinating little nuggets are appearing.

     I wanted the memoir to touch a little on my childhood. There are a few things from my past that decidedly shaped who I am. I thought I would write about them. And I haven’t stopped writing about my past. Most days I will sit down and think that by the next day, I’ll be ready to write about Naomi. It hasn’t happened yet. What I do have are a jumble of incidents from my growing up. Whether or not they make it into the final draft is not important now. This is a very rough first draft.

     I was writing about when my sister was born. I’m sure my parents were very aware of how a child could feel alienated when a new sibling enters the family. I don’t remember feeling anything negative then. What I do remember is that my dad gave me a Matchbox car. It was the larger sized car, about the size of an adult fist. It was a gold colored Cougar. I loved cars back then and it was probably one of my favorites.

     So as I wrote about my sister being born, the story turned to a gold colored Cougar. Then I remembered living in Hawaii years later and telling my dad how I didn’t have the car anymore. I might have left it in Arizona when we moved. But I couldn’t remember having it there the last year or so. My dad told me that it had probably been lost in the sandbox. Then my dad launched into an imagined scenario where the grandkids of the pastor living there would be digging in the sandbox. They would see a glint of the car and shout that they had struck gold. They would be cheering for joy and then pull the gold colored Cougar from the sandbox. Oh well, it wasn’t gold, but at least they had found a treasure anyway.

     I was amused by my dad’s story. But I knew at once it wasn’t true. I never took my die-cast cars outside to the sandbox.

     But if, say my buddy Chuckie had taken it out and in fact, buried it in the sandbox, which was possible, I knew no-one would have found it. I buried a dead grasshopper in the sandbox once. A few days later I dug where it was to check on it. I couldn’t find it. I dug and dug and searched all over and the dead grasshopper was nowhere. I was baffled and frustrated. And I had no notion of decomposition.

     Writing my memoir is like a river going where it wants and uncovering things that I thought were gone. Last week the memoir struck a glint of gold. Is the story significant to the memoir in anyway? I don’t think so. But it reminded me of something else. I was convinced that the Cougar was not in the sandbox. Only Tonka toys that were meant for outside went there, never the nice little cars. I knew who I was, what I believed and what my character would and would not do. To me, knowing all of that is absolutely the most important thing in writing.

     Everything that goes into what I write is a communication of who I am and what I believe. This first draft that I’m working through is mostly stories that the final draft will never see. But this is still something I feel I must do. The river of the story is producing stones that will form a foundation. And I am learning more about who I am by what shaped me in the past.

     It’s slow going. Last November I wrote the same in three or four days as I have written so far on this in a month. And I’m concerned that the second draft will be harder work than the first, where it will be time to be more structured. The centerline will need to be staked. But for now, it’s still a voyage of discovery. Even though I will never know what happened to the gold colored Cougar.

Who's a Writer?

     I knew a guy who said he was a writer. He was just a little younger than I was and very cheerful and even enthusiastic about writing. This was 14 years ago during the last stage show I ever did. Life was turbulent at the time. We were in the last months of our lives before Naomi was diagnosed with cancer. I still thought of myself as a writer then, but I don’t think I was writing anything.

     So this kid I knew had a great attitude about his writing. He was confident and hopeful of publication. I felt proud of him and thought it was an honor to know someone who would publish someday. I am trying to remember if I was jealous at all. I don’t think I was.

     Then one evening he brought some of his work to show me. I read it over. There’s a scene in the movie Finding Nemo when Marlon the Clownfish reluctantly begins to tell a joke to an excited audience of sharks. Almost right away, it’s obvious the joke is not going to be funny and Marlon isn’t funny either. And the grins on the sharks just melt away. I didn’t see Finding Nemo for a few more years, but as I started to read this kid’s writing, I felt like those sharks.

Like Marlon the fish, this kid was not funny. The writing was not fiction, but a confused narrative that must have been funny to him. I don’t remember what it was about. The only honest feedback I gave him was that babies actually loved puréed sweet-potato. I tried to be encouraging otherwise. And he took my advice with his trademark cheerfulness. Perhaps in the 14 years he has improved. I hope so. Maybe what I admired the most was his optimism.

And here is the very honest truth: 14 years ago I wasn’t so good either. I had good ideas back then, but little talent for putting them into a decent story. But between then and now, I have read a lot of materials and books about writing, I listen to author interviews and most of all, I aim to write every day. (I usually write 3-4 times a week though.) I can look at my work from many years ago and cringe. I think that means I’m better now.

But the question still haunts me. “What if I’m just fooling myself? What if I’m really no good?” Please, if you’re reading this, don’t answer. I think that some of my blog posts absolutely shine. Some others are best swept out the door with the cobwebs and dust. But am I like that kid just fooling myself?

The reason I’m thinking about this now is that I have been trying to steadily write for about 2 years or so now. Some weeks all I’ve done is blog. While last November I wrote 77 thousand words in 30 days. That is one of my proudest accomplishments. I felt like a real writer, not when I won National Novel Writing Month, but when I would sit down to write. I knew what I was doing. I knew where the story was going and I was having a ball at it. That was what it took to make me feel like a writer.

At this very moment, it’s ten after two on a Sunday afternoon and I’m in Starbucks with a coffee at my left and an iPod on my right. The words are flowing out of me, for the most part (had to think of the verb for how the words came out). And right now, I feel like a real writer.

But I’ve taken on a new project, one I’ve fretted over, but promised myself. I started my memoir last week. I have blogged about this before. If I ever really wanted to publish, this would be it. Everything else I write is fun. It would be cool to publish, but unrealistic. Lots of good writers don’t publish. But I have one story, just one, that I want to make the effort to go all the way. That means multiple drafts, editing, perhaps finding an agent, and writing query letters. It is big league stuff.

So far, I’ve written on a few mornings. And it’s not easy. The words come out, but they don’t feel good. This isn’t fiction anymore with cloaked strangers on desert roads, spaceships whirling around a distant star or rivers turning to fire underneath a castle. This is real stuff that happened to me. Does anyone really want to hear this?

I have an opening for the story that I wrote. It was a true incident where I walked away from the cash register only to be yelled at by the cashier for leaving one year-old Jamie behind. I went and fetched Jamie and didn’t bother to explain to the indignant onlookers that of course I felt like I was missing someone, my daughter had just died a week ago. I walked around all day with the feeling that something was missing. I just was trying to ignore it when I left Jamie behind.

It’s an intriguing story and it’s completely true. I think that written well, it’s a perfect opening. The real question is can I keep it up? And can I keep writing this? It’s not real fun so far. There’s no smoke-swept battlefield with wolves and marauders. There’s only me narrating the story of my life, the time before Naomi, during, and after.  

A writer’s best friend is a crumby first draft. I can feel liberated by knowing that this doesn’t have to be perfect the first time around. But there is still anxiety here. I have taken the first steps on a perilous writing venture. I don’t know if I’m good enough to complete it. One of my favorite authors said in an interview “Write the story for yourself and let the people who need to find it, find it.” That, in addition to the crumby first draft should have me writing freely. But it’s too different. But it’s early. I’m barely out of the starting gate. I hope I can find my voice for this, which will be the tailwind. We’ll see.