WriteJayWrite

Here is a little something I wrote about a box of books I found in the basement…

The sobering mundaneness of existence has come to rest heavily upon my already stooped and weary shoulders. Were I but a bird able to soar among the clouds, frolic within the treetops, dance in the moonlight without a care, only then would I know the joy that was life. Only then could I truly be free.

Of course, I’m talking about my job, which has of late made me realize what a joy it would be to follow elephants around with a shovel during a parade. Not that we get many elephant parades in Denver.

The saddest part of my current situation is that for whatever reason, I have all but abandoned any hope of ever writing for a living, or ever writing ever again at all, for that matter. The fact that I am sitting here now is encouraging, because it is much more than I’ve had recently, but I can tell it is not divinity guiding my fingers. Nay, it is out of responsibility that I come to you now, barely able to process my surroundings, in an effort to bare my soul for what could be the very last time.

But I’m not here to talk about me.

But, as long as we’re on the subject, something fascinating happened this evening. You remember back when you were 25-28 years old? (If you are younger than 25, just pretend your an old dude like me.) I do, and boy was I ready to take on the world. I’m not sure what happened between then and now, but I can tell you that it was nothing I was planning.

You see, I was searching for a Judy Bloom book in the basement this evening, with little success, when I opened a box of books that was buried under years of kids school work. I had not opened this box since before we moved out of our old house, some seven years ago.

I had a gigantic humongo flashback, and then a sort of sinking feeling. These were books that lived near my side of the bed for a long time. These were books about something that I used to believe in strongly – something that I wanted to make my life about. These books in an instant became the embodiment of a failed dream. The living breathing reminder that Jay wasn’t sane enough to do anything for long enough to make this happen.

I grabbed several of the books, pulled them tightly to my chest and ran up to my room. There, I spread the books out on the bed, and began to thumb through them. “The Complete Guide to Magazine Article Writing” has three of four sticky notes in random spots that are, at this point, quite meaningless. “Magazine Writing That Sells” doesn’t seem to have ever been opened. “Creative Non-Fiction” has some underlining and stuff, which is encouraging. I’ll share a quote.

“Good writing has a lyricism and a rhythm to it,” she says. “It’s very hard to put into words.”

I’m glad I underlined that passage. Two other unopened books are “Dos, Don’ts & Maybes of English Usage,” and “How to Write and Sell Children’s Picture Books.” I know the latter was a gift, I think from my Mother-In-Law, so I feel kinda bad that I never even cracked the spine. I think it went into storage right after my birthday. In 1998. The last book, one that I remember purchasing and reading and really believing in for a time was “Dare to be a Great Writer: 239 Keys to Powerful Fiction.” There is a piece of toilet paper between pages 18 and 19, indicating that I may have read to at least that point.

Why does any of this matter, you may ask? Because dude, this was my life when the girls were little and I was young and idealistic. I didn’t just have this idea in my head, I was actively pursuing this dream. Then all of these books went into storage because we moved in with my in-laws, then we were in a new house, and I quit my insanely good but frustrating corporate job to be a window cleaner, then I went through a string of pointless little mini-jobs, then I started on another degree, and the coaching and the lawn-mowing and the studying and the job-hunting all ran together to form the last 7 or 8 years.

I thought, for a time, that blogging was me keeping in touch with this dream. I thought that by blogging, at least I was writing, and that was the important part. But, a good solid year of blogging, and another good solid year of not blogging but wanting too, has done nothing for me. Nothing.

The discovery of this box brought to light the fact that I gave up. Either I re-prioritized or I just plain forgot about these books, this idea, this dream. Either way, dude, I’ve missed some years. Had I done this eight years ago, I might be really doing it now.

This was not supposed to be a delve into my psychosis, but it ended up being just that. The proverbial drugs have worn off, it would seem, and I am seeing clearly for the first time in a long time. I do not yet have the ability to focus on anything long enough to begin to re-pursue my writing thing, but at least now, after all these years, it is right here in the forefront again.

And, I am not saying that I have not been saying all along that I wanted to be a writer. What I am saying is that I had forgotten that it used to be my only passion, the only thing I really cared deeply about. That is what I have lost – the passion. Today, or at least this morning, writing had become something that I was ready to let go – something that was getting in the way of other things in my life. That is unbelievable to me right now.

So, thats where I am. This was supposed to be a humor article, but it aint. I still have to write one tonight, so please stay tuned.

Jay

(PS — as a bonus, I brought up two other books that were in the box — “The Winter of Our Discontent” and “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead.” The latter is one spectacular play upon which I have based many a character in my stuff that I have yet to get down on paper.)

(PSS — TWOOD has a bookmark between pages 60 and 61, but I think that’s where the lady at the bookstore put it. Still, give me points for having it near my bedside 8 years ago with the intent of reading it. Where does the time go??)

Popularity: 96% [?]