Keep Moving Forward

I was late, as usual, and couldn't find you. I was carrying too much, kept dropping things all over the place and stopping to pick them up again. I ran through airport checkpoints with my ticket, which was one of the things I kept dropping.

Where was the gate? I watched time slip away on any number of clocks but had no idea where the gate was or how to get there. I stopped for a beer when I knew I wouldn't find you. I began sobbing and ended up on a beach.

Where did the beach come from? Where did the airport go? The tears receded as the tide rolled in and I ran across the hot sand. I had no idea where I was or how I'd gotten there.

* * *

Self-fulfilling prophecies are troublesome. Belief and mind-sets, cause and effect. Reality is nothing more than dreams come to life. Vonnegut advised us to be careful about what we pretend to be. We should be similarly careful about what we dream, for example, getting lost at the airport.

That extrapolation probably makes no sense, but what if it did? What if dreams were a necessary precursor to reality? Stronger than that. What if there were an exact correlation between our current dreams and future reality?

That sounds a lot like the age of superstition. Explanations are needed to create coherent narratives in our minds that allow us to continue moving forward as a species. But what happens when those explanations are wrong and we cling to them anyway?

* * *

In the end, it's hard to keep moving forward. Life is more like dropping things and having no idea where you are, where you're trying to go, or how to get there. Let's hope this isn't self-fulfilling.

Something Else in Mind

How would you describe your relationship with Jerry?

My relationship with Jerry is... he comes over late at night after the kids are in bed and leaves before they wake up in the morning. It's fantastic.

But you're married?

But he's away on business.

And he's okay with your arrangement?

He doesn't know about it.

How do you think he'd feel if he did know?

Maybe he wouldn't go on so many business trips. Besides, it's not like he isn't getting any action when he's gone.

Do you know that for a fact?

Technically no, but come on. It's what I'd do.

How did you become such a big James Dean fan?

I wouldn't say I'm a big fan, but... okay, yeah, I'm kind of a dork for him even though he died way before I was born. Is that weird? I don't think that's weird. Anyway, I like the movies he made and obviously he's hot. Plus he died just around the corner from here.

And that adds to the appeal?

Not exactly. It just makes his presence more real. Does that make sense?

Not exactly, but that's fine. What about your hair?

What about it?

Would you describe it as more auburn or chestnut?

How would you describe it?

Are you flirting with me?

Maybe. Would you like that?

Maybe.

Good to know. Anyway, I've heard my hair described as both. I guess I'd go with chestnut, but I'm happy with whatever makes you happy.

Chestnut works.

I'm glad to hear it. How many more questions do we have?

Not many.

Good, because we could be doing more interesting things, if you know what I mean.

Where is your husband right now?

Is this part of the interview or did you have something else in mind?

We're done.

Nope.

Natural Evolution

Why do you think the two of you didn't get along toward the end?

First of all, it wasn't just toward the end. This had been a long time coming. I can't even remember when it started, probably when I was in middle school. But basically he loved baseball and wanted me to love it, too, which I didn't. That somehow diminished me in his eyes.

Do you really believe that?

Yes, of course.

But if you're his son, why would something like that make a difference?

My guess is that he expected me to be a certain person and then I turned out to be someone else. I let him down in a way. It's hard to say, but that's my guess.

Did you ever ask him?

How the hell would I do that? You don't just ask someone if you've disappointed them. How does that conversation even work? “Hey dad, do I disappoint you?” People don't talk like that.

No, I just meant, did you ever check in with him to see what was going on in his life?

I don't follow.

Like, maybe he was disappointed in himself and not you?

Why would he be disappointed in himself?

I don't know, but that might be an interesting question to ask.

Sure. “Uh, dad, are you disappointed in yourself?” That seems realistic.

More like, “Hey dad, are you happy?”

Yeah, I can see that. No, I never asked him, but I can see it. It seems kind of corny, but... I dunno, maybe we're just too stubborn. Someone would have to make the first move, you know?

Why not you?

Why not him?

I see.

It's not that simple. It's not like we just decided to be done with each other, it was a natural evolution.

We Speak Different Languages

How is your relationship with your son?

Difficult, not like what I thought it would be. He's really into music, which is great, but I don't know anything about that world. We speak different languages, you know? I try to connect... well, I used to, but it seems I've given up on that. We both have. I'm hoping it's just the age. Honestly, I wish we got along better, or even at all. I thought we'd be maybe not buddies but at least... I dunno. There's just no common ground, it's pretty frustrating.

How do you suppose he feels?

No clue, you'd have to ask him. I'm guessing he probably feels frustrated, but I really don't know.

How is your job?

It's fine, you know, it keeps a roof over our heads. Nobody ever grew up dreaming they'd manage a retail store, right? But the pay is good enough, same with the benefits. It's stable, secure. It put one kid through college and it'll put another through before too long.

But are you satisfied with it?

I'm satisfied with the roof over our heads.

Do you regret not pursuing a career in baseball?

Regret is the wrong word. That implies that I'm not happy with where I ended up, which isn't the case. But yeah, it'd be interesting to know how that might have turned out. The Royals drafted me in the 23rd round so it would have been a long shot. I couldn't hit, but I was a reliable shortstop and might have shown enough glove to make it as utility guy. But you know, with a family... no, I don't regret it at all.

Could you have been a scout?

Probably, but again, was I willing to put everyone through the hardship needed for me to make it? No.

Disappear for a While

“If you could be anywhere tonight, where would it be?” His questions were always loaded.

“Anywhere?” She twirled her hair slowly. “Right here.”

“Too predictable, try again.”

She tried to remember places she'd loved or places she'd longed to visit. There were too many to count, so she went for the easy one.

“James Dean Memorial,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow, but remained silent, letting her do the work.

“Shut up,” she said, “I like James Dean. Besides, it's not far from here.”

He smiled. “I didn't say anything.”

“You didn't have to.”

“I never have to.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “More vino?”

He nodded, and she poured. It was a pinot noir from Oregon. Expensive, not too bad.

“Have you ever been?” she asked.

“I didn't even know there was such a thing.”

Was he pulling her leg? He played dumb so well, it was hard to know. He had to be messing with her. She flicked his nose.

“I'm serious,” he said. “My James Dean knowledge is limited. What's out there?”

“Not much.”

“Then why go?”

“There's a great view of the sky at night. You can see all the stars. It's a good place to feel small.”

“Why would you want to feel small?”

She smiled. “You never want to feel small?”

“I don't think so.”

“You never feel like there's too much going on this world and you'd just like to disappear for a while?”

He nodded.

“When you stare up at the stars,” she said, “it's like you disappear. You're only one tiny thing among billions of much bigger things.”

“Hard to take yourself seriously.”

She sighed. “Or anything.”

Breaks Are Good

Breaks are good. They help provide perspective, which is needed most when we don't realize it, when we're so invested in our process that we can't see beyond it. Breaks let us breathe and consider the problem in different ways.

I didn't write yesterday. It felt weird, but life kept me from sitting down and doing work. My brain didn't get them memo and kept trying to solve puzzles. It worked through various scenarios that my fingers could try the next time I was at the keyboard.

So today's project involves rearranging the first five chapters of my novel. The goal is to mix my various POV characters up a bit, have them appear at different times. Will this have a profound effect? Maybe, maybe not, but it can't hurt to try.

Point is, if I'd kept plowing through the work like a bulldozer, I'm not sure I'd have even thought of such an alternative. Not quickly, anyway. Which leads to an interesting paradox: Taking breaks can improve efficiency.

I forget this all the time and keep going. My mind doesn't want to stop. It's so invested in the process that it just keeps grinding the ol' gears. The hard part, and I haven't figured out how to do this, is getting myself to remember that resting and contemplating is a crucial part of the process.

To wreck another metaphor, you plot a course. It feels like you're going in the right direction, but you can't be sure. So you pull over to the side of the road, figure out where you are and where you want to be, and make any necessary adjustments.

You can't make those adjustments if you just keep going. And if you never pause to figure out where you are, who knows where you'll end up?

One Never Knows

In the interest of accountability, I finished 6 ½ of my 8 goals yesterday. The only ones I missed were editing someone else's article and watching baseball. Technically there was a game on, but I had no interest in either team and watched Star Trek instead. Partial credit.

Moving on, today it's more of the novel. It's always more of the novel, which is fine because I love it. Not the novel itself, which needs more improvement than I might be able to give it, but the process. The discipline.

I've tried writing a novel twice before. Once in college, then again last summer.

The one in college I wrote late at night, usually accompanied by Joe Satriani's Flying in a Blue Dream or J.S. Bach's Brandenburg Concertos. It was a sustained effort, and I got to revisit my characters at the end of every day, which provided some level of comfort.

The key problems were a) it lacked plot and b) I had no clue what I was doing. Either or both might have been overcome, but after a year or so I gave up. I finished a first draft, but attempts at revision made things worse rather than better. I was young and frustrated, and there was much else to do in life like earn enough money for food and rent.

That novel was written longhand on yellow legal pads. I'm pretty sure it's still in a black notebook somewhere in the garage. Now that 25 years have passed I'm tempted to find it and see if anything can be salvaged.

I attempted my second novel last summer. The story feels contrived, and there's too much exposition, but again I loved the process. I might use the setting for something else, borrow a character or three. One never knows.