In an interesting moment of self-reflection this morning, I asked myself, “What’s the hurry with all this writing?”
Something delusional? Am I afraid of dying? Leaving something uncompleted? The answer that came back was a bit more complicated, yet, informational. As I visited a friend to help him bring his plants in before the freeze heading our way, put the question and consideration to him as well.
What I know for sure, is once I’m dead, not one more poem will be pushed live. My children are not going to mine my hard drive for more books. Nope. If anything they will destroy my laptop. That’s fine. So, I think my process is not about urgency, but more about efficiency.
If a book is complete, be it a novel poetry, or something else, what’s the use of delaying the publication? In the case of my roiling novel The One and the Zero, the answer might be “to protect the feelings of the participants.” It might be me trying to make a stand and become a recognized author. Or get someone else to pay for my book signing tours. Or it might be my ego thinking I’ve created something worthy of a bigger audience. No matter. I’m proceeding with plans through December to publish my book of short stories and two more books of poetry. That will bring my total to six original books for the year.
Last month I made about $10 from my books.
It’s not about the money. Or fame.
It’s also not about protecting anyone, myself included. I’m en fuego. I know this. I had a nice conversation with my psychiatrist on Monday about just this moment in my life. He’s been my emotional co-pilot for 18 years. I think his agreement with me, carries some weight.
I am a writer. I am a poet. I am a musician. I’m an activist. I am trying to heal and express myself with creative output. That’s what I learned to do at an early age, waiting for my mom at the hairdresser appointment with a pen and paper.
“You’re going to have to learn to be patient.”
Right. If she’d had been a little more conscious she’d have framed that statement differently. “Honey, thank you for being so patient all the time while I run errands. We can stop by the bookstore for a treat when we’re done later today.”
Mom.
She gave me the gift of reading and writing. She showed me how to recreate your life after divorce. She made it okay to be creative. She was not prepared for me to be a musician. She could not get past the idea of “sex, and drugs, and rock n roll.” She was not wrong. But she was misguided.
The harder part is, that she could never appreciate my songs, my singing, or my music. In a wild run of family dynamics, my mom gifted the family baby grand piano to me. Twenty or so years later, she gifted the piano to my sister’s son. She never held back in praising his singing, his acting, his piano playing. It hurt. But the more painful part was I was never able to connect with my mom about my music. Ever. It represented fear to her. Defeat. Drugs. The piano was a metaphor. The regifting to my nephew was harsh. I brought it up in passing a few times and was rebuffed both by my mom and my sister. Ho hum.
It’s not much different from my mom’s stuff. My sister hoarded all of it. It’s okay, I don’t have a taste for fancy silver serving trays and silverware and dishes. And when my mom died, my sister *was* the executor of the estate. It’s just her and I now.
A few months after my mom passed away, I asked my sister if I could have ONE of the TWO Afgan rugs that used to be in the big lake house. “She gave them both to me,” she said.
Period.
That’s where we are as a family. It’s just me and my sister and our four kids. I have one of them I can relate to. The niece and nephew are both incredibly smart and amazing in their own ways. Neither of them has ever had a romantic relationship. Not one. Not that we know of. Some of that must go on my sister’s horrific marriage and conflicted divorce. Granted the dad is emotionally more dead than my sister.
I won’t get into the drinking descriptions on either of them, but I will say, I can’t call my sister after 6 pm. Ever.
When my mom passed it was my sister who gave me the news around 1:00 am. In a more connected relationship, I would’ve sought comfort at her house. We were the only remaining adults in the family. I called up my ex-girlfriend and asked if I could come over. I didn’t want to be alone. I also did not want to be with my sister. There was nothing for us to talk about. Cold, but true.
Understanding my own place in this dynamic, I am comforted by my own actions. I’m not blameless in the divorce from the mother of my two children. I’m not a victim. I am the only one in recovery. Perhaps my ex-wife and my remaining sister could benefit from a little “One Day at a Time.”
There is nothing after we die. The pile of my dad’s diplomas rotting in my sister’s basement and now in my office, is a testament of how fragile our perch is here in the present moment. For me, not one book will be left unpublished while I am alive. Even if it’s for me alone.
I’m lucky, I am a graphic designer and a technical wiz. So, self-publishing is easy for me. Graphic covers, and the technical expertise to format and process the books through Ingram Micro (printer) and Amazon give me the benefit of publishing on-demand. As I told my buddy this morning, who just turned 80, “Once they are in print at Amazon they are available until the end of time.”
“I don’t care if I get discovered in my lifetime,” I said, lying through my teeth. “But, I don’t want any of it to disappear with my laptop as it is wiped and sold after I die.” He smiled. He has no similar ambitions, being content and struggling in his own way.
I am here. This is my life, my writing, my myopic thrust of creative energy and effort to share my creative experience. Writing. Songs. Images. I’m leaving nothing unpublished, while I still have the ability to continue. If you are here, thank you for your attention.
