I really don’t talk about myself very much, at least not in non-fiction. Much of my fiction is somewhat autobiographical in that it deals with settings (mostly kitchens) that I know and people I knew along the way. The escapades of these people as depicted by me happened or didn’t happen and either way, the way I see it, that’s okay.
If you read the “about me” part of the blog here, you’ll see I’ve been writing since I was fifteen. It started one night when I was at my friend Richie’s house. We were high and he was playing music. He had these humongous speakers. He also had a lock on his bedroom door. We were locked in listening to music and smoking weed.
Boom!
Out of the blue it came to me, just popped into my head, a line to start a short story. I repeated it over and over again like a mantra so as not to forget it, told Richie I had to go home. I may or may not have said to him that I had to write a story. I don’t remember. But I do remember repeating that line over and over all the way home, getting home, going down to the basement where my desk was, and writing.
I was fifteen. I was a writer. I knew what I wanted to be in my life, for my life. In this regard, I was and am most fortunate.
I’ve never “made it” as a writer. Many things have come in the way, and then there’s me, yes me, who has always been in the way. Fear of failure, fear of success, self-doubt, insecurity, poor self-esteem, a warped sense of love, fear of loss, co-dependency, substance abuse—these are some of the culprits. And then there was having to make a living on top of it all. Contrary to the narrative the Despicable Democrats, socialists and mainstream media, Pravda USA, attempt to continually advance, not all whites have privilege or money or influence or need to be feared.
That narrative, by the way, is a good piece of bull shit. But as the old saying about throwing out the baby with the bathwater goes, there are some elements of truth and reality in that narrative even though the narrative overall is mostly fake. Like the clowns and jesters in Shakespeare, it’s good to hear what they say. There’s always bits of truth.
When I was teaching—I taught for more than thirty years—I used to tell my students to go after their dreams so they did not get to old age filled with remorse and regret. I wonder. I have a lot of wonderings. I can’t say I have no regrets and I can’t say I have no remorse. But I can say that even though I haven’t “made it” as a writer, I have taken writing, which was my dream, with me all the way through so far. For that I am ever thankful.
So I sit out here. Where we live is pretty idyllic, I must say. It’s quiet almost all the time. It’s “country” and I can look up at all the trees and see simple natural beauty. Even in the New England winter, snow after snow, except for having to negotiate the snow it’s postcard picture after postcard picture.
Life is a marathon, not a sprint. Man is by nature selfish and greedy. I fear those Despicable Democrats, in their anti-Trump hysteria, have lost sight of the finish line, and egged-on by the profiteers controlling Pravda USA, our mainstream media, I fear they almost believe their own bull shit.
On second thought, no. They are profiteers as well, interested in money and power for themselves.
They all ought to stop and look up at the trees!
