Angst, whiskey, and words; I’ve enough to write.
It was a night like this when I knew I was going to be a writer: fireflies launching from the hayfields, crickets chirping, and half a moon just a smear of orange. A stubborn mockingbird interrupting my thoughts and threatening my sleep. Nearby were the last embers of a campfire glowing red like devil eyes and sporadic, hot tongues licking marshmallow from, abandoned, sharpened sticks. I trekked barefoot through the dewy grass to my little tent armed with a flashlight and a stack of books: Doyle, London, Stevenson. I’d spend the summer nights reading about wolves, vampires, and London mysteries until I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
Most nights I’d just read and imagine what it’d be like to actually see the snows of Kilimanjaro, or step into the shadows of London, or be shipwrecked by pirates. Muggy darkness was tempered by cool breezes and jugs of purple Kool-Aid and Faygo Red Pop and Root Beer I’d buried in a bucket of ice. When the inevitable summer storms would rip over I’d imagine I was on the Sea Wolf or some monster was lurking behind the barn sniffing the air, looking for something, someone, to eat. Flashes of silver let me glimpse creepy shapes and eyes staring back. Too scared to run the acres to the house I’d hunker down and pray for dawn.
Dawn always came and I survived another night. My neck might have been pocked with mosquito bites and pimples, but never fangs. Dawn always comes.
Some nights I’d be too spooked to sleep and other nights my brothers would try to scare me by shaking the tent or howling from the glow of the porch light. Sometimes I swear I heard bears crashing through the nearby forest and knew giant snakes slithered all around. Other nights nothing could’ve phased me; I’d ease out of the tent, roam the fields, and watch the diamond-studded sky for shooting stars and UFOs. I’d sit on the old log by the tiny creek and wonder what my future would be like. Who would I marry? How many kids would we have? What would my brothers, my friends, do when they were grown?
Now, some thirty-odd years later, I long for those summery nights with no bills to sort through, no alarm clocks disguised as opportunity, and a lean belly. Then I was safe in the shelter of simplicity, safe in the innocence of the unknown.
But in order to write, to have something worth telling, writers need to live, to experience; So I’ve done that – am doing that. I’ve explored, experimented, and asked deep, scary questions. I know, like I’m sure you do, what it feels like to love and lose. I know the feeling of wanting and longing – and the feeling of getting and letting go. I know what it’s like to have a beautiful woman sleep next to me, to have her hair spill across my chest, and to smell her perfume in the dark. I know the misery of endings when I’ve hoped for something lasting and desire to love someone better than me. I know what it’s like to stare and hope at the phone – only to have it stare silently back like some creature outside my tent. I do know what it’s like to feel loved, to feel wanted, but also to be stabbed in the back and bit to the bone.
In this life I’ve seen people I’ve admired fall to lies, lust, and greed. I’ve opened the gates around this heart and let the guards run free. I’ve drank water from a fountain in Rome and touched a vial allegedly full of Christ’s blood. I’ve wandered through red light districts and toasted wine with strangers I’ll never see again. I’ve ran across the Brooklyn Bridge, down Hitler’s bunkers along the North Sea, and through charming neighborhoods in Paris. I’ve relied on the kindness of strangers and have asked my family for help. I’ve worked hard, I’ve been lazy. I’ve won and lost thousands in poker, blackjack, and Wall Street.
Yes, it’s been a damn exciting life, so far. I’m extremely fortunate and equally thankful. Still, like the younger me all those years ago, I wonder what’s coming next. How will tomorrow be different? Who’ll break or heal this patched-up heart, me or her? So I write the stuff that sells, the stuff that I often think doesn’t matter. And then nights like this, with that half moon with full halo, feel the urge to climb out of bed, stretch these tired limbs, and pound this keyboard.
