Called to read and write
There is power in fiction
Let me write it well
Tag: writing
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Haiku No. 90
Fully fueled furnace
Happily heating his home
Warm winter writing
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The Big Idea
Chapter I
The big idea came to me on a crisp Sunday morning in March. I’d unwantedly rolled out of bed at the dog’s insistence, staggered down to the kitchen, and there it was. Quit my job and pursue my lifelong dream of writing. Suddenly my body felt warm and a smile spread across my face for the first time in weeks. I don’t remember feeding the dog or letting her out, but I sort of came to with her scratching at the door to get back inside. I started a pot of coffee before clambering back up the stairs to tell my wife.
“What? You’re quitting your job?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why are you smiling? Are you joking?” she asked.
“No, I’m quite serious.” I said.
Before this morning, the sudden silence which followed this brief exchange with my wife would have been too much for me. I would’ve started talking out of the need to fill the uncomfortable void with irrelevant words and noise. But not today.
In her silence, I stood back up from the bed and went to brush my teeth. Since when did brushing teeth feel so good? It made my smile even bigger. I noticed my wife staring at my reflection in the mirror.
“No,” she said.
“No what?” I asked.
“No, I don’t accept the idea of you quitting your job,” she said.
And that made me start to laugh. I had to spit out the toothpaste.
“Why are you laughing? Are you taking me seriously?” she said.
Now I was laughing so hard she had no choice but to smile and leave the room, head shaking.
She joined me a little later in the kitchen where I’d already pour my coffee, made toast, and started scanning the news. The dog sat intently at my side, staring at the toast. My wife wandered over to the coffee pot, poured herself a mug, and came to sit with me.
“I understand you’re quitting your job,” she stated.
“Yes,” I replied. “I was afraid you didn’t quite understand.”
“Okay. And just how long have you been waiting to tell me about this?” she asked.
“I just found out myself,” I said.
“So, you were let go? Did Steve email you this morning?” she asked.
“No, nothing like that, babe. It just came to me as a feeling. I felt warm, and I smiled for the first time in weeks,” I explained.
“Oh, so you’ve just this morning decided it’s a good time to be unemployed?” she asked.
“No, babe. I’m going to be a writer,” I said.
The even longer than normal silence that followed this new piece of information still had no effect on my sunny disposition. In fact, I started reading a humor piece in the Op Ed instead of going straight to the World News. But the silence would end.
“Oh, grand. Mr. Wordle has decided that his ability to turn five letters into a word every twenty-four hours is going to earn a living as a writer,” she said. “Just how long have you been harboring this fantasy? And how exactly will it pay the mortgage?”
“Babe, I haven’t figured out the specifics yet.” I said. “But I’m certain we can get by for a while on our savings, and we have at least a year’s salary in home equity. Like I said, it just came to me.”
It would be a much longer silence now, but I was still riding high. I hadn’t even noticed that my wife showered and dressed for church until she walked out the back door without me. The dog was beside herself when my wife left without a word to either of us. I decided to call Frank.
“Hey pal. How’s life?” I asked.
“Mike! I’m so glad you called. I haven’t heard from you in months.” Frank replied.
“Yeah, I’m really sorry about that. I think I was depressed at work, or with work, or both. Anyway, I’m quitting,” I said.
Silence on the line.
“Frank?”
“Sorry, Mike. Did you say you’re quitting? As in quitting your job?” Frank asked.
“Yes. The idea came to me this morning, and I tried to tell Sal, but I think she’s not quite understanding what I’m saying. It’s really the best day I’ve had in a very long time,” I said.
“Buddy, are you serious?” he asked. “It just seems like you have a really good thing going with that old contract, and you and Sal have the house now. So, what’s the plan?”
“Well, I hear what you’re saying, but yes. I’m quite serious. No plan yet. The idea just came to me this morning. I tried telling Sal that we have a decent amount in savings, and we’re well into the green on the house. I think she left for church,” I said.
Chapter II
I got lost in building my perfect writer’s den in the neglected spare bedroom-office-storage closet upstairs. With Sal gone and Frank sounding concerned about my well-being, I felt like starting a project. It began with an empty packing box the movers had left us five years ago. I filled it full of garbage and left it by the door. Then came the process of stacking more boxes, random plastic bins, and various artifacts in the closest. The heaviest or sturdiest items went on the bottom, then rectangular cardboard or flat items next, and finally, whatever odd-shaped prize or soft-sided bag on top. These were two of the best piles I’d ever created. The dog seemed uninspired. I needed to remember to buy shelving and perhaps some bungee cords.
Okay, room to breathe. Before I could start tidying up the bookshelves, I felt a presence at the door.
“Can you come into the bedroom, please?” Sal asked. “I think we need to talk.”
“Of course, babe,” I replied. “I lost track of time and didn’t even hear you come in. I’m sorry, but I didn’t make anything for lunch.”
The air in the bedroom was heavy, but the sun was shining bright. On cold winter days, I loved the west-facing windows and how they allowed the sun to warm our entire house. I think Sal was feeling more than just heat today.
“I heard the sermon today about the power of repentance, and I felt convicted to come back home and apologize to you. I should not have left the house angry this morning, and I’m sorry for going to church without you,” she said.
“Thank you for saying that,” I said. “I’m glad you felt moved by the sermon.”
“But I need to know what you are thinking. What you are feeling. I love you and trust you, but I don’t understand how you can make such a declaration about quitting your job out of the blue. And then you just walk around with a dumb smile on your face as if everything is okay,” she said. “I do not feel okay.”
“You just said that you love me and trust me.” I replied. “I feel like I’ve been trapped at work, like being in a prison cell with no escape. Or worse, with a chance to escape, but the reality of only getting dragged back in and shoved deeper into the walls. Then this morning, an idea hit me. I could be a writer. I could write novels. I could support us as a writer. And it made me feel blissful, something I haven’t felt in months, maybe even years.”
“What about my dreams, Mike? You said we could go to Spain in the spring. To Croatia for next year’s big anniversary. I dream too. Of escaping this house every once in a while. To shop on the streets of Madrid and Dubrovnik. To build memories with you, stories we can share with family and friends forever. But now what? You’re going to maybe write a book? About what? We haven’t even made the memories to build your story yet.”
“Babe, it’s a novel, not a book. Perhaps it will be the greatest American novel of the decade,” I said.
“Mike, you haven’t written so much as a love letter since we were dating. A book? Can we just agree to table this decision until we’ve both had a chance to think it through? Show me how quitting your job will work, or even makes the slightest sense.”
“Okay, Sal. Okay.” I said. “Let’s set it aside for the week, and I’ll show you on Saturday how I think it will work. And if I can’t, then I can’t, and this was all just a silly dream.”
Sal nodded and came in for a hug, wetting my collar with her tears. The dog finally forced her way between us, and Sal was off to change out of her Sunday best and into something more practical for chores and shopping.
A buzzing sound from the table alerted me to my phone. Frank was texting.
Quitting the job?
Not yet
Have you talked to Sal?
She wants me to keep the contract
Smart. Let me know if you want to talk again
Thanks. Pretty sure I’m quitting the job
?!
I’ll catch you up at golf on Wed
Chapter III
By Wednesday, I had calculated that if we only went to dinner or a movie once a week, limited Amazon spending to necessary purchases, and I cut my driving expenses in half, we could probably make it four months on our savings. That would give us two realistic options. Write the novel I didn’t have yet in a record time of two and a half months, find an interested editor or publishing house in one month, and get under some sort of contract with an advance before the money ran out. Or, I would create a book outline with sweeping character arcs and plot points in one month, hire a publicist at the expense of one month’s budget, and then have two months for the paid publicist to help me shop around my story.
“You’re leaving out an option,” Frank said.
“Oh thank God,” I said. “I thought I was sunk.”
“Option three is that you just keep your job. You can write on the side until it seems a little more plausible to Sal. Prove to yourself that you are capable,” Frank said.
“So I’m sunk,” I said.
Frank stood over his ten-foot par putt, and with a beautiful interlocking grip, rolled his ball into the center of the cup.
“Now that’s sunk,” he said. “No buddy, I’m not saying you’re sunk. I’m just saying there is a third option.”
“An option which involves me staying at work,” I said. I placed my ball for a six-foot bogey putt. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like playing golf anymore.
By dinner on Thursday, I felt like it was time to admit defeat on my big idea. No need to drag out the suspense for Sal, or for myself. I walked in the door feeling exhausted, and Sal was just starting to dish up dinner. I placed my bag and coat in the closet and joined Sal at the table.
“Thank you so much for making another wonderful meal, babe,” I said.
“You’re welcome, dear,” she said.
“I’d like to talk about quitting my job now, if it’s okay with you,” I said.
“Will it ruin my dinner?” she asked.
“No, it’s an easy decision,” I replied.
“Okay, let’s hear it then,” she said.
“I think I have to stay on the contract.” I said. “I’ll take some time to really think through the whole novel idea, and maybe we can come to a solution that lets me write a little here and there until I might actually be able to do it full time.”
“That was easy,” she said. ” And it sounds great to me. You didn’t have any other options for me?”
“None that left us with any money in the bank, or guaranteed that we could make the mortgage this summer,” I said. “They also involved more luck than skill, and I’m not feeling so lucky.”
“Well, don’t say that. Thank you for taking the time to think this through,” she said. “I love you, and I trust you. And I think we’re lucky to have each other. Besides, if you didn’t work, I’d have to, and then who would take care of the house?”
I smiled and leaned over for a kiss. Of course she was right. Dinner was uneventful, and I got to hear about Sal’s trip to the antiquated shopping mall. But as the night drew on, I felt a darkness creeping in. I did not want to go to work tomorrow.
Small talk in the evening, restless sleep at night, and a burnt toast with black coffee kind of morning. I knew if I could just get through this Friday, I’d have two whole days to lick my invisible wounds and muster the courage to face next week.
I quietly logged in at my desk. “Mike, I need to talk with you,” Steve called from his office.
I locked my computer and shuffled over to see the boss. A little too early for a meeting, if you ask me.
“Mike, please close the door and have a seat,” Steve said. The blinds facing inward toward the cubicle farm were already shut. As soon as I was seated, he began again. “Mike, I’ve got some good news, and some bad news.” He looked for my reaction, and when I gave none, he continued. “Let’s start with the good. Entitron won the re-compete bid, and we’ll be announcing the new contract today at lunch. The customer asked for all the modifications, increasing the price substantially, so Entitron is more than set for at least three more years.”
I might have been grimacing as he spoke of Entitron’s success, which simply meant more tasks, more people, and more depression headed my way. Was I being offered a promotion?
“So, the bad news,” he continued. “Mike, we have to let you go, and I’d like to do it this morning. Before you ask any specifics, I’ll shoot you straight, but HR will have all the official answers along with your exit paperwork. This new contract is loaded with big ideas, and it exchanges your position for three entry-level positions. The new folks will fall under the operations manager, and your position is gone. Mike, because the company would like you out before the announcement, I’m prepared to offer you half your annual salary and three months of continued benefits as long as you agree to vacate your office by noon. You can of course take your two weeks paid leave while the paperwork settles.”
I blacked out for a few seconds. My mind was moving too fast for words to actually leave my mouth. I had tears in my eyes, and Steve undoubtedly read this the wrong way. He was locked and loaded, ready for a confrontational reaction that would never come. I was about to hug a man I loathed for the first time in my life. Hell, I might even include him in my novel.
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The Wrong Room
The train rushes along with back-rattling turns, surfacing from Philly’s underground up to the overhead tracks of the Frankford Line. I must ride through the gentrified suburbs of Northern Liberties and Fishtown before reaching Kensington. I’m unfamiliar with parts this far north, at least from what I can remember. There were plenty of nights I woke up in a parked train car, overhead lights at full tilt, sliding doors wide open, and the conductor calling, “End of the line!”
My meetings aren’t court ordered, at least not yet. I’m still trying to settle a DUI accusation, and the lawyer advised me to do a little voluntary AA time to smooth out the plea deal.
“It’s not impossible to work a deal as is. But if you could attend a few meetings, and maybe see a counselor. It would show good faith to the DA.”
“I’ll do anything,” I say.
“Listen, you have to stay completely off the police radar, too,” he says.
“Not a problem,” I say.
“If you keep showing up to court and providing information as soon as I ask for it, we’ll get this all worked out,” he says.
“I just want to be done with the waiting and get on with the punishment,” I say.
“Look bud, with your background and a little good faith, I think we can get the DA to plea down. No promises,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say, not really knowing what plea down means.
The car screams to a halt, an acrid smell ever present. It’s better than the smell during afternoon rush. Sweat-soaked workers baked by the mid-day heat crowding each car. Junkies slouched in the corner seats precariously guarding jars of unknown substances. Three more stops.
The platforms look decent up here, surrounded by buildings with modern facades. Brightly lit restaurants and salons. But lurching away from each station, the city tells a different tale. Abandoned lots, boarded windows, and a rusty film covering everything in sight.
I’ve got an address on my phone and vague directions from the AA online directory. When meetings are in church basements or dedicated meeting halls, finding the room is usually easy. Look for a group of smokers. Always use the side entrance. Don’t bother anyone not attending the meeting. Finding a room in the city is a different story. We’re charity cases, the broken masses, and we need to stay as hidden as possible. Anonymous. Regardless, I’m grateful for the hospitality of so many unknown people.
Walking down the stairs onto Frankford Av, the first thing I notice is how the locals are moving. Some are dressed to hustle, wearing high-shined knock-offs, looking for wandering outsiders like me. But the majority are stooped, eyes fixed on their next step, covered in layers of overcoats and various head-coverings, shuffling by unnoticed. I want to look confident, but without sticking out. Too late. I knew polished leather boots and crisp jeans were bad ideas. I catch a lot of second glances, and a few thirds.
I’m trying to keep cool while frantically scanning for addresses on doors and storefronts. Peeling window stickers are hard to read, and every brick and concrete wall seems to have ten entrances. 2828 Frankford Avenue. My GPS says to enter the building on the left. I look up and spy some AA-looking dudes heading into an alcoved doorway on the left, where my phone assures me I’ll find sobriety. I decide to follow them in.
There are no working lights inside. Only the sun, which snakes through the overhead tracks, is shining through the front window. No sign of flooring, just dusty concrete. A cleared off countertop that could have been an old checkout to the left, a man standing behind it staring at me. People sitting on the floor. I don’t know what to do. I begin making a move for the opening toward the back, which seems to lead toward a room filled with more people. Are they all lying on the floor? My mind is spinning. The smell is so foreign to me that I’m speechless.
“Hey pal, what are you looking for?” the man behind the counter asks.
“I’m here for the meeting,” I reply.
“Not here,” he says and begins walking right at me. I break into a heavy sweat. “Follow me.”
I immediately move back out into the street, where the man is leading me a couple doors down. I can already smell the welcoming scent of burnt coffee.
“This is the meeting room. Don’t go back where we were. I might not be there next time,” he says, already walking away.
“Thank you,” I say. I doubt the words reach him.
Time to regroup, take a deep breath of fresh city air. I need to get into the room before the chairperson calls the meeting to order. There are more unwritten rules of AA than of baseball, and walking into a meeting late is grounds for unwanted attention. If only I could stop sweating.
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Dawn
Coffee mug at dawn
Pen to paper thoughts unleashed
Only way to write
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Morning Rest
The curtains have parted just enough to see darkness. It’s time to rollover to the other side, give my achy shoulder a rest, cover my head with a pillow, and try to fall back asleep. Some mornings this method works. Sometimes, it’s useless, my mind sprinting with thoughts better left unsaid. But I’ve promised myself to be positive this season, starting each day with at least three thoughts of gratitude before getting out of bed. I’m grateful for my faith, keeping me focused on the most important things in life. I’m grateful for my job, getting to do something I’m passionate about today. I’m grateful for my health, especially today, my rest day. I wonder who opens the gym on Thursdays, Jill or Dan? I guess the mind wants to sprint this morning, so let’s get up and get the coffee brewing.
The street lamps shine through my front windows, casting a strong enough glow to wander from the bedroom to the kitchen without turning on any lights. I forced myself to set up the coffee maker before bed last night, but never set the timer. I don’t want to jinx the elusive chance of sleeping in. Push the brew button, bold setting, five minutes until warm satisfaction.
I like to write before reading, or more importantly, before turning on the phone, television, or computer. Clear-headedness and creativity come in the still silence of my living room. Poem? Short story? Quick blog? I pick up the pen, put it to paper, and let my thoughts take over. This is where the sprinting part of my mind actually helps. The less I think about what needs to be written, the more freely narrative flows in just the right way. I like to get the main points on paper, cursive style writing is fastest, and then I’ll stop to think. I’m not foolish enough to believe that all writing is better with paper and pen, with the time it takes to transfer everything over to the computer, and the inadvertent edits made in that translation. So, I crack open the laptop and really let the words fly, after my mind has finished the initial free-flow and is ready to rush words onto the screen.
Somedays, the coffee waits for thirty minutes or more as I wrestle with the keyboard. Today, I’m ready when the brewing is done. My thoughts and words were on the gym, the interesting conversations we have in the wee hours of the morning. I live for my time counseling teens everyday at school. But listening to adults in their micro-breaks between sets is often more complex. Probably because I’m the first human they’ve talked to that day, but maybe because I’m the only person they’ll really talk to that day. For the regular gym rats, the people I interact with at least a few times each week, the stories feel surprisingly honest. D.J. wants to be heard, not just seen for his hulking physique. Dan wants to finish college debt-free, but I’m not sure he loves computer science. Jill wants to inspire the world, and she holds the early morning desk job in order to create all afternoon. And there’s so many more. I simply listen. Truly listen. I don’t need to be heard, because sometimes, that would only hold us back, hurting us both.
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Morning Manager
Dark streets fly by, barely visible through the foggy windshield. My next apartment will definitely have a garage. My next car will definitely have better defrost. Or maybe if I had the time to warm up the engine? At least I’m awake and on time today.
Can’t believe I agreed to this morning manager position, waking up two hours earlier just to open the gym. And for what? A lousy two dollars per hour raise plus the extra two work hours when I open. Worst of all, I don’t even get to see Jill anymore. She’s so cool. I have no idea how she’s always so perky, especially with this early morning crowd. Like Dante Jones, D.J., who annoyingly waits for me on the curb half the mornings, as if he can’t wait in his car like all the other meatheads. I’m not even late, yet there he his. I’ll just ignore him. Not today, D.J.
These philosophy classes are killing me, but at least the professor posts his lectures online. My notes never seem to keep up with his thoughts, so luckily I can listen to him again at work before class. Luckily, ha ha. It’ll be lucky if I make it through this class. Why does a computer science degree require philosophy, anyway? Does the university really need more of my money? If I can work another eight hours this week, and twenty four the next two in a row, I should be able to cover all of my expenses for the rest of this semester. Unless I want to eat. Chinese food sounds good.
Most of the morning crowd leaves me alone, with a few polite hellos, and the occasional request to update a membership. The quiet helps me prepare for school. Plus, the evening shift cleans the place before leaving, so I only have a few towels to fold. Nothing difficult. I wonder what Jill does in here before the rest of the morning shift rolls in? There is this one dude, Alex. He sort of has a face that makes me want to punch him, but what a chill guy. On the days we cross paths, he always stops bye to ask about my life. I think he actually listens, like he might care. He had some great advice about student loan consolidation and deferred payment. It really saved me last semester. I notice him getting a pretty decent workout in, even though he holds conversations with a few of the other regulars. According to his membership profile, he lives near campus. I should ask him what he does. Maybe computer science is the wrong choice.
Anyway, five hours and some change to go, then two classes this afternoon. Philosophy and cloud computing. A match made in heaven. I’m pretty comfortable with AWS already, so at least I’ll get an easy A there. And what is D.J. staring at? Should I go ask him what his problem is? No, it would only end up hurting us both.