Sit with it

Writing has been my therapy these past few years. It has allowed me to safely navigate and explore past trauma within the confines of the page and my mind. I find the printed/written word makes it real. I record my account of events and then return to them, tweak/edit and continue the process. There is so much anger and confusion from the stories, but the process dampens the anger and lets me process certain events. Of course, sharing such stories with others may evoke anger from them, which is something I did not predict and the reason I no longer share.

Top 10

 Here are 10 things that interest me:

1. Technology
2. Baseball
3. Writing
4. A good meal with friends
5. Learning new things
6. Working in the yard
7. Helping others
8. Laughing - funny books, movies ...
9. Travel
10. Recovering from traumatic past

Here are 10 things that make me angry:

1. Laziness
2. Assholes
3. Talking to my mother
4. People that constantly complain
5. Slow drivers
6. 
   

Here are 10 things that make me happy:

1. Grandson
2. Conversation with friends
3. Logging off work
4. Traveling
5. Reading
6. Going for a hike
7. Time to myself
8. Fixing something
9. Learning something new
10. A good night's sleep

Here are 10 things I'd like to do in the next 5 years:

1. Go to Ireland
2. Finish fixing my old truck
3. Spend as much time as possible with grandson
4. Change jobs
5. Reconnect with my brother
6. Be healthy
7. Get a dog
8. Fix the hallway closet door
9. Abandon social media
10. Volunteer more

Judge and jury

 "I went for years not finishing anything. Because, of course, when you finish something you can be judged."

You can't finish what you never really start, right? That has always been my approach with personal writing. Sure, I write in a journal and a blog, but that is just random stories and observations, nothing real. I have created outlines - even using notecards - for longer pieces on specific experiences or aspects of life, but nothing actually written and really only I know they exist. I have a lot of stories written over the years, I'll reread some of them from time to time and they always take me back to a place and time, but that is just for me and actually cringe a lot of times and judge myself. I made the decision last year to push forward and actually show my writing to others, but then the pandemic (yeah, just what I needed, another excuse) hit and all outlets were shut off. I stumbled upon the Creative Non Fiction site a couple years later and finally clicked the button to participate in an online class. I had no clue what to expect, but the feedback has been great to receive and all of the writing from fellow classmates has been impressive.

Getting paid

I grew up in public housing and then a trailer park (insert cliche), so I have always been focused on earning a living - not money hungry, but just making sure everybody has what they need along with a roof over our heads and plenty to eat. I have always loved writing whether crafting stories or laying out how to do something, but anything paying money always took precedence. When I was a teenager, I created a family newsletter and wrote funny stories about everybody, but I only worked on it after mowing yards, washing cars or whatever paid that day. In my thirties, I landed quite a few magazine article gigs, a couple books and ultimately a weekly newsletter - it was all technology focused but I enjoyed crafting the 1000-2000 words a week and releasing it to the world and it actually paid real money so it was okay to work on it. Once that was complete, I drifted away from the daily discipline although brief stretches of writing on a blog. I am finally trying to return to a regular routine and killing that inner voice that keeps criticizing me for doing something frivolous that is costing money instead of making it.

Wheels Up

My first experience in an airplane occurred in my mid-twenties. I landed a job with a consulting firm - they had a local office, but the headquarters was in New York. While I would work locally, I would regularly visit the mothership. This was before Expedia, so I called and booked a flight - paper tickets arrived in the mail. I talked to a friend with a little travel experience and got a few useless tips. I was a nervous wreck the days leading up to the trip. My stomach did flips as I boarded the flight. I paid closed attention to the flight attendant emergency procedures as everybody else ignored it. I was frightened as the plane took off - I leaned back and closed my eyes. I stood in the Newark airport waiting for my bag - I had followed my fellow passengers to the right location. Everybody around me seemed to know what they were doing, I felt like an imposter but this was nothing knew. My grandma's hand-me-down bag (it's first time on a plane as well) rested at my feet as I figured out transportation. Buses were supposedly simple, but the numbers were confusing plus I had never been on a bus. Eventually, I settled on a taxi - the driver met all of my expectations from tv shows as he drove like a maniac. My eyes widened taking in the famous skyline and people everywhere. It was like a Black Friday Walmart crowd waiting for the $50 television - it was overwhelming. I made it to my room and stood at the window, smiling, feeling like something had been accomplished then the loneliness returned - I had no clue what to do next.

On the fly

I do not have any type of special "writing space", and I really don't think of myself as a writer. However, I write a lot with these writing prompts; my personal projects; tons of communications and an occasional online piece, so it makes me think about what is a writer? I guess my definition or idea is a writer as a person who gets paid to write and that is how they make a living. Are those the only people that can introduce themselves as a writer? This reminds me of a few years ago when I met an individual who said they were a writer which led the the inevitable questions of publications, their response was they were working on a book that was not complete. I was surprised, not because I did not believe them, but at the confidence in their introduction - I guess I was jealous as I give it further thought. When someone asks the popular "so, what do you do?" question, I always feel like I have to have a concrete answer with evidence to back it up as if I could show them a pay stub. My grandson often tells me he is an astronaut as he zooms around the house, who am I to question it? Does a person's occupation define them or is it rather their hobbies that really show the real person?

In terms of a writing space, I have no preference as I just like to write, especially when the urge or an idea hits. I guess a routine and consistent space would or could be more productive, but I am not sure. I just like to have or find the time to write.

Unlocked

I push the door and step into the darkness - light bulb out again. My eyes adjust as a door slams and two bodies scramble away. I jog down the driveway and towards them, squeezing the bat. I stop after a few houses. 

I stand for a moment, complete silence in suburbia - both soothing and disturbing. Every house is dark, except in the distance, light beaming from home. I stroll past Mike's impeccably manicured yard - mums blooming. I contemplate swinging the bat, but stop myself. I spot a For Sale sign in Linda's front yard, wondering when that appeared. Mike's house remains dark with no update on his hospital stay - I make a mental note to mow his lawn.

I open the truck door and immediately notice the missing bag. Anger erupts, I hop inside and turn the key.

A quick right after speeding through the stop sign and I spot two silhouettes approaching the playground just past Dave's house - a non-stop talker that always manages to catch me when heading to the playground. I gun the engine, they turn, see me and run. I laugh when noticing they stay on the sidewalk, we go another block before they disappear into the woods.

I stop and step out, standing at the edge of the trees. A giant sign to my right announcing a new development. Adrenaline is pumping, the bat feels good in my hand, the truck's engine echoing against the trees. I return to the truck, surveying the door. I think of crime shows and dusting for prints, it is old and full of scratches - like me. I realize I left it unlocked. I drive slowly, taking the long way home, searching for any sign of light, am I the only one awake?