THE JOURNEY—INTERLUDE

THINGS JUST GOT REAL

When I married my wife almost 26 years ago, my place of employment wouldn’t let me have one weekend off for a brief honeymoon to Eureka Springs, Arkansas. That means I did what any sensible young man would do in a similar position: I quit my job.

I could probably mention what her parents thought about the situation, but I imagine anyone reading this knows exactly what they were thinking. Honey, I know you love him, but what kind of future will you guys have if he up and quits his jobs because he doesn’t get what he wants?

Understandably, she also worried about our future financial standing. She had every right to be concerned. Looking back at myself during those times, I sure wish I had the intelligence and confidence I exhibited at that moment today.

When the future spousal unit expressed a slight bit of apprehension, I smiled, held my arms out to the side, cocked my head a little bit, and said in my most reassuring tone, “Don’t worry. I’ll get a job Monday.”

Did this assuage her worries? I can’t tell you. But it makes for a good story to tell the grandkids later when they’re sitting around the living room listening to Pappy spin some yarns.

That was a Friday. We married the next day, exactly three months from the night we met at a dance club in Fayetteville. Did I get a job Monday when we returned from sealing our nuptials? You bet I did. If I say it, I do it.

The next day, I started processing loan applications at a bank. This all has relevance because as of this moment, I am not employed by any other entity than myself. It just got real. Now is the time to put up or shut up.

As far back in the corridors of time as I can remember, I have always wanted to be a writer. I wrote my first love poem when I was kindergarten to a little blonde girl in first grade. My parents told me I wrote my first story for the enjoyment of others at age five. I don’t know how entertaining it could have been. It was called The Peanut with Measles. And the peanut died from his condition.

I might need to discuss with a counselor the emotional weight I must have been carrying at such a young age needed to write a story where the main character died. My mother told me a couple years before she slipped this mortal coil, I had always written dark material. Strange considering how delightful my childhood was.

Growing up as a Navy brat, experiencing other cultures and living in far-off countries, thrilled me. By the time I entered my teenaged years, I had visited dozens of castles, flown over Europe in the cockpit of a military transport plane, learned to cuss from the saltiest of sailors, mastered the game of pool, won a youth chess competition in Germany, made an emergency landing at a remote Canadian military base, watched the Northern Lights dance across the heavens, rode horses through the Icelandic wilderness, won a badminton tournament, and made my father some extra cash when he bet shipmates his 11-year-old son could beat them at Intellivsion football while he ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and talked on the phone to his friends.

Today, my efforts to make my writing the sole source of income I contribute to this family have to be doubled. Not even that. Tripled and tripled again. I mentioned in an earlier blog how this will be a war. It is. I fight against obscurity. I battle oblivion. I struggle against the powers that want to capitalize on my ability to add riches to their coffers.

This is the moment of truth. Sink or swim. Crunch time. The point of no return (I loved that 1993 movie). First step on this journey? Finish my memoir about living with a traumatic brain injury. Take care. I have some writing to do.