Post #800

 

A place of unbearable pain;

of indescribable beauty.

"Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life,

Every quality of his mind is written large in his works."

--Virginia Woolf

Fourteen years ago, almost to the month, I signed up for a blog, having no idea where that particular journey would take me.  I remember that I had ideas banging around inside me between my heart and my head, and I felt that if I didn't get them down in some recordable form, I'd either go crazy or spontaneously explode.

Tonight, I sit here contemplating the 800th addition to this blog.

I named the blog "Race the Sunset," a small piece of inspiration borne out of a motorcycle trip.  I was cruising across Kansas -- the long way -- and as afternoon began to turn into evening, I watched the sun ease its way towards the horizon.  The wheat fields I had been endlessly passing all day began to take on that warm pallet I can only describe as "evening colors."  My goal was the town of Liberal, the end of a very long 650-mile day, on the far western border, and as the miles-to-go wound down, I saw that my arrival would be very close to sunset.  In a sense, I was racing the sunset to my destination.  I remember a lot about that evening, how peaceful it was as the sky gradually darkened, and the weary anticipation of a long day coming to an end.  It was the first of what would be a nine day journey across the American west, perhaps the nine greatest days of my life.

Except, of course, any nine days I've spent with my beloved (and long-suffering) wife.

In beginning the blog, I certainly didn't have any particular agenda.  I wanted to write about life, how I experienced it and the impact it had on me.  I deliberately stayed well away from politics.  I don't know everything about writing, but I do know better than to enrage half of the potential audience.  

That first effort, posted on November 3, 2006, was a post about Ben Roethlisberger, the Steelers quarterback, who had bought a motorcycle, the fastest production bike available at that time.  He promptly wrecked it, putting him in surgery for some seven hours.  It was also the first of my essays to be published, finding its way into the pages of the Johnstown (PA) Tribune-Democrat the previous July.  I continued to write for the paper, at first only once per month, but eventually given a weekly slot.  The editor paid me a high complement, saying, "Your stuff was just too good to leave out."  I eventually learned that a complement was as rare and savory as a perfectly done prime rib, and should be treasured.

Soon after, I got another gig, after begging the editor of the Somerset (PA) Daily American.  For the next five years, I continued to write weekly columns for both papers.  I'm proud to say (and just a bit amazed) that I never missed a deadline.  Many of my essays were picked up by other newspapers, which was a source of joyful satisfaction.

I was also writing for my profession, Intelligence Analysis, which is an entirely different animal.  Stripped of any kind of superlative or inflationary descriptors, it can be some of the most boring writing ever put to paper, even with the high classifications.  But it was through that experience that I learned how to self-edit, a most valuable skill for any writer.  For example, I once wrote a report on the methamphetamine market in Hawai'i.  My research draft was 67 pages.  What went to press was five and half.  Editing is a cruel task, but must be done, and I'm glad I learned how to do it.

People often asked me where I got my ideas.  I wish I knew.  All I can say is there are times when I begin to get restless.  I find it hard to focus my concentration on where I am and what I am doing.  The restlessness turns into an urgency, and I know that I need to sit down and write.  The process starts with what singer-songwriter Alanis Morrissette called "stream of consciousness."  I'm sorry to say I don't start with an outline, as is highly recommended.  I just start writing.  I don't concern myself with flow, structure, and often, punctuation.  I can best describe it as my fingers being in a race with my mind and heart to put words down as rapidly as possible.  This is important because my short-term memory has always been unreliable, and ideas have a disturbing way of fading rapidly.  For that reason, I always keep pen and paper by my bedside, and never go anywhere without the means to record those thoughts before they flutter away.

Once the ideas have waned, I go back and look for the nuggets amongst the avalanche.  Sometimes if I'm lucky, there will be enough material for two or three essays.  Once I culled the useable content, then I spend some time sorting and organizing the material into something that makes some kind of sense.  I then put it away for a day or two, and go back to edit and rewrite.  Sometimes this takes longer than the original writing.  When I'm satisfied (a transitory state, since no piece of writing is truly ever "done") I transfer the writing into the blog, add an appropriate picture and centralizing quote, and publish.

I enjoy this kind of process, a kind of winnowing of the soul if you will.  I find that I am far better at the shorter essay than I am at the longer thesis.  In fact, the one book I've written and had published is a collection of short stories.

My subjects have been reflective of my passions.  Two in particular, motorcycling and hiking, populate this blog.  I was inspired by the experiences of those activities, and found writing about them to be enjoyable, and even cathartic.  I did a series of short essays throughout the 150th anniversaries of the Civil War, month by month from 2010 through 2015, marking the events of that war.  It was instructive, almost allowing me to live those long years just as our nation did during that time.  Space has been another frequent subject, as exploration and achievement has opened up new knowledge about the universe.  While in Pennsylvania, I wrote extensively about 9/11 and the impact of that terrible day on us, the nation, and the world.  I got peripherally involved in the effort to establish the Flight 93 National Monument near Shanksville, and in the process was able to meet many of the family members of those brave souls who stood and fought back on that day.  It's hard to mourn the traumatic loss of a loved one.  To do so in the glaring light of the public eye requires a kind of courage and grace that I came to admire.

When I transferred from Pennsylvania to the DC area in 2011, I stopped writing for those two newspapers.  I tried to interest other editors, but it seemed that their primary requirement was to drive half the audience to anger.  In short, to write hate.  This was something I had no interest in doing, so my brief foray in the news business came to an end.  Since then, Race the Sunset has been my only outlet.

I have found a small, but loyal audience, and for your willingness to read, I am eternally grateful.  I get emails from you folks from time to time, telling me how you enjoyed a particular essay.  Feedback is so very important to a writer, and I'm thankful.

The events of which we have all been subjected to over the past year and driven a kind of darkness over what I write.  It's been hard to find humor these days, although I am ever vigilant.  But that restlessness and eventual urgency continues to visit me on a semi-regular basis, and I will always respond to that imperative.  I still find life a fascinating, if perplexing thing, and the effort of trying to find answers to the inevitable questions drives and motivates me.  There are terribly dark moments, and other moments of peace and beauty, and I am forever struggling to find the right words to help the reader live in my emotions for a few moments.  I'm not as good at words; of being able to fully express my thoughts and emotions as I would like.  Reading any of my writer heroes brings those shortcomings into sharp, even painful focus.

But writing is a process.  Sometimes the words flow like the water over Niagara Falls.  Other times, they come slowly, painfully, frustratingly.  I know however, that to be a writer, a good writer, is like being a hiker.  You have to climb the hills.

And when you stand atop the mountain, the joy is well-worth the pain of the climb.

Again, I thank you for visiting and reading, and I hope I continue to produce things worth your time.