Tuesday, February 14, 2017


That's my dad pictured above handing my wife and me a copy of his first book.  It was one of those "areas of concern" I fought with him about during his short-lived time on this planet.  I wanted absolutely nothing to do with Bisbee dolls equipped with purple tongues or anything else that came from the right side of his creative brain.  In my opinion, writing was a distraction, not something people "do."  Isn't it ironic?  I'm at a point in my life where everything else is a distraction and I just can't stop writing.  Yes, it's true, I did vomit in the parking lot the first time someone asked me to write a letter to my wife in a 3-day retreat designed to help us in our relationship after my dad passed away.  Once I got over the puking, the recessive writing gene I inherited from dad and generations of deceased writers before him reared itself from deep within my soul and took over my mind.  I'm haunted by fictional characters who invade me in the middle of the night.  There's no cure for my condition except to keep writing lest these individuals force themselves upon me in the daylight hours commanding me to set them free upon the blank canvasses in front of me.

Irony has stages.  The first is denial.  Second is anger, followed by doubt and uncertainty about what lies ahead.  Then there is acceptance.  I'm at the period of my life now where I'm embracing my calling, just as dad did.  Irony is my best friend now.  I'm sure my dad knew him well.  Like it or not, our adult children may someday meet Irony.  They can decide if it's a blessing or a curse.  This is something every individual needs to discover at their own pace.  I don't have time to debate.  I must write.  Have a great day.

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