It's 6:30 AM in my time zone this morning. I've already been up for two hours. The only light around me is coming from my laptop. My basement is my writing zone. I find myself waking up on my own without the aid of an alarm. It's as if my mind craves to be here while the rest of my community is still in the dark. For me, writing is like breathing. I must write. It wasn't always this way. Here's the back story for those of you who are new to this site.
My earliest experience with writing had to do with an assignment from a student-teacher in my English class in high school. It was straightforward. He asked us to bring in an example of something we like to read. I wasn't one of "those" people who delved into books. I showed up with a cereal box. My classmates brought in their favorite novels. We were asked to write a composition describing our material. Much to my surprise, I got an "A" for my story about my cereal box. I tossed the paper to the side and forgot about it while I focused on the only thing that really mattered to me – tennis. Tennis consumed me. It was my passion. My dad was the writer in the family. I never really understood why he devoted so much time to something I considered a time-waster.
My writing epiphany came to me like a flash of light shortly after my dad passed away. I was struggling with this void I felt in my heart. My wife and I signed up to attend a three-day marriage encounter to get back on track. I had no idea the weekend was centered around writing love letters about feelings. I got sick. I thought it was the stomach flu. It was something else. I wanted to get the hell out of there. I vomited in the parking lot. My wife held my hand while we sat in our vehicle trying to decide what to do. We decided to tell the director we were out. He came outside to check on me. That's when he told us another couple was praying for us during the weekend and they were going to meet us on the final day of our retreat. "If you can find a way to rest for a while and see if you're well enough to stay, that would be great," he said. We stayed. Something happened. I had my breakthrough. Suddenly, the writing wasn't so bad. Surprisingly, we kept writing after we completed our weekend. The original idea was to keep it up for thirty days. We didn't stop. Thirty days turned into 2,500 days, all hand-written love letters about our feelings.
Writing books is like putting jigsaw puzzles together. This picture pops into my mind and I visualize how the pieces fit together. Some days, the connections are easy to see. Other days, I have challenges, like when you're sailing and the wind stops. I'm in a special time right now where the winds are blowing with such velocity that I must be cautious not to lose my sense of time. The boundaries between reality and imagination are fading fast. I can't predict what's in my writing future other than to say I'm going to do this every day until I'm no longer physically or mentally able to carry on. Maybe someday a high school kid will bring one of my books to school to show his classmates what he or she enjoys reading. Or perhaps someone will be inspired to discover his or her writing passion because they identified with my own personal journey. I can't wait to share my next puzzle with you. The pieces are coming together. Thank you for the opportunity to share my life with you. Have a great day.
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