January 28th, 2008
6:52 P.M.

Got out. And we walked. Round the sleeping baseball diamonds. Past the empty pool and the quiet benches. Over the hill and through the bare oaks and maples. Squirrels scattered here and there. Walkers. Joggers. Moving round the 1.2 mile asphalt path. And us. Traipsing through snow. Walking. Running. My wife-to-be at my side. The rope of the sled in my palm. And the little guy gliding along behind. All bundled in blankets. Gliding over the snow. Smiling.

This is a goodness that I did not know was missing.
I look forward to those few minutes after four. When she pulls into the driveway. The little guy stands in the big front window. Waving and yelling, “Hi, Mommy! Hi, Mommy!” while I get out our boots, hats, coats, gloves and mittens. So that we can load ourselves into the truck. Drive the short route to the park.

Get out. Breathe fresh air. Feel the cold. And walk together—so that no matter what—we are warm.

☼

I’ve gone soft. Found meaning. But I am not weak. And I’m aware enough to know that there’s plenty of travel left. That this is not a flat, rolling green straightaway. It will not always be roses. And the turns will not always be marked with yellow warning signs.

The only thing a man can do is wake up and be thankful. For being able to feel her warm body in the morning. For being able to swing his legs over the bed and stretch. And to walk down the hallway to the little guy’s room. Lift him from his bed. Hold him close. Enjoy the honesty of his hug.

☼

Got another letter today. A short one. Another reader dissatisfied with me and my writing. Unhappy with brutal honesty, I suppose. Afraid that I’m taking liberties with people’s lives and experiences. Assuming that I’m intentionally hurting people in Pilgrim’s Bay and other writing to turn a buck. Make a name. Do whatever it takes to get recognized. All of that, of course, is utter bullshit. But the older I get—and the better I get at writing—the easier it is for me to detect shit of any kind. Especially bullshit. And the more steps I take around this place, the more I realize that people will do all they can to create bullshit and spew shit just so they don’t have to deal with the Truth. And more often than not, that has to do with people living in ignorance. Afraid to get hurt feelings. And not being able to take a good hard look at themselves.

You see, the interesting thing about writing and being a writer is that people are so very quick to recognize and tune in to characters and situations that are akin to themselves and their own experiences, that they are unable to see the bigger picture. They cannot consider what the writer must have gone through, or what he or she might have experienced, or that maybe it is not only “thoughts that go down on paper” (some mistakenly believe it is only a matter of sitting down and writing about other people, simply reporting what is seen, which it is NOT)—but that it is the writer's guts that he yanks out and puts onto paper. Time and time again. Something that most other people are afraid to do. A writer does not simply confront the truth. He does not simply create it. He pulls away all the layers of shit, so that the truth can be known. He recognizes that there is more to all of this than his own self and he is unafraid to sacrifice himself so that others may gain a wider understanding.

But that's all writerly jazz that most folks don't care about. And, as far as I can tell, it’s writerly jazz that most other writers don’t care about. But those are the ones that are hacking away. Making quick money. Continuing the process of spewing shit. While here, I sit. Alone in the basement. The simple act of writing enough reward to keep the fingers going.

I’ve grown to learn that some of what I write is going to hurt people. But that's the chance I'm willing to take. I DO NOT do it out of disrespect for the person or people, but rather out of a respect for life and the general good that comes out of the writing.

So, dear reader, if I ever hurt you by “putting thoughts onto paper” that turn into something that’s “just a book” know that wasn't my intention. It is always MORE than just a book, but that's the thing that hardly anyone gets. I've only met a handful of people that understand. And that is what makes writing such a lonely life.

But this isn’t about being lonely. It’s about rolling along. Keeping upright. Being man enough to know that you are going soft, but being confident enough to know that it will take much more than cheap shots and sucker punches to take you off your feet. Put you down.

And so, with that, faithful reader…

Get out. Breathe fresh air. Feel the cold. And walk together—so that no matter what—you are warm. And you keep on keepin’ on.

~ K.J.

(copyright © 2008 k.j. stevens)

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