In the Dark of Night – Part 20!
There are two essays which have molded my outlook as an author more than anything else I have ever read.
The first is The Talent of the Room by Michael Ventura. I am abridging it in monstrous fashion, but he breaks writing down into a task that you must be able to endure doing. Alone, in a room, with no one but yourself for company and motivation. This skill is the only reason I am still here. It is also the reason why so many of those who are demonstrably better at writing than I have fallen by the wayside while I am approaching 400 posts and four separate releases for this year alone.
Here, I speak most frankly of my wife. She is, in every single respect, a better author than I could ever hope to be. My books will be published first, however, because I have the mixture of dogged persistence and tolerance of monotony that defines time spent in the writing barrel.
When she finds a way to build her own room tolerance, she will blow past me so fast I might as well be standing still. I could not be happier for that moment. I await it with giddy anticipation.
For now, I continue to write about heaven sent metallic Arnold Schwarzebirds and chortle with glee at calling my authority figures Chief Waytoobig.
The second essay is as pivotal as the first. It is A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf. If you have not read this essay I need you stop reading this post immediately and go fix that.
It has explained (not excused, explained) all of the troubles I have had over the last four years to write in our tiny little apartment. I cannot stress how tiny this thing is: 750 sq ft on a good day, with one single common room which must serve as office, living room, and television room all at once.
For those keeping track at home, those need to be separate rooms if you want to get anything done.
It is remarkable. Nearly 100 years ago, Mrs. Woolf nailed everything that it takes to be a successful author. Everything. She could have written it yesterday and it would still be just as foundational and amazing as it already is.
One line in particular resonates with my experience of the past four years.
“a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”
I am, much to my dismay, not a woman. However, I am an author. I am an author who has struggled very heavily to find space and time to write.
This evening has been no exception. I had to kick my son out of the living room / entertainment room / office to write. He then complained to his mother that I was always kicking him out to write despite the fact I had tactfully waited until 7 PM to do so. Then, in an effort to not have my son disown me quite yet, I took a break for dinner and watched some anime with him.
That was two hours ago.
This house was supposed to be a temporary living arrangement. A 750 sq ft launch pad for something better.
That was four years ago.
Four long, grueling years where acquiring space and time came at the expense of hurt feelings or my own sleep schedule. Usually both despite my best efforts. See; tonight.
Four years where, until very recently, I have also not had money.
It’s the thing we never want to acknowledge but innately understand: It is nigh-impossible to have a successful career without money. Regardless of the field, not having enough money is the death knell of most ambitions. The lack of it has daily stresses that those who’ve never experienced them cannot understand. They are all consuming. Living from paycheck to paycheck is one of the most draining experiences of my entire life. We missed far more bills than I am ever going to be comfortable admitting to all of you, let alone myself.
Now? Now I get paid more on a weekly basis than I have made in a full month at certain points in my life. I am blowing my previous ‘best’ situation out of the water by hundreds of dollars every week. Emphasis on the plural.
The difference between my current situation and my prior failures is night and day.
At last, at long, long last, I see light at the end of the tunnel.
We are moving next week.
I have gotten money and it has led to me getting my own room. For the first time since I started this insane journey, I am at last meeting the most basic requirements for writing.
The Island is mine at last. I intend to use every single second I am blessed to have it.
I want, with all of my heart and soul, to spend the rest of my life making things. Even if they do not become my only source of income, I want to leave behind even a fraction of the beauty I see in my imagination day in and day out.
Story time.
In the Dark of Night – Part 20!
There was a thumping sound, as rhythmic and full of ominous portent as the footsteps of a judge ascending the bench to dispense justice. I braved a second glance around Officer Davis to find out what was making it.
Chief Waitley was thumping a finger up and down on his arm as he stared down at Officer Davis. It sounded like someone slapping a fist into their palm. It was incredible that a man of Officer Davis’s size could look like a turtle.
After an excruciating handful of seconds that lasted several hours, Chief Waitley finally let loose the avalanche promised by his tone and demeanor.
“I am out of patience, Theodore, and you are out of chances.”
Officer Davis was staring at the floor like he wanted to sink through it into the fathomless abyss below. His was the demeanor of a man ascending the gallows, not someone being reprimanded. Then the use of his name came crashing home.
Chief Waitley, for his part, no longer looked angry; only resigned that duty and obligation had led him to this moment.
He started towards us. Officer Davis jerked backwards like Chief Waitley was rushing him instead of simply walking towards him. The lines in Chief Waitley’s face deepened with pain at the reaction. It was obviously not the first time imminent violence was ascribed to otherwise mundane actions because of his size and his skin color.
He arrived in front of us. Much to my surprise I saw pity in his eyes as he calmly reached out and pulled Officer Davis’s badge off with fingers far too nimble for their size.
Despite my aching shoulder and burning wrists, I couldn’t help the swell of sympathy which flowed up within me. Officer Davis… no, I suppose it was just Theodore now, was an obese single man in his mid thirties who had just been fired for gross incompetence in a small town. The power and authority granted by his position was all he had to validate his existence and now he had just become an unhireable pariah.
“I’m sorry Theodore. I know you won’t agree with me but this is for your own good.”
Theodore looked hollowed out, as though Chief Waitley hadn’t taken his badge but had instead plunged his fist into Theodore’s chest and ripped his heart out Mortal Kombat-style. Chief Waitley put a hand upon Theodore’s shoulder and he stepped aside with dull obedience to the implied command.
Chief Waitley left his hand upon the shoulder and squeezed gently. The gesture, a mirror to the kindness given to Mrs. Van Deburg, immediately triggered the smaller man. Anger replaced lassitude as Theodore’s face was suffused with color. With a whole lot of fury and zero grace, he ripped the badge out of Chief Waitley’s hand. He cocked his arm back in a cartoonish wind-up which once more ignored my existence and flung the badge with all his might towards the receptionists desk. Specifically at its occupant. Mrs. Van Deburg’s eyes flew wide as she saw what the molten mixture of shame and rage had done to Theodore’s decision making.
The badge struck Chief Waitley in the upper chest. He had appeared in front of the missile as though summoned there.
The badge stuck where it struck him; a slanted and off-center mirror to his own.
Theodore had hit rock bottom. Like so many fools before him, he refused to quit digging.
“YOU’LL REGRET THIS YOU STUPID, ARROGANT IDIOT! IF IT’S THE LAST THING I DO YOU’LL NEVER LIVE THIS MOMENT DOWN!”
With a vicious, vindictive motion, Theodore took the keys from his belt (which to my surprise held no gun) and threw them at Chief Waitley’s feet. The former officer turned, shot me the ugliest look a tear-soaked face had ever managed, and rammed his shoulder into me as he storm-waddled out the door.
I tried to catch myself, but without hands to balance myself I was on a one way trip to floorsville.
Hands caught me mid-fall. To my utter astonishment, Chief Waitley wasn’t the one who had come to my rescue.
It was Anzi.
I looked up into her eyes, mutely attempting to express my wonder at what she had done.
Her eyes were a startling azure; the color of the sky on a clear day. They were also as full of astonishment as mine at her actions. She righted me so swiftly I thought it must hurt her to touch me and resumed her post behind me as Atomo floated gently down to reunite with her.
She stood there, staring at the ground as she rubbed her shoulder and shifted from hip to hip. The red on her cheeks shone like a crimson beacon.
Chief Waitley had lunged forward, hand outstretched to catch me before I could hit the ground. He too was surprised at the swiftness of Anzi’s rescue, but righted himself without comment.
He absently pulled the two inches of metal from his chest as though he only just remembered it was there. Eyes full of pensive thoughts stared at the door through which his former subordinate had fled. With a fractional shake of the head, Chief Waitley focused his attention on me once more.
“I’m sorry you had to be present for such unpleasantness, Miss Miller.”
He paused, allowing me the opportunity to gather my thoughts and give them voice. I gladly took him up on the offer.
“It’s… It’s okay sir. I hope I haven’t caused you any trouble.”
He grinned, the first real emotion he’d shown since his arrival. He ran a hand over the back of his head as he answered my not-quite-a-question statement.
“I normally would handle such things differently but I felt compelled to act.”
There was a flash of silver in my peripheral vision. I grinned back, eager to see what else heaven’s miracle had in store.
To be continued…
Badgefully,
The Unsheathed Quill
