Writing...

I couldn't have been more than 20 when I saw a cartoon in the newspaper that described me perfectly. It was simply titled, "Writing." The cartoon featured an older, portly businessman in a tailored suit. He sat behind a daunting desk, smoking a pipe. Behind him, floor-to-ceiling bookcases brimmed over with the sum of every civilizations' knowledge. The whole vibe was so intimidating that it let you know, in no uncertain terms, that you should have called to cancel that appointment before you even made it. Across the desk from the pipe smoker, a hippy sat: long hair, sunglasses, wearing blue jeans and a sleeveless vest with no shirt underneath. The beatnick spoke to the businessman. This is what he said: "It started out as a suicide note. Then I corrected the spelling of a few words; rearranged a sentence or two; became interested in the style; developed plot lines and added suspense; inserted a few flashbacks to my miserable childhood and, of course, many bedroom episodes from my formative and adult years. Never once did I dream I would wind up talking to you about subsidiary rights." I loved it so much that I embroidered the cartoon on a piece of muslin and framed it. It is sitting on my desk even now. The cartoon has kept me going, even when I wanted to quit, all my life. It reminds me that so often, we find ourselves on the precipice of dispair, never realizing that we are just one key stroke away from success. Perhaps it is the despair, and perhaps only the despair, that can get us where we need to be, that can save us. That can get us to the place where we can finally reach the dream. And all the while, we rarely realize the untold numbers of souls who, without ceasing, encourage us. The angels who fight our demons unceasingly, in their effort to see us achieve our best lives. We should not fight against them. For Susie. Thank-you.