Say What?

I used to think writing was a good thing - you know, a way to express some creativity. But now I wonder. It has stirred up some sort of pot which was bubbling away in the background. Or I think it has. Maybe that pot would have stirred on its own with the passage of time.

I am 48, going on 49. For the last three years, or so, I have experienced middle age. Some would call it a crisis. I wouldn't go that far, for there is no real danger of anything beyond losing my mind. An argument can be made that that happened a long time ago (yes, self-deprecating sarcasm, sorry about that).

Despite there being no danger, there has been a hammering realization that aging is a reality. That the past is the past, separate from us, yet still attached. The future is no comfort because we now actually get a feeling of what it may be like with the degradation of certain bodily functions. The present is no friend as we use that time to consider both the future and the past. Middle age is a vortex, a desperate grab to hold on to what was and a furtive attempt to avoid heading down the dreaded hill.

I thought writing would benefit my attempts to record the past, to somehow rebreathe life back into it. I don't want to live in the past; just simply experience it again from time to time. Unfortunately, it's left me frustrated more than anything. It seems that I can't capture any of it in a manner which is realistic and fulfilling. I've tried with poetry. I've tried with fiction. I get glimpses of it now and then, but the sum totality of it all is missing.

I keep thinking that I just need the right combination of words to act as a key to unlock the chambers that hold the essence of what I seek. The search for the right combination has been fruitless, though, to a large extent. Additionally, there seems to be an attention deficit disorder lurking in the shadows that robs me of my will to keep searching. It's as if I sense a futility in the trying. It's also as if the task seems so daunting that I just can't see the point of attempting it.

Maybe there's a spot of laziness as well.

Now, I look back over what I have written here, and I see the ADD has taken over again. This has missed the mark of what I was attempting to do, and I have lost that thread already.

Just a part of getting older, I guess.

Of Trains and Other Things

Now available - Of Trains and Other Things.
My new book of short stories:

For more information: www.thejeffhowe.com

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An excerpt from A Forest in Forever, one of the stories in the book:

Just as we reached the door, my cell phone rang.
“Hold on a minute, Maggie,” I said. Speaking into the phone, “Yeah?”
“Dad!”
“Stevie?”
“Yeah, Dad. Just thought I’d call to see if you made it home okay.”
“Stevie, I’m just fine, thank you.”
“Is that music I hear playing?”
“Yeah, Stevie... listen, I’m with your mom right now. I’ll call you back later.”
There was a brief silence. “Dad?”
“Yeah, what?”
“Dad, Mom died three years ago.”
I sighed. “Don’t you think I know that Stevie?”
“So, what do you mean that you are with Mom?”
“I’ll try to explain it to you later, Stevie, OK? Goodbye.” I was getting a little impatient with this conversation.
“But, Da...” I turned off the phone, folded it shut and returned it to my belt.
Smiling at Maggie, I motioned to the door and said, “Shall we?”
“Love to,” she smiled back.
I opened the door. Then I picked her up and carried her into the cabin. She giggled like a teenager as I kicked the door closed behind us.