It was the summer of 2005, and I was still reeling from having turned thirty the previous fall. Not that turning thirty qualified me as an oldster, but I knew my life could not continue as it had up till that point.
To be honest, I felt as though I'd squandered my twenties---the entire ten years worth. I'd spent the ages nineteen and twenty devising ways to get into bars without being carded. Then, when I reached the magical age of twenty-one, I found my home away from home, a place I could drink and shake my insecure ass till my hearts content. I did that until I was twenty-nine, and found in that time that my heart never became content.
Fast forward to 2005, I was washing my face one afternoon when a song, written by Gilbert Bécaud, entitled "What Now My Love?" popped into my head. I finished washing and drying my face and looked into the eyes of my reflection and began singing the song out loud. However, I wasn't merely trying to croon a tune, I was asking myself the question, what now my love? Suddenly, I became aware how trivial my life seemed. I was thirty-years old and still working a job rather than settling into a career. I'm not even sure by whose standard I was attempting to live, I just knew that I wanted to do more. It was then that I decided, whether anyone cared or not, to leave some sort of legacy. That would take the form of some kind of writing, whether a screenplay, a theater play or a novel. After much back-and-forth, the decision to write a novel won out.
I remember the day I told my mother I'd decided to write a book. She was visiting me here in New England and we were having lunch at an outdoor bistro. She was thrilled to hear about my latest endeavor, the happiest she'd ever been with any of my creative decisions.
"I was wondering when you'd come to your senses and do what you're meant to do!" she exclaimed.
She then went on to tell me about the time when I was in elementary school. My memory took over from there...
We students had to take a standardized test called the Benchmark, to show our proficiency in reading, writing and arithmetic.
There was a section on the writing portion of the test that gave us three options. Two were topic specific, but the third option gave the most creative latitude. I don't remember what I wrote, but I do recall that at one point, as I was writing my little story, I paused because I knew that my writing was going in the direction of macabre . I even asked myself if I was sure I'd picked the correct thing to write about because I had a feeling it might be received differently than I intended.
Weeks passed and I came home from school to find my mother standing by the door, like she'd been waiting for me.
"So, I hear you took some test called the Benchmark." There was an edge to the way she spoke.
"Yes," I said, unsure where she was going with the question.
"Well, I just received a call from the people at Benchmark."
Butterflies went crazy in my stomach. "You did?"
"Yeah. Apparently you wrote some story?
My eleven-year-old throat had dried up, making it difficult to speak. I could only nod.
"They called to say that because the story was so dark they felt you must be depressed and are trying to hurt yourself."
At eleven, even I knew that was ridiculous, and it showed on my face.
"I told them, no, my son is not depressed, nor is he trying to hurt himself. He just happens to have a vivid imagination."
I was glad to hear that my mother didn't believe them.
"But, after I got off the phone, I started thinking. You must be one heck of a writer if you had these Benchmark people so concerned that they felt it necessary to call my house."
The look on her face was of pride. I've seen that look two more times to date...the second time was when I was going off to college, and the third time was when I told her I was writing a book.
It was then that I realized this thing I would return to after other ventures didn't pan out, this thing I always ran towards that had become my default creative release, was the thing I was supposed to be doing, because I loved to do it.
And it is for this reason that I enjoy the journey I'm on to get to the place I want to be as a writer. The success will come. I know that like I know the back of my hand. It takes time, sweat and headache, but it is worth it. It is a price I am glad to pay.
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