I Want To Wake Up

I have been chasing an unobtainable dream. I wanted to be a writer.  But I don’t know how to write. I didn’t grow up reading the classics. I didn’t pursue a literary degree in college; instead, I studied journalism, which in my opinion isn’t creative writing at all, and I studied theology: the endless search to find God. Many journalists and theologians write, but most of it is simply reinterpreting what they’ve seen or read and trying to say it in a new way.

But real writers write. Stories flow from them. I’m not saying they don’t work; obviously it takes dedication. I’ve had the dedication but not the ability. Why did I not realize sooner that I have no gift for the pen?

I suppose I have the gift of music, although I pretty much see that as a curse, also. I have pursued music way too much in my life. It has always paid in small dividends. Had I neglected that gift and just worked hard at a job, any job, and not been swayed by the starry-eyed dreamers lusting for stardom, then I would not be broke at age 58, unable to travel, unable to pay my bills, unable to enjoy life. But I do have the gift for music. I’ve always been able to play drums. It came naturally. And I’ve worked at it, I’ve sharpened my skills, but I did have skills to sharpen. Many times, more than I can count, I have been asked to help those who have almost no musical talent, no skills to sharpen. But they have a golden idol: stardom, or some foolish desire to stand on a stage, or to be heard. I’ve always complied with their requests. I’ve practiced hard to learn their songs and to help them in whatever way I could. And generally, I’ve had the highest of hopes for them, but deep down inside I knew their dreams would be shattered: they had no gift, no skills to sharpen.

And when it comes to writing, I’m just like those poor wretched souls who I have watched suffer so many times in my life. I have paid a heavy mental toil because I’ve never been able to finish a novel, but I don’t have a novel in me. It’s not that I can’t string sentences together, I can, but it’s because I never know where to go with a story. It just doesn’t come natural. I’ve been chasing an unobtainable dream, but I don’t know why. What makes a person want to write? Is it revenge? I’m afraid that might be my inspiration, and that’s not good. I don’t know why anyone should write, other than to pass information from one generation to another, but writing for revenge is like contemplating murder. And in the end, who suffers most, the one who is murdered or the murderer? I’d say the murderer. He or she has to live with what they’ve done, even if they thought they were justified, but the murdered are at rest, numb to the cares of the world. It is the living that suffers, and I am suffering for premeditated murder. I’ve planned it for so long that it is killing me. But I contend that this slow suicide would have not been my fate had I simply acknowledged years ago that I have no gift of writing. That is the dream I should’ve murdered. I should have buried it, threw dirt over it, put a marker on the grave and walked away.  

When humans collectively reach for the stars it is admirable because we know all things are possible if we work together. But when one person prattles on about how he is going to fly to the moon, we know he is insane. I have been that person, wanting to travel the galaxy with no spacecraft, no engineering team behind me to build one. There is nothing more pitiful than a man who does not realize that he is blind, yet he tries to walk with the seeing but he cannot stay the course; they can rescue him only so many times. There is nothing more pitiful than dreaming an elusive dream.

I want to wake up.

To want is to die

To want is to die
The world is quiet between midnight and dawn. Everything seems much clearer with only a few of the lamps lit in the house. With no television or stereo I hear the silent melody of life. In the stillness I see the worn patterns in wood grain of my desk that I never notice during the daylight hours. The moment is eternal. There is no need for anything other than now. 
To want for tomorrow is to die. 
(c)Mitchell Plumlee

When all is said and done

When all is said and done, I hope to write much about what I've said and done. There are so many things that have happened in my life that I feel I should share. Not because I'm narcissistic, but because I believe my missteps might help another to take a better path. If only one person is helped, then it is worth the time to write it.

I probably have not done so before now because of the legalities, i.e., the fear of being sued. But I no longer care about that. The way I see it is that if those who are offended by reading about the ways they wronged me, or aided me, then they shouldn't have done those deeds in the first place. Everyone who knows me has always known that I love to write, so they should've known better than to associate with me. Whenever I'm around writers, I'm very aware that what I say or do to them might well end up in print. And that's the way it should be. Writers should write about people, the good and bad.