Paul’s latest writing project

 

October 1996
East Shelburne, MA

In a darkened study, on a pre-dawn morning, a solitary figure sat at a computer keyboard staring at a blank page on the monitor. Three minutes passed. Five. Then ten. Finally, the long fingers began moving ever so slowly, ever so haltingly over the keypad, straining to fashion letters into words, struggling to fashion words into sentences. As quickly as it had started the fingers went silent once more, and he paused to read what he had wrote, as if seeing it for the first time.

I am the creator of my reality. I can write this book. I will write it. And I will not let my mind stop me this time.

Palmer breathed in deeply and exhaled with a long, familiar sigh. He rubbed his eyes, a touch too hard, and pushed himself away from his desk to glance at his watch. 5:46 AM. Too early, he thought, for him to create anything remotely like the brilliance of Joyce or the economy of language of Hemingway. Outside, the first light of dawn crept up and over the landscape, gradually brightening the small study where Palmer did most of his writing and writing-not-really. It was early October in New England, and the morning light was arriving a bit later each day. Couple this with the frosty fall air and you had the strong makings of a conspiracy designed to keep Palmer in bed and engaged in sleep therapy.

This would be a bad thing.

Because sleeping in would soon become the least of his problems. The voice of his inner critic would see an opening and take over. This critic had a personality of his own, and there were mornings that he experienced it as an immobilizing weight sitting upon his chest, mocking him, imploring him not to get up, to slide back into that old rut ‘cause by the way, just who do you think you are, you piece of crap, thinking you can be a writer? Palmer could almost smell its fetid breath on his face, could feel it sneering at him to give up his writing dreams, this child’s fantasy that was sheer folly and would bring him and his family nothing but shame, failure, and unbearable regret. The critic and the cold seeped into him, the darkness taking hold, spreading like a sickness, making itself right at home, putting its muddy feet all over the furniture and bullying out all things bright and cheery and hopeful.

Palmer was no stranger to this inner battle. He knew that to actively resist these feelings would only empower them, so he made a point to acknowledge their presence without giving in to them. He had learned that if these feelings were left unchecked it would inevitably lead to a short and frustrating bout of writing, not to mention a generally shitty day and a potentially very bad precedent which would have more far-reaching consequences. This acknowledge-yet-ignore strategy had worked so far, and he usually managed to drag his body out of bed and get to working.

This morning, though, was a different story. The cold felt heavier, more immobilizing, the darkness more complete. Palmer longed for the warm, silky breezes and gentle kisses of summer—and it wasn’t even November yet. He realized he needed something to break the stillness, a way to recharge his lost mojo and drained energy. A shift in mindset to quiet the critic. Well, it’s too early for a Cuban cigar, he thought. Maybe a double shot of his home-brewed espresso would do the trick.

Haltingly, Palmer slid from his chair and made his way down the hallway to the kitchen. His golden retriever, Jake, who was watching Palmer the whole time, sprang up eagerly and skipped happily ahead, always optimistic that something fun was about to occur. This was a canine attribute, Palmer mused, that would be a welcome addition to the human species, and would measurably improve his own condition.

As Palmer made his way to the kitchen, his right hip and knee made cracking and popping sounds, noisily and in unison, as if under the command of some internal Majorette. Palmer barely noticed, having come to accept these and other strange bodily phenomena of recent years, such as the appearance of hair where he didn’t need it (his ears) and the retreat of hair where he desperately wanted it (his head). He took these changes as signs of his own mortality, and finally listening to that message played a key role in driving him to follow his dreams at this time in his life.

Palmer stepped into the kitchen and pulled back the curtain above the old sink. The space was roomy, though like the rest of the farmhouse-turned-writing-house, was in desperate need of repairs and updates. The fridge let out a constant whistle and hum, while the propane stove was temperamental, often demanding a whole book of matches just to light. The wooden plank floor, much like Palmer, groaned with every step—a sound Palmer soon grew fond of, appreciating it as part of the place’s distinctive charm.

He opened up the freezer door and retrieved a bag of French roast coffee beans, proceeding to scoop a precisely measured amount into the grinder. As he no longer touched liquor or cigarettes, strong coffee and pirated Cuban cigars were his last true vices.

Once the beans were safely nestled in the grinder, he pressed the switch that brought the machine to life. While he knew that his sleeping son wouldn’t be the least bit disturbed, he knew the noise would wake Kathryn who was still asleep in their bed, which was situated directly over the kitchen.

But he also knew that she would probably roll over and drift immediately back to sleep, probably not even recalling the incident when she eventually awakened. He smiled as he thought of her sleeping, curled up on her side, blissfully unfettered from worldly concerns. Her laissez-faire attitude about most things had proven to be a Godsend to Palmer and was one of the things that kept his anxiety in check. After five years of marriage, he loved and cherished her more than the day they were wed.

As the espresso brewed, Palmer let Jake out into the backyard and sat at the kitchen table. The sun had now fully risen, brightening the room, and bringing much needed light to his soul. The doubts about his ability to write this book as a way to realize his dreams plagued him regularly, especially during the early morning hours when all was quiet and he was alone with his thoughts. The struggle at times was frustrating and self-defeating, and required constant vigilance lest the doubts overwhelm and derail him. But gradually he was learning how to combat the feelings when they arose by trying to act, rather than think his way out of them. He once heard someone use the phrase “Act as if” and had come to rely on it as a workable strategy. Simple acts like getting up to brew some coffee, or play with Jake, or make a mental list of things to be grateful for were enough to halt the downward mental spiral and get his energy moving in a positive direction. With each small victory, Palmer felt more confident in his ability to pull this career and life change off and to not sabotage his chances at success before giving it a real shot.

The espresso maker finished wheezing and spewing steam into the room. Palmer got up from the table to pour himself some of the bitter, black brew, which looked more like Pennzoil than coffee.

He stared unseeing into the yard as he sipped his cup, waiting for inspiration or motivation – it didn’t matter which- to grab hold of his head and shake vigorously. His unbehaving mind wandered from thought to thought, unable to focus on anything for long. Eventually and predictably, his attention was drawn back to the life he walked away from, a life which for all its creature comforts had been slowly strangling him and even now, kept reaching out from the past to torment him with doubt and uncertainty, to attempt to seduce him into returning to a familiar hell.

Upstairs, Kathryn had indeed been awakened by the grinding of the beans and found herself unable to drift back to sleep. As she shifted in bed, she tuned into the sounds of Palmer, who was clearly not writing downstairs. Normally by this time, the silence would be broken by the rhythmic tap-tap of his typing, but today there was nothing. She knew that meant that Palmer was sitting in the kitchen, engaged in his familiar battle, trying to coax the morning into motion.  Finally, Kathryn rolled back the comforter and swung her legs over the side of the bed. As she slipped on her robe, she cast a sideways glance at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. Although some things had shifted around since her younger days, she was generally pleased with how she looked at forty.

After quietly checking on their toddler, Justin, asleep in his bed, Kathryn made her way down the stairs and into the kitchen. She paused at the doorway, taking a moment to watch Palmer at the table—exactly where she had expected him to be. She wasn’t spying on him, though; it was more like she was admiring him. Even after all these years, her breath still caught when she took a long look at him. The wild, untamed shock of dirty blonde hair, his long, lean frame, his legs casually crossed at the knee—all of it stirred something in her, as it always had.

Finally, she walked over to him and placed her hand gently on Palmer’s shoulder. Recognizing the familiar comfort of the moment, he slowly took her hand into his own while never shifting his gaze from the window. Kathryn lingered there with him, existing in that timeless space between past and future, where the two worlds were united by the simple touch of their hands and the quiet, enduring love they shared.

Finally, Palmer broke the comfortable but long silence.

“Good morning sweetheart. What brings you downstairs so early in the morning? Were the bedbugs biting?”

Kathryn caressed his back as she moved to take a seat next to him. “Well, I woke up and didn’t hear you banging away at that keyboard like a madman, so naturally I couldn’t sleep with all the silence.” At this they shared a good laugh, a welcome yet rare occurrence at this hour of the morning. They never laughed this early in the morning when they were pulling the 9 to 5 (Or was it 7 to 7?) grind, and the novelty of this gift had not yet worn off.

“Yeah, well I figure I’d better keep an eye on Jake out in the yard. Don’t want him getting ganged up on by the local squirrel toughs. Besides, I had a hunch that if I stayed quiet long enough you’d join me for a cup of joe, and so far I’m half right. Coffee?”

Kathryn reached over and placed her hand on Palmer’s arm. “If you think I would drink any of that vile crap you put into your system, then you’re crazier than I thought you were. But I’ll take a glass of OJ if you’re buying.”

Palmer was familiar with this variation on a standard Kate theme and smiled a familiar smile. “Ah, espresso’s good for you. Puts hair on your head, which is a good thing, otherwise I’d have less hair there than I do on my chest.” A few scratches on the door indicated that Jake was ready to come in and join the party. Palmer got up from the table to let the dog in and to pour Kathryn’s juice.

Kathryn could tell by Palmer’s playful banter that he was in a good mood this morning, despite the obvious procrastination. She was enjoying the small talk herself, but felt the need to check in with her man on a less superficial level, something she hadn’t done in a week or so. At risk of spoiling the mood, she took a long, slow inhale and brought it up.

“How’s the book coming along?”

Palmer turned a sideways glance and smiled sweetly, not the least bit surprised or offended by the inquiry. He also noted that this was not a casual question and that Kathryn was expecting more than a casual answer. God, how I love her for keeping me on track, he thought. Palmer paused for a moment before answering.

“Well, it could be better and it could be worse. But Kate, the truth is, I know I can do this. Sometimes, you know, I’ll be writing for what seems like an instant, completely lost in the book – hell, I am the book – and when I finally look up, two hours have flown by without me even realizing. Then I’ll go back and read what I’ve written and can’t believe the words came out of me. I mean, it blows me away to think that I wrote that. And the rush I get then is just unbelievable, and each time it happens it makes me stronger and more confident.”

Palmer ran his fingers through his thick uncombed hair as he paused to catch his breath. He looked up at the ceiling for the right words to come.

“And I want to do it for you, for Justin, for all of us, because I know in my heart it’s our calling. It’s our sacred path. And because I feel like we’re really living, maybe for the first time. I just can’t do it without you.”

Kathryn rose from the table and moved toward him. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, finding solace in their embrace. She was moved close to tears by his vulnerability, honesty, and undeniable love for her. She kissed him again on the cheek before speaking.

“And I want you to do it too, and you won’t have to do it without me. Just don’t stop believing in yourself and if you do, even for a moment, believe that I believe in you. I’ll never stop believing in you.”

They held each other more and Jake nosed around their legs, tail wagging, wanting in on some of the action. They released each other and as Palmer went back to pouring his own glass of juice he smiled and said, “Well, we can’t say we’re stuck in a rut anymore, can we?” At this they enjoyed the second good laugh of the morning.

After a few minutes Kathryn went upstairs to shower and get dressed while Palmer picked up the kitchen. When finished, he chose to stall just a bit longer while taking Jake out for a walk down to the small pond at the far corner of their land.

Palmer stood for a moment on the large flat stone that served as the doorstep, surveying the landscape. The 1878 farmhouse sat on over seven acres of land—two acres held the farmhouse and yard, while the rest was fallow land, slowly returning to forest. The wooded areas provided extra privacy and acted as a buffer against development, which, even in the remote corners of Massachusetts, was rapidly consuming open land. Palmer could only hope his new town would escape the grim fate of seeing its rural character replaced by strip malls, new hip-roofed Colonials, and other symbols of ‘progress.’ But the reality was harsh: family farms were struggling to survive, and large swaths of arable land were being sold to developers or seized by lenders. It was like a smaller-scale version of The Grapes of Wrath, a once-proud way of life fading away, often disappearing under the hammer of an auctioneer’s gavel, like the passenger pigeon before it.

In the short time Palmer and Kathryn had been here, they had come to truly appreciate the solitude and simplicity of rural life.  How wonderful it was to not have to deal with traffic jams, city rudeness and the parking enforcers boot; how refreshing it was to have a downtown that consisted of a barber shop, general store, post office and gas station; how uplifting it was to witness little of the apathy, alienation and random violence that characterized much of society today.

Palmer surprised himself by how quickly he and Kathryn felt at home here and dropped many of the so-called necessities from their old way of life. It was if layer upon layer of inauthenticity was being stripped away, revealing what was truly real and what really mattered.

This healing was made manifest by a slower, gentler pace of life, as well as healthy doses of good old Yankee common sense and decency. Being here for the last four months had cleansed Palmer’s mind and soul like a sweet, spring rain. This cleansing process was akin to waking up from a long, painful, upside-down dream, a dream in which the truly important didn’t matter and the unimportant was everything.

As his mind continued to exorcise deceptive beliefs which no longer served him, Palmer paid less attention to the doubting, anxious voice of the inner critic that had kept him paralyzed with fear and stuck for most of his life. He was learning to cut through the mental chaff to listen to a calmer, steadier voice within, a voice that was reassuring and becoming stronger each day. This voice was like a tiny candle in the wind during the dark periods in his life, which resulted in all kinds of disturbances and derailments that he was only now beginning to fathom. Now, as he learned through experience to trust this voice, he was finding true belief in himself and his true purpose. a purpose so clear, so simple, yet so easily overlooked for so long. A purpose that was like an elephant in the living room that was just noticed after years of doing handstands for attention.

As he reached the pond, he sat down on a well-worn boulder protruding into the water. As Palmer watched Jake gallivant in and out of the water, he realized that the door to a known, predictable way of life had closed behind them, perhaps forever. Forever because his mind, now expanded to a new fullness and awareness could never return to its once smaller self. Yet, the fears hadn’t fully disappeared. They still crept in at the worst moments, when their presence was least welcome. Could they make this work? Could they really build the life they had both dreamed of but never thought possible? They had placed a large bet on the answer being yes.

Upstairs in the bedroom, Kathryn sat down at her desk and pulled out her calligraphy supplies. She had just landed her first local job, wedding invitations for a nice couple who saw her ad in the paper, and she was excited to begin. Calligraphy had been something she had picked up at the local continuing education program a few years ago, but had never put much energy into it before now. However, in their new life it was Kathryn’s way of living her part of the dream by breaking with the unfulfilling parts of her past and moving toward authenticity. Not insignificantly, it also held the promise of steady income if she succeeded.

As she set up her work area, she pulled back the curtain over her desk and caught sight of Palmer and Jake heading back from the pond. She never quite understood their fascination with the small, stagnant pool of water, but there were times when she felt pangs of jealousy when they spent time there. It was as if Palmer and Jake shared a bond in a special fraternity she couldn’t be part of, one whose deepest secrets she could never quite grasp. But most of the time, Kathryn chose to be grateful that Palmer had found a quick, reliable means of recharging his batteries. A way that was certainly no stranger to Kathryn than her escape in trashy romance books was to Palmer.

Lately, however, it was slowly dawning on Kathryn that their own lives were more absorbing, more nail-biting than any cheap novel she had ever read, a thought which set her heart to skipping a beat. Paradoxically however, Kathryn didn’t feel like this was a bad thing. She felt more alive in the last few months than in many of the previous years combined, alive in the same way a trapeze artist must feel as he climbs the high platform, fully present in the moment like an astronaut one minute before liftoff. When her mind went off on these tangents, she would gently rebuke herself for being so melodramatic. ‘Come on Kate, in the grand scheme of things that is really small stuff.’

Some things were not so casually tossed aside. As much as she hated to look at it, occasionally refusing to admit it, she harbored concerns about Palmer that worried her. After all, she had seen him get passionate about things before, only to have things fizzle out at the first sign of trouble. She had seen him exult in possibilities and potential, only to plumb the depths of despair when his inner demons regained the upper hand. And this time the stakes were quite high.

But this chance to make a life, rather than a living, to dare to want it all and then go and get it- a chance like this was rarer than rare, scarcer than scarce. Kate was no stranger to rolling the dice, but this one was different because it wasn’t only up to her to make it work, and because she was reminded of the responsibility she bore every time she looked into little Justin’s eyes.

But by taking this leap with her husband, Kate experienced firsthand how many people, even close friends and family, dismissed their determination to pursue their dreams as nonsense. “You’re crazy to take such a chance,” was the message from those who supposedly had their best interests at heart. When they actually stepped off the fast track, sold their house, and moved to the country, some friends dropped them as if they had the plague. Kate understood how isolating it could be to follow your inner compass, especially when it went against what society expected of you.

But the concept and reality of living life on their terms was just so damned exciting that the risk was worth it. She smiled at the thought of a recent conversation she had with her best friend, Sally. Sally fully supported Kate, never questioned her intent and always honored her instincts. During one of her darker moments, Sally told her, “There’s times in life when there are no road maps. There are times when you have to move ahead by faith and not by sight.”

On his way back from the pond, Palmer tossed the dog another stick and felt ready to begin the days writing process. He felt clearer than he had earlier and while far from inspired, was no longer actively resistant which was a good start, for the first step in writing anything was to place one’s butt in a chair and to keep it there.

The dog brought the stick again and Palmer drew it way back and threw it as high and far as he could. As the stick spun end over end toward the heavens, Palmer smiled at the part of him that would have him fail, that would have him live from fear and not from love, to settle for mediocrity instead of pursuing bigger dreams. Today, Palmer declared, we chalk one up for the home team. Today, my friend, you will not defeat me.

Maybe tomorrow, but not today.