The alarm went off at 6 a.m. This was a concession, an unhappy one, to the fact I couldn't get to sleep the night before—and I didn’t want to be dead on my feet for the big day. I had gone to bed at midnight and…
Hold on! Not midnight! Magically, 1 a.m. What?
Yes, time change. In northwest Indiana, spring forward, fall back. I was born here, and it still takes me by surprise.
I lay there, thinking, staring at the red numbers. If I blinked, I knew that it would suddenly say 6:30. The alarm was set for 6 a.m. Not 4 a.m., the time the ideal me got up. Not even 5 a.m., the compromise time.
I am one of the faceless millions in this country who have an alternate identity.
I call myself a writer.
In my vainer moments that’s what I do, anyway. I think it was Faulkner who said, “Don’t be a writer. Always be writing.” It’s good advice. Goes right to the heart of the matter. Anybody can string sentences together (although as a high school teacher, I can attest that that number is sadly diminishing). Still fewer can do it effectively. Fewer still get recognized for their ability, and a very small number can make a living off it.
That is my dream, my hope, my fervent wish. It’s the canker sore in my mouth.
Compared to a lot of people, I have a good life. I have a job, which in these economic times, is not insignificant. I try not to complain about things that go on at work because it seems people are queued up to tell me that at least I have a job. My wife and kids are provided for, admittedly not in the manner I’d like for them to be, but adequately. At least for now.
Whatever.
It’s not enough. And I don’t care who it offends.
And believe me, it's not about the money. I love to write. I love to see my words on the page. I love to see other people see my characters as real as I see them. And I would love nothing more than to have the freedom to do it full-time.
So I’m lying there, and as my familiar, depressive thoughts--the chasm between my dreams and my reality--start crowding in on me, I start my mantra: “Good things are happening…good things are happening…good things are happening…” I’m one of those people who think the Universe can be commanded. Whatever ye shall bind on earth and all that Mathew 18:18 business. Maybe it can, maybe it can't. But if it can, and I'm not trying to command it, then shame on me. Today, it’s especially important that I think positively, because I am horrifically nervous. Just stultifyingly, pit-in-the-stomach on edge.
It’s a big day.
I’m going to go see Stephen J. Cannell.
More than once today I will think to myself, “After school, just go home. You can lie and say that you went. You have a fertile imagination. There’s all kinds of things you could say. Going to Chicago on a school night is a big deal, and you’re not twenty anymore. People will understand. Go home. Play Madden on the PlayStation. Roughhouse with the kids. Watch reruns of The West Wing.”
The thing is, I knew that I would be thinking things like this. So, as a precaution, I’ve been telling anyone who would listen what my plan was. Coworkers. Friends. My wife. My kids. Facebook. All the girders and supports I have in my life, I told. If I backed out, there would be a backlash. I would be called on it. Even if I wasn’t, an unspoken contempt.
Besides, I had pressed a friend of mine to meet me up there. It was on.
Fear and doubt is not a luxury I can afford.
So I get up to do my morning routine, and whenever I feel the negative feelings rush in I chant, “Good things are happening…good things are happening…good things are happening.”
Next time: Stephen Cannell Beams In.
This is the first installment. To read on, click here.
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