Sometimes

You feel you have an incredible amount of things to say, but when it comes down to actually putting it out there, the words fail you. Not sure that has ever happened to me completely, but it would explain why I have started several projects (2 novels and a play) and never managed to put any kind of huge dent in them. In a way, I am hoping this forum can get me into that habit of writing things down – getting the creative juices flowing.

I do believe the fundamental ideas of the projects I have in production are worthwhile and if they ever get out of my head people would like them. Funny thing is, writing is something that has always come naturally to me and when I have been in a position where there is a deadline involved I have come through with good results.

For example, one of my hobbies is RPGs. I even created (along with great assistance from a friend Randy Van Metre – Dude, don't know where you are, but I miss ya', if you see this drop a line) my own rule system that combines what I believe are the best elements from two game systems. As the dungeon master of my last (and on the rare occasion ongoing) campaign, I had a party of six players, 3 guys and their wives – none of the ladies had much gaming experience. What I was noticing as we played was the guys were doing the majority of the playing and the women just going thru the motions – rolling the dice when told, etc. As the idea for the campaign came together I needed a reason to have this odd collection of individuals with different skill sets and races to actually travel together. Once I had that idea locked down, I had a brainstorm. I wrote 2 to 3 page backgrounds for every character in the party (based on the characters the Players created and how they intended to play them). I went into great detail, and within each storyline gave the Players clues that were unique to their story and were crucial to the campaign and its storyline. Deadline = job well done. The Players appreciated them and it actually help bring the weaker Players out of their shell and into the gaming experience (well... at least somewhat).

So maybe someone of import will read this blog and insist I finish one of my projects (or even a new one) with a deadline involved. For now, I leave you with something a little different. One evening I was sitting at my computer and I decided to write a poem (gotta say, I type significantly faster than I write by hand, so I really only can write with a keyboard). What came out of me is something I am proud of, but also puzzled by. I have absolutely zero frame of reference for this content, and the subject matter and tone go against my personality. Not everyone has gotten it right away, but I promise there is a fairly straightforward story here. I hope you enjoy it.

Choices

“It’s a boy,” they told me — I sat down and wept. 10 fingers, 10 toes, and a mother that’s doing fine. A part of me wanted to dance, shout from the highest peak, announce to all that my son has been born. I chose not to.

“He’s got his father’s eyes,” they told me — I stared out the window. A spirit that is ready to defy the world, and a mother to shape and focus it. I could see him as a leader, with knowledge as vast as Solomon and a compassion of equal proportion; an athlete of unparalleled skill, a hero in the eyes of young and old; a craftsman whose works rivaled the beauty of the finest sculptor. I was ready to guide. I chose not to.

“He took his first step today,” they told me — I went back to my book. A 40 foot reach and a mother to corral him. I envisioned his first scraped knee, his holding my hand as I magically took away the pain; his expression of elation as he chased the dog around the yard; his puzzlement as he strived to tie his shoes. I was ready to teach. I chose not to.

“He got cast in the lead today,” they told me — I continued my meal. A singing brussel sprout, and a mother to make the costume. I could hear him asking about birds and dinosaurs; TV and sports; a different voice wanting advice on girls and cars. I was ready to answer. I chose not to.

“He got his license today,” they told me — I made my bed. A girlfriend and a prom, and a mother to teach him to dance. I pictured his build, not unlike my own; the same wavy hair and unfortunate nose; feet that were too big and his mother’s eyes of green. I wanted to shake his hand. I chose not to.

“He got married today,” they told me — I sat down and wept. A life full of promise, and a mother with tears of joy. I reflected on his life, from his birth to the present; on good grades and achievements; spankings and discipline; favorite movies and terrible books. I wanted to participate. I chose not to.

“It will all work out,” they told me — I ignored them as usual. A wife who was expecting, a depleting bank account and no prospects. I remembered the face of a man lying in the snow; running until my lungs ached and being surrounded with lights; the blood on my shoes as I was unable to look my wife in the face. I wanted to have a future. I chose not to.

— Roger Clark