Neighborhood Watch.

Every morning, I’m greeted by one of two things: a wet nose and a “sudden” sneeze, or a steady whine, a whimper starting in the subconscious recesses of my dreams, like an approaching siren or wailing bank alarm, then breaching reality when I realize the sound is actually coming from the beast at the foot of the bed. My dog doesn’t have to go out or need his bowl filled, though he’d go for either if given the chance. No, Jackson is ready for his walk. He’s gotten spoiled. This, he’s grown to think, is how a day should begin. I try to take him every morning, which translates to four or five times a week. Sometimes we leave before the sunrise, and get home as it begins to peer over the Cajundome, and others the sun paints the whole path before us. He has a certain pride to his stroll, his head held at the same upturned angle as his fluffy, flag-like tail. We see other dogs, behind fences and on leashes, but Jackson never barks at them—though he will pee on the nearest tree to let them know he was there. If he finds discarded food, left over Taco Bell or chicken bones that have been tossed out of a car window, he vacuums them up. There are smells. Everywhere. And Jackson investigates them all.

He’s got a route, he’s got a neighborhood to patrol. And when he gets home, after a period of pant and shake, he collapses on the hardwood floor. Most often, he spends the rest of the day there. His job is done for the day. Sometimes, I watch him when he sleeps, watch his breathing hitch and paws twitch when the dream hunt is on, when sheep or goats or maybe even people need to corralled and brought back in from the pasture. And honestly, I’ve never seen a more perfect picture of contentment. He seems to sleep like he’s got nothing plaguing him, no worries or anxieties. Sure, I know I’m talking about a dog here. What does he have to worry about besides the next bowl of food, or how far the ball has been thrown? But you know what I see? I see a certain calm, a serenity that comes from doing exactly what you were meant to. 

That’s how I feel when I finish writing, after I’ve gotten on a roll, when I see a story taking on a life of its own. When I’ve saved my progress and closed the laptop lid. There’s a sense of: okay, now I can relax. Because I’ve done what I know I’m supposed to. It is, for lack of a better term, my job. The save button is how I punch out. And the paycheck? That doesn’t find its way into my mailbox every two weeks, and I shouldn’t expect a W2 anytime soon. Christmas bonus? To me, that just means more days off, which translates into more time to write. 

So why do we do it? Why do we stick with a position that is devoid of medical benefits, and 401K plans, and two weeks paid vacation—where there isn’t any room for “advancement” or managerial training? This is a job that pretty much every person in our lives (save for those along the same path), thinks is more of a “hobby” than a career, though they would never dream of saying it aloud. There are conferences and retreats and Facebook pages and support groups to remind us that there are others like us, that share the drive, the desire to create, but really, writing is a solitary endeavor. Because at the end of the day, after the line edits and end comments and networking with agents and publishers and the inevitable off site conversations about what Camus was really trying to say, we go home to our saved manuscripts, our misplaced commas, and our unparalleled insecurity about the ability to create the world, the characters, and the lasting impressions that only our minds can see. So, again, I could have been a firefighter or an astronaut. Why the hell did I decide to be a writer?

Because when I’m done for the day, after I’ve carved out five pages or two or even a single snippet of dialogue, I can circle the hardwood, pick the most comfortable spot and fall down, relaxed enough to let my paws start kicking, and dream of chasing down another story tomorrow.

China Grove.

My goal for today was to write three pages. Just three, not a very large order. But after going to the gym and running all the errands I had to take of, I sat in front of a blank page for an hour. I struggled through two paragraphs and it finally hit me, I was blocked. Gasp! The worst enemy of any aspiring writer is the block that looms just beyond the next sentence. I battled fiercely with my opponent for a few rounds then finally succumbed to its power.

I was winded. I had to step away from the keyboard and from the few meager and, dare I say marginal sentences I had written and called a time out. I ate something and took a breather on the couch. Zoned out with the remote control and glared menacingly at the computer taunting me from across the room. My laptop and its aluminum grin sat triumphantly and continuously reminded me of my inadequacy. After awhile I became fed up with the non-verbal insults and I rejoined the fight.

Turns out, all I needed was to regroup. The three pages I had intended to write turned into thirteen. And I love the shit of of them.

Daily Update
Page Count - 68
Sample -
"The house was quiet save for the echo of a dog barking in the park across the street. Paul, outstretched on the couch, looked around the living room. It hadn’t changed for as long as he could remember; the same oak armoire that housed wedding china and little league trophies loomed in the furthest corner, the matching bookshelf rested in the opposite and the mocha-colored wraparound sofa that Paul had slept on took up the majority of the rest of the room. His mother’s collectibles, the little russian dolls that get smaller and smaller still, filled the shelves that framed the bay window above the couch. The three rings from the coffee Paul and his parents shared remained on the oak coffee table but the mugs were absent, taken away and cleaned by his mother while Paul slept."