For the last few months, and particularly this week, I have poured a lot of energy into a creative endeavor driven by my cousin; a short film project. This sleepless adventure has deeply inspired me to refocus my heart on my own creative ambitions. Late last year I decided to set out and write a book about the process of becoming a sibling survivor of death in war. Though my brother was killed 6 1/2 years ago, I thought maybe it would be a good idea to reopen that wound; for deeper healing I suppose. As the years go on, resentments and unresolved anger have morphed into a new and tangible albatross that I either choose to ignore, or process somehow. Writing a book seemed like a logical solution.
Ben's life was littered with a cast of characters beloved and charming. In his death, everyone muddled together in grief, painting a distinct story of his wild and varied life. I decided to approach my story using the memories of those who knew him best. One such person has been on the film set this week working on unrelated projects. He reminded me of my most pressing and important memory of my brother. Years ago, there was a gathering at my old apartment and Ben asked about my bookshelf full of journals. I told him it was all the poetry I'd written since the beginning of middle school. He was astounded at the body of work I'd created thus far, and asked me to read something. I chose to read a piece written several years prior. To say that Ben was supportive of my work is a slight understatement. When I told him I hadn't written in as long, he made me promise him, that I would never, ever stop writing. That promise has weighed heavily on my heart and soul since, and more so in his passing.
The days I spend at the old 9 to 5 are riddled with guilt, longing and regret. Without proper training as a journalist, creative writer or even published work, I lack the confidence required to have the balls to quit my full time job and launch off on my typewriter like some sort of Bukowski. Of course, here is where the discipline of an artist should enter stage right where I would be spending my evenings off toiling for the promise I so want to keep. The truth is, the book project is a major ordeal that I've never even approached before and a little (a lot) daunting. After hearing the reminder of the promise yesterday by Ben's best friend, I decided that the best approach at keeping it is to accomplish my original dream. I have enough poetry to publish eight volumes and there have been countless manuscripts assembled already. Perhaps going through the process of attempting to publish work I've already created would be a nice gate opener for the larger goal. Less daunting.
As I also embark on a new sober journey (65 days!!), I find that old lurking feelings encroach the surface more everyday. As I am getting more honest with myself, it's harder to ignore the truths about my life's wishes. When hungover all the time, it was enough effort to roll outta bed and show up for my paycheck, let alone write a book in the evening. After 10 years at the helm of the same job at the same company, I'm beginning to have a crisis of spirit. The weight of the promise I must keep grows heavier each passing year, and heavier still as the fog of alcoholism slowly begins to unveil a deeper desire to follow my heart instead of my wallet.
My cousin has taken many risks in life to seek that which is greater than the stability of cubicle life and actually, live. I have a great many voices in my head discouraging me from even attempting a project that will surely lay stagnant on a long list of unrecognized authors. Fear of completing a project for a ho-hum response has me paralyzed most of the time. The reality is, most of our lives are probably like that. Many of us have worked tirelessly on projects near and dear to our hearts simply for the satisfaction. I think I am finally fed up enough of only having that glorious self gratification just out of reach. I am fed up of talking about my dreams and wants, instead of showing the proof. Life is so fucking short, and I am crumbling in this stale old stability box of work day in and day out for no one important to me. However, finding the confidence and motivation to keep a promise born as an attempt to give me those very boosts without him here to fuel the fire, is the ultimate irony. I am so grateful for those that remind me of him and his wishes for me. I truly hope I can carry it with me on days I need it most. Here's to growing a pair, and to healing through chasing dreams.
