“I’ve paid the dues to tell the news. The longer you live, the keener your obligation to report on the journey.” B. B. King
I’ve been destroying the evidence. Going through those files is a promise I’ve made to myself every January for more years than I want to admit, and this from the neat freak who complains when the spouse leaves a mess of old mail lying around. Sort of a pot meets kettle deal.
I keep hard copies of these columns to read and record for a radio program. But after that they should disappear instead of finding a home in a file cabinet. From now on, anything more than a year old needs to go. Those old copies went back for twenty years. It was hard to toss them, because the ones I skimmed through reminded me of incidents I’d forgotten. There were blurbs about cute things my grandkids did, and said, as small children. They are all now in college, or have families of their own. When writers read back over old material, we often marvel at ourselves. “I forgot I knew that.” Or, “Was that me that said that?”
The clearing out almost felt like I was throwing my life away and I’m still a bit sad about it. But a hard truth is that moving ahead opens the way for what is yet to be. I’ve reported on my journey for more than thirty years and will keep on as long as it seems appropriate. One of the benefits of looking back at the reports is realizing that somewhere along the way I became comfortable with calling myself a writer. For too long, I thought a writer was someone who was well known and got well paid. I used to think maybe that would be me someday, but came to realize that kind of lifestyle would have made me miserable. Those folks are owned by publishers who keep demanding more books and more travel so they can make more money. I’d be miserable standing in lines at airports, spending weeks in strange cities, and sleeping in hotels. I’m not even sure how to call a taxi or arrange an uber, and don’t want to learn.
I’m fine with being more in the category of notorious, rather than famous. Every now and then I get a note, or phone call, from someone I’ve never met who wants to share what my writing has meant to them. That people make an effort to do this never ceases to amaze me and warm my heart. Of course, there’s the occasional anonymous hate letter, but even those tell me that I touched someone’s life.
You know how we gather at funerals and class reunions to tell old stories about things we did and people we knew? I believe we do that for the same reason people write memoirs—the need to reassure ourselves that it really did happen, and that we really do exist. So, go ahead and tell it again. Write it down, or make a recording for the grandkids. You were here. You are here, and you matter.
Meet me here next week and meanwhile do your best. Somebody might like it, and they might even remember to tell you so.