Rafiki Says...

It is time.

It's been 15 years since I left the book business (I only count the final year and a half for chronological purposes; that place sucked the soul right out of me).

It's been 16 years since I had a book release through a traditional publisher (Oogie Boogie Bounce, I'm looking at you). Approximately the same amount of time since I published anything at all (Legerdemain, which I consider my literary, red-headed stepchild; much loved but mostly underappreciated).

Occasionally, I run into someone from that previous life who asks me if I'm still writing. My default response is to smile politely and say something along the lines of "Not as much anymore." They usually smile in return, and that's the end of that conversation.

Even more rare are the times I meet someone who recognizes either my face or name and says, "Aren't you the writer?" In those times, my standard answer is, "I used to be."

Their response follows the path of the other. Polite smile, acknowledgement, and some expression of either disappointment or relief.

It's hard to tell the difference.

Even though the craft that defined my 40s has lain fallow, I've never stopped thinking about it. The third book in the Oogie Boogie Opus was titled Oogie Boogie Breakdown. I finished the first half, including the Prologue and Intermission (hate all you want, I enjoy including those seemingly antiquated literary devices in my work. Epilogues too. Tell me you've never sat in a theater until all the credits rolled just in case you might miss something).

The man who composed the first half of Breakdown doesn't exist any more. He closed the file and moved on, too occupied with a disintegrated career, a disintegrating marriage and a general sense of "why even bother."

That man felt betrayed by many things. The job he thought would carry him forever. The marriage he thought he had. He buried a lot of things in the 2010s; one of which was his muse.

Truth be told, he didn't miss him much.

But still, he thought about that chunk of Breakdown every day while he experienced his own.

A few times a year, he'd open the old files and give it a look. He remembered sending it out to a few friends for their opinion, and (if memory serves) all came back with positive feedback. They liked what they read in various degrees. Unfortunately, the author didn't feel the same.

Additionally, he couldn't find his way back into the manuscript. The end of the Intermission didn't suggest a path forward as it usually does. So many aborted attempts at Chapter 18 cluttered my hard and cloud drives that I had trouble finding a particular one on those few occasions I considered trying again.

A few years after my divorce, and the rebuilding that followed, I was fortunate enough to meet a woman I wish I had met years before, even though our younger selves probably would have despised each other with the same vehemence we still feel for our respective exes. We both entered this relationship with the attitude of "This is who I am. Deal with it or don't."

That approach defined my post-divorce dating life. She chose to deal with it.

Fortunately I was smart enough to do the same.

One of the first things I ever gave her were copies of the two Oogie Boogie books. She professed her love for Stephen King, so I figured my poor attempts at similar prose might be something she'd enjoy. Turns out, she loved it.

She also accomplished in a space of days what She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named (and before you ask, let me say that this appellation isn't just a literary device; this is the only way I'll ever refer to her; you never say Bloody Mary three times into a mirror, am I right?) never did in twenty years of marriage: She read something I wrote.

If nothing else, this made her a keeper (I jest; there's a whole lot more).

She asked about a follow-up. I told her about Breakdown, and how I found myself stuck in mid-novel. She encouraged me to continue, and I'd smile and nod politely, knowing an effort expended in that direction would likely be opening a long-abandoned file and correcting a comma or two.

"Are you the writer?"

"I used to be."

And still, Breakdown invaded my thoughts almost every day.

A writer friend of mine (and if you're reading this, you'll recognize the quote) has always believed you need to bleed on the page. Perfectly valid philosophy, but maybe that was the source of my block:

I wasn't bleeding any more.

It's amazing what you jettison after finally removing a mill stone from around your neck. Things you once felt essential to your pursuit of life, liberty and happiness reveal themselves as simply other, more enjoyable mill stones. In truth, what a lot of these "hobbies" unveil themselves as are escapes.

Escape from a toxic relationship (check). Escape from an unfulfilling career (check), Escape from the plethora of shit that invades every one of our lives (and if you'd like to tell me you have absolutely nothing in your life you'd like to escape from, go check your attic, basement or closet and count how many commemorative thimbles, cups, plates and/or miniatures you have and get back to me).

Go ahead; I'll wait.

See, there's always something.

My current lack of non-voluntary blood loss aside, I don't want to imply that my recent life -for all its benefits and contentment- has been entirely feces free. Far, far from it. Without sharing specifics, I will say it's easier to clean up shit when you have someone telling you where to wipe.

OK, I think that metaphor's run its course.

A few years back, I forwarded my wife a sample of something I had written for Breakdown. I don't believe I'll ever use it, but the next time I saw her, she was adamant that I should finish whatever the sample had started, and I should finish it immediately. Normally, when my wife asks me to do something, "immediately" is my default reaction. This time, not so much.

Another polite smile. Another polite nod.

"I used to be."

Writing seemed to have receded so far behind me that I didn't even bother checking my Amazon listings any longer, let alone B&N or Smashwords. Occasionally, I'd Google one of my titles, in case anyone had mentioned them somewhere; rarely did I discover any new results. That era of my life was sleeping in a cave somewhere, settled in for a long winter's nap, if Winter were defined by George R. R. Martin. The realization didn't bother me as much as I thought it should.

But Breakdown never left my thoughts.

Two years ago, as a Christmas gift, my wife redesigned the room I used upstairs to hold my books and my desk. We called it my Den, but I never did much denning. After the end of the world in 2020, when hybrid work models became the norm and our newest four-legged adoption decided peeing in the grass was infinitely preferrable to peeing on the carpet, I began to utilize my den as a home office. Not the use I had originally imagined, but it worked.

The space my wife gifted me was magnificent. A new desk. New lighting. Fresh carpet (which I insisted on; I've never been a fan of hardwood flooring, and now the only rooms in our house without it are the living room, and my den). New bookshelves, replacing the modular, do-it-yourself  bookcases that had accompanied me on every move I'd made since 1987. The transition aided by first shedding, the boxing, the majority of mass-market paperbacks in favor of Hardcover and trade editions. I know where the ones I want are, in case I ever feel the need to re-read something.

In an effort to standardize my at-home workspace and office workspace, I purchased similar gear for home that mirrored the equipment my employer provided. All that needed to travel was my laptop. Admittedly, my den looked a lot sharper than my cube, but why not be comfortable at home?

However, the point of the exercise wasn't lost on me. This was not intended to be a work-from-home space; this was supposed to be my designated writing space, even though I hadn't written a word in over a decade. The incomplete Breakdown continued to haunt my thoughts and my wife continued to (gently, lovingly) remind me that she was still waiting for the next passage of the sample I had given her.

A year after the remodel, without meaning to, I ordered a new computer from Amazon. Forgoing the traditional beast that lived under my desk, I opted for a laptop of my own. I already had the modular set-up; why not plug & play myself? It arrived, I installed and dutifully swapped the machines around every time I went to the office, or came home. This was the extent of my attempts to put words to page.

Until two months ago.

I'm not certain what prompted me to open a fresh Chapter 18, but I did it. I looked at that blinking cursor like an prodigal butterball suddenly confronted with a new Nautilus machine, unsure I still possessed the muscle to move the bar. I procrastinated long enough to re-read what I wrote back when Obama wasn't gray and Trump was just a reality host with the horrendous comb-over; what I rediscovered didn't make me want to abandon the entire mess and start from scratch.

And when I completed my review, I returned to that blank page. A sentence made the journey from my head to my fingers with zero signal loss. Then, another. And another. Then paragraphs. Then pagination. I felt the blood flow as I increased the weight on the bar. I paused long enough to change playlists and smoke a cigarette, but only that.

My wife tapped on the door and said hi. She came in with a fresh cup of coffee and sat next to me. I showed her what I had done. I described surmounting the speedbump in the tarmac without being able to explain how I had done it, or why. She smiled, visited for a few minutes and walked out after a kiss. She had boards to saw or engines to rebuild or paint to apply. All the things she enjoys.

And I continued to write.

The next day, I wrote some more. The day after that, I saved, copied and pasted Chapter 18 to the end of the manuscript and immediately opened a new file.

Chapter 19.

That was five weeks ago. Sunday, I copied, pasted and closed the book on Chapter 30. Tonight, I begin Chapter 31. By week's end, I expect to be working the Epilogue (bite me, I like 'em). Then, the difficult work really begins.

I don't know how good it is. I'm happy with what I've composed. It feels like a proper continuation to the story begun 15 years ago, when a forty-something hid in a spare bedroom and tried to write a reality better than his own. I believe it's in line with the original adventures of Milo Tucker and the posse he carries around in his noggin, but it's different.

It's cleaner. It's tighter. It's the difference between a miserable man in his 40s and a happy man in his 60s. What's more, I think it's the best thing I've ever written.

And I'm sorry babes, there's no room for the funeral scene you loved so much. I can only hope you enjoy what's there just as much.

"Are you the writer?"

And to quote the eminent poet-philosopher Jonathan Wick:

"Yeah, I think I am."

But Then Again-

Wait a minute. New decade; new world; new me. Lets try something a little less dated.

TL;DR I'm back bitches.

But Then Again, You'll have this...