A 10-Year Plan

I’d like to strike a mark upon the world and die knowing I have lived. It needn’t be grandiose; I’ve no desire to conquer nations or erect empires. No, I leave such bold endeavors to the capable, the young, and the truly driven. I mean only to leave a teensy smudge, and with nothing mightier than my word processor.

Life is the tangled skein from which I struggle to be unsnarled. At seventeen, my aspirations met their doom, crushed in the savage jaws of my father’s carnivorous wisdom: “...You need to set aside writing. If, after ten years you have a degree, work at a real job, have a family, and still want to write, I’ll support you one-hundred percent.” He promised to pay for college, if (and only if) I gave up writing as my vocation. No more dreaming; it was time to be practical. Instead, I refused his offer, and the small measure of faith I had in humanity crumbled beneath his betrayal. There I left it with the dust of my dreams to bleach -- bone-white -- beneath the desert sun.

Before I turned 30, every year seemed more inclement than the one before it. Each new misfortune became a life-altering hurricane that clubbed at me with hailstones the size of bricks. My stepmother’s Cancer returned; my father’s sanity drifted away in pipe-loads of marijuana, cocaine, and crystal-meth. I’d claw my way to the surface of one pit and slide face-first into the muddy clutches of another.

One morning in the cold, dark hours of winter, I lay in bed thinking. Was I going anywhere? For a while I wondered if gulping large quantities of bleach had the potential to make things better. I knew then what needed to change: my definition of success.

A new vein of possibility opened, but I wasn’t ready. I spent six more years convincing myself I possess something worth sharing. I needed encouragement, the bright halo of another’s faith to chase away the darkness of my fear. Then, from the ashes of dead dreams a new phoenix spread its wings and I accepted my fate.

Today I ask myself, how will I accomplish my goal? The answer settles around me, a warm, soft shroud of understanding: I will write. I practice with new ideas and shape them into stories. I trim their rough-hewn edges and with a careful hand revise them.

I strive to learn. This month, I’m enrolling in a college specific to my needs as a writer. I stand humbly at its door with my single request in hand: please, help me to do this better. In a few years, I expect to emerge as a master in the art and craft of writing. In the meantime, I will strive to groom myself into a professional. I don’t expect it to be glamorous. I expect to work hard and struggle often. Yet, in the deepest part of my soul, I know there is no better way that I may live.

dkb 11/05/04