THE COMPLEX NOW

As I finished reading the last pages of Earnest Hemmingway’s The Old Man and the Sea for my 7^th grade English class book report, I realized then and there, what I wanted to be when I grew up – a great literary writer. It was an epiphany, a stroke of genius. I looked up toward heaven as a bright glowing, radiating light descended on my head. I was elated at my plan. It was perfect. I would write classic novels and short stories that would go down in history. I would live the lifestyle of a renowned author. I would grow a beard and drink hard liquor. I would fight in foreign wars on the side of the exploited underdog and learn the travails of humanity. I would take the lessons of war and write a novel that would win the Nobel Peace Prize in Literature. My fame would spread throughout the world. Celebrity would be my middle name. Tired of all the publicity I would travel to an isolated tropical island and live in a grass bungalow. I would live with a beautiful native woman that took care of all my worldly needs while I sat at my desk writing my next novel. I would fish in the nearby river; bring home a succulent trout or two. She would cut and clean them with a smile then toss them on the open hearth for dinner. I would live off enduring and hefty book royalties. Inevitably, I would become the voice of the post-modern generation. I would stand aloof, above the fray, distant, detached, and harbored in the recesses of my inner being and words.

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Now, let’s fast-forward a decade or two as my saga continues to unwind. After college, I was too busy working as a bartender to realize that my youth was heading south. I had only written a few entries in my journal up to that point and realized I needed to jump-start my writing career before my artistic juices dried-up. I was successful at getting a few poems and short journal entries written over the next few years. It was tough, because I had to find a job and as a single male, I was socially obligated to date as many women as I could. A friend had told me that a man can only understand women by quantitative involvement not qualitative interaction. The advice didn’t really pan out, but at the time, I took his word for it.

As good fortune would have it, I met my wife and spent the next 20 years raising a family of 2.5 kids, running a small business and mowing the lawn. I was able to get three more entries into my journal and I almost complete one poem titled “Brew Good Beer for Breakfast and You Can’t Go Wrong”. I didn’t finish it, because I was going through a “beer for breakfast” phase and I would end up taking a nap at 11:00 in the morning.

I started writing in earnest about a year ago. My kids were away from college, my wife was running the business and I hired a gardener. I finally had some free time on my hands. I started with some short stories, very short stories, about a half page long. Writing was more difficult than I imagined in the 7^th grade. Nevertheless I persisted and began submitting my work to the publishing elite.

It didn’t take long to realize that the New Yorker wasn’t going to put me in their fiction writers section. Rejection letters from dozens of publishers line my bathroom walls as a humble reminder of the world’s cruel treatment to the sensitive, creative soul. A desperate, permanent gloom settled over my life like a desert dust storm swallowing Arizona Cactus into non-existence. With my dream drenched in dismal dysfunctionality, I decided to accept my situation and start fresh. In my case, this meant starting THE COMPLEX NOW WordPress Blog, the one you are reading right now.

I’m happy now. I know I missed the opportunity to live out the high-end spectrum of my dream, but I have also missed the boat on about 95% of my dreams. I’m getting use to collapse, in fact now I embrace it. My wife says that I should be working for retirement instead of pursuing my sizzled dream of writing. I told her she was right. I should be working instead of goofing off. But, I’m a man. What does she expect?

Thank you for joining the Cm3kz0ut site.

Another small note: Would you mind sending money to my publisher, Michael Scott Studios. They are on the fence about publishing my works, and I want them to know I have a huge fanbase … thanks again.