It’s cold where I live. The city I live in is shut-down. And I reside by myself.
I don’t have a job other than writing and working on another book. I feel luckier than most.
On the good days, writing is a blessing. And on the bad days, it’s a pimple on my back that I can’t reach to scratch.
I need daily regimes, or I start to blur the days.
I wake up. I do some stretching and a round of breathing exercises, and then I journal.
And now I write on Medium, daily, as of a few days ago.
Like most of us on this platform, I want to make money. I want to engage with other writers and people who read my stuff.
But, it’s gone past that.
Now it’s an essential service.
I have this crazy notion that if something ever happened to me, my two daughters could look back at what I’ve written and get a better understanding of their father.
It’s not some kind of weird death wish or anything like that; it’s just that legacies are a strange thing these days.
My grandparent’s house felt like the family line. On both sides, and somehow just by the physical nature of their homes, it was continuing.
The photos, the furniture, the stories of relatives I never knew from England and Germany, all of that kept the family line real.
To me, these homes and their contents were the guardians of my family name, on both sides.
But now, now that all seems so fleeting and next to impossible to do in a world that values instant change more than tradition.
I don’t write out of arrogance. I don’t think my stories are better than others, well, maybe a few.
It’s holding me to account, and I need that right now.
When I was young, my brothers and I had a game. Every evening mom would set the dinner table for breakfast.
With 4 sons and school and work and all that, there was just too much commotion for her to do anything but be a line cook and get us all out of the house with food in our belly’s.