Observations

Going Incommunicado


I’m going to reduce my online writing for a short while – I am in the process of writing a third book, and I only have so many brain cells left to run my body and think of things to write, too. It’s a safety measure. I’d hate it if my heart stopped beating because I was thinking too hard.

The working title of the new book is “Shooting The Rapids in a Paper Kayak.” Here’s the introduction as it currently stands:

It’s 3:30 AM, and I need to write. I don’t know why – perhaps it’s because I can feel the ability to express myself slipping, and I still have things to say.  Perhaps it’s because I want you to read this, and say “aww, he’s still in there.” Perhaps I actually do have something useful to say, and God (or the Universe, or Ghu, or Xenu, or Whomever) wants me to say it. We both can decide later – I’ll finish writing, and hopefully you’ll finish reading.

This is my third book. The first was difficult to write, and at times I didn’t want to finish.  The second was still painful, but somewhat easier.  This one is more insistent, although I’m still not completely sure what it wants to be.  I just know it wants out.

I was not a very good writer in my previous life, before Parkinson’s disease. I was clear and precise, a technical writer, and the most effusive praise I received was that I wrote “just like a textbook.” I wrote for ease of understanding, but I was much more comfortable avoiding messy emotions or topics without clear answers. I was like that in person, too – interesting, but a little dry and hard to warm up to.

Parkinson’s disease has shaken something loose.  I may not be a better writer, but I write about better subjects. I may not be a better person, either, but I feel more deeply, and I have a better understanding of how important relationships are. These concerns exist within a mind that was trained first as an engineer, and then as a warrior of sorts. Somehow, it’s still all me. This book is an attempt to lay the pieces out and join them together.  You’re brave to come along.

During our journey, you may be angry; you may laugh; you may cry; you may even decide to stop reading. It’s okay. Although I write for you, I write for me, too. I know the boat is a little leaky, but it’s still capable of handling the rapids. And, although I don’t know precisely where we’ll end up, it’ll be a helluva trip.