Letting the Troll Take Over

Hi Folks,

For nine years, I have allowed myself to blog as a bus operator. Now, I have moved on. There's still so much for this driver to say, but my soul is begging to finish my novel. The pull between the two has been a fierce battle. But one truth has won the battle, even as I struggle with the truth. 

My writing self hates to let loose of bus blogging, but the readership is no longer there. Once upon a time, thousands read blog posts on FromTheDriverSide. Now, I'm lucky to see a few hundred. Perhaps the voice became monotonous, harping on themes already sung. Whatever, it seems the driver gig is getting old. People move on, or are no longer interested in that old band which plays different songs to the same chord. It's a tough tune to pick weekly, like a group who's known for one song and the audience simply tires of hearing it.

That's why, during my sleepy Friday roll of a 35, that I decided it was time to make my own lottery. Almost four years have passed since I began writing on an idea I had while driving Line 9 over the Tilikum Crossing here in Portland. Pecking at it sporadically, it seemed only relevant when there were no bus operator themes to be written. As the blogging thing became more of a habit than fun, I found myself questioning why I hesitated to branch out. 

Any artistic soul can attest to the dark cloud shadowing our dreams, throwing lightning bolts of doubt upon each spark of creativity. Thunder booms and scares us away. How empty one must feel for not having given it his all toward snapping that seemingly-elusive dream out of the ether, having never even tried. Well damnit, I came to the realization yesterday that I must not be that guy who was left wondering why.

I stare into that photo of me with Dad when I arrived at his home in November, 2016 to celebrate his 90th, my arm around the shoulder of my only hero. He loved my writing. Not just because he was my Dad, but because I had the gift of making him laugh, feel sorrow or join me in the dreamworld of creativity. He was a masterful musician, who felt God flowing through him as he masterfully picked the guitar strings (sans pick) and his tenor soared through the air higher than a bird of prey seeking a delectable dinner. Hearing him practice fed my hunger to find the audience he gave up to raise us four brothers. Somehow, I believed  finding success through my art would validate his lost dreams.

Mom fiercely chased me toward success. From her insistence that this brain-injured newborn would not become yet another victim of some ignorant "professional's" abysmal diagnosis, she inspired me to achieve a greatness nobody would expect. And so I have, from my earliest recollection. With Mom and Dad pushing me, I came to understand nothing is impossible, as long as I work hard, suffered defeat but kept fighting, and believed that success is a perfectly-acceptable outcome via the associated pain.

I have read a lot over my six decades, and some of it was pretty bad. While focusing on the classics, I often tread ugly literary paths. My writing is as good as some, not so fine as the classics, but has the ability to reach many with a painfully-honest spear to the heart. I love to write as if I'm crafting a letter to a beloved friend or relative, a quickly-fading art in this electronic era. One friend in particular has indulged me in the ancient art of postcard correspondence. A fellow transit blogger, Robert (bustropical.org) rolls his keyboards through Broward County, Florida. We came upon each other once upon a bloggery time and have become dear friends. Two friends I've been blessed with since grade school (Henry & Roger) keep in touch via the written word as the muse hits us. Roger helped edit "JUST DRIVE - Life in the Bus Lane" and was cruelly-honest, as a best friend must be. We argued over my tendency to place commas before or after quote marks as I was journalistically-trained. Somehow, we found harmony regardless my belief I'm not always right where he's not always wrong.

Now, I'm determined to bring this fierce tale of a troll and his victims versus the feisty 12-year-old femme fantastic to a fiery conclusion. Then, it must be edited, re-written and fine-tuned. I will entrust friends from a lifetime of love and memory to help me find the right combination of character plots and twists of tale to form a cohesive and fun-to-read experience. If done right, luck and talent might just smile enough upon me to ease into my final run as a bus operator with confidence of an even-brighter future.

Bear with me folks. A writer's path is similar to yours, while also drastically divergent. Writing this book has found me dredging up the past in my own life. Some stories are fond memories, some excruciatingly painful while also soothingly cathartic, patching up old wounds through words only the soul can assuage.

The greatest thing is that I'm back at it again. The story's characters have finally gotten through and ended the self-imposed writer's block. It feels good to be creating once more. Someday, I hope you will hold the finished product in your hands, signed by me in appreciation for your patience.

Just give me a few moments in time, and I will make good on my promise. Meanwhile, your words of encouragement will be forever appreciated, and remembered when all is said and done. No matter the critics' words... mine will eventually make it into a bookstore, and library, near you. Count on it.