Resurrecting Daniel

It has taken many years to write this novel. Terry the Terrible Troll. In fits and splits, it burns long and deep. I type a chapter as it comes, then shelve it until inspiration draws me back into the muse.

Just before COVID-19 strangled the world with fear, I drove a Line 9 in Portland over the Tilikum Crossing. One of a kind, open only to transit and bicycles/pedestrians, it's a shining beacon along an overly-bridged body of water separating the largely-residential/industrial West vs. East Willamette River District. This newest bridge boasts bicycle counters on either end.

Westbound crossing the river into downtown, the counter showed a significantly-larger number of bicyclists than it did on the outbound side. I considered this intently as I drove eastward toward Gresham. Plaguing me, I searched within the river's tidal pull for creative reason. Suddenly, it came to me as I passed over the bridge again toward downtown.

There's a troll under that bridge. He eats bicyclists. 

The rest of the day, I smiled. My writer's muse was finally sated. I found a pliable narrative. I turned and twisted around this idea. I just had to make a story of it. The muse would not allow me to pass it by. That night, I began this missive and I've been toying with it since.

My writing stalled when it became apparent the finale was near. What was the best way to end it? I don't have the patience to create a series. There are other stories within. Different styles call out within me. Linda Ronstadt is my creative hero, because she constantly explored different genres against her producers counsel, and nailed them each time. Also, I was not prepared for the grand finale. One character in particular was too weak, and needed to play a bigger role if the story was to have enough punch. Dan spoke to me, smiling as usual. 

* * * * *

Driving my bus this past week, several revelations occurred within. One character in particular screamed his personal credentials. My brother Daniel died in June, 2022. In a momentary gift, Dan helped me realize what the story lacked: him. I had already named Dan in the story, yet the character lacked his magic. It was too shallow. That was the block, not some self-imposed inability to write. His story, our shared history, demanded I pay the respect my dear baby brother deserved.

My kids' favorite uncle.

The remainder of Dan's mortal cremains a few feet behind me as I write this, I have struggled with how to properly memorialize him. I planted a rose in his memory, which unfortunately struggled. This spring I amended the soil and cut off diseased branches, urging him to grow and illustrate the sunshine in his endearing smile. Every Friday evening, I toast Dan upon his most handsome portrait, celebrating the weekend with a healthy sip of Scotch. (Dan always joked his soda was "whisky", and that drinking any further would make him "drunk".) While he never felt that sensation, he surely imagined it. My Friday night liquid explorations draw me closer to my lost brother. However, there's no sure way to bring oneself closer to a departed family member than to write about them. 

Dan will be forever memorialized in this novel. I have crafted one main character based upon his personality while elevating him beyond. As children, I'm ashamed to say, I was jealous. Dan was an attention magnet; I was not. As we grew, I became more devoted but always felt guilt for having dealt him several misdeeds, sometimes cruelly. I constantly pray forgiveness for my greatest sins against him. Now Mom and Dad have passed, I wonder if they know about my callousness regarding our dear lad. I cannot change what I did before. My punishment endures through memories. The guilt follows me throughout this life. He deserved better from me. Thus, I hope dedicating a heroic figure in his memory resolves me even slightly. His loving soul surely has forgiven me of any sins I committed against him, but my memories of them haunt me still.

To assuage this guilt, it seems vital to not only carry his sweet soul with me every day, but hopefully do him justice by making him a hero via my words. Hopefully my homage to Dan somehow relieves my soul from the pain of missing his constant love and forgiveness.

* * * * *

Now, I must finish it.

My most enduring fault, the reluctance and fear of rejection which often shackles artistic souls. It makes the conclusion of a story much more difficult than its inception. A battle of wills ensues, characters arguing details and directions as the story suffers from neglect. It often binds the artistic flow. Interrupts the eruption of creativity. The artistic lava eventually incinerates procrastination and inspiration propels the art. This is where the book languishes. Finally, I'm eager to finish it. 

A few days ago, this story's ending rushed past my mind's eye while my bus drove itself. Instinct propelled the wheels forward as my soul pulled the literary puzzle pieces together. I have written the notes of what my mind's eye foresaw on the road. Now the words must flow, as I have willed its completion.

It's a good story. I promise. Fit for the young and aging. Still, I'm a perfectionist. No telling when you'll finally see the completed project. Later this year, I hope.

This is me, as I have been since a wee lad. Always plotting, dreaming, writing, putting it off in search of that elusive perfection. The END always trips my clumsy progress over several decades. Now these tens are limited, I don't have the time to amble. It's time to run metaphorically, because physically I can no longer.

Stay tuned...

Brothers forever, even after
 we're done here.
Thanks, Mom & Dad.