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The Buffeting Seas of a Writer's Journey - Part One...

Okay, I'll start off like this. Cheating.
On my research trip to Hawaii, I made sure I was "locked and loaded" with laptop, notebook, heck, even a sketch pad and charcoals.
I was going to wax Uber artiste.
Uh, huh.
That happened.
I mean, as I packed those items in my already heavy carry-on, my gut birdie knew there was a super chance they wouldn't see daylight. 
I'm like that. 
Always have been. 
I can't seem to live life and create it at the same time. I know many artists can and I'm deathly jealous of them all, but I'm a hyper soul and I can't "come down" enough in the midst of one adventure to create another.
So I cheat, as it were...
I come home, gather my thoughts and digest the near past; what I've seen, heard, felt and done.
Then I create.
It's no where near as romantic a visual but it saves me lugging around extra pounds of stuff, and as of this trip, I coming clean. I know the mix of life & art will never be anything other than oil & water for me, so bonus! My luggage will be far lighter next time. (Also, as an aside, I'm dousing the tropical evening wear. My ass, those garments will ever leave my suitcase.)

People who follow me online right now might be getting damn sick and tired of my droning on about my island experience. But I hope not, for I need to tell the world what that trip meant to me, how it changed my life and how it has coloured my present and will guide my future.

Big Picture, I've come away with a kind of uncorroborated certainty that life in this cosmos is circular. I don't think souls ever die. Just like snakes, over time we need to shed the old skin so we can live again. I take comfort in that. I no longer have any doubts.

Back to my earthly journey...
So emotional it's been on this book, AIR.

I'm not sure if it's because I'm grieving the recent loss of my mother or grieving the now landslide loss of that entire Greatest Generation. Almost every day, I read about another WWII vet dying. They are in their 90s or older and God has called them home.

For me, that is a scary prospect. As a child, I felt safe having those adults around. They were hard working, moral, honest and so appreciated life and all it had to offer... even if you never ventured past your back yard. That group had ventured enough during Hitler and Tojo's reign. A picture window, your haunted thoughts, a pipe or cigarette and a stiff drink was all they really needed from then on. Who could blame them?

So many decades later, I am attempting to craft an epic tale of six of those souls at a time when my life wasn't even a sparkle in their eye. For me, for these last two research years, it has been a lovely affair, but now the real work begins. Eyes to keyboard. Silence around me. I leave my world for theirs via the clacking of the keys.

They quietly watch over me, making sure I stay on track. They force me to be brutally honest in my word choice. They insist I bar no punches and that I represent that generation as I should. They are a tough lot to impress. They know what success looks like. They expect nothing less.

In quiet moments, I fear this maybe my magnum opus. I also fear this maybe my last book. I shake off both, berate my imaginings, and work on, live on, and keep the faith.

I'm about a 5th of the way through my first draft and so far I'm okay with the outcome. The research is heavy and the writing is mercilessly slow, but word by word, line by line, my boys are living those times, and they and I are having one hell of a time... at least before Hell has a good time with us.

My writer's musings will continue...