To My Dad

Generally I post stories or short bursts of insomniac or depression fueled rantings.  Today I feel like writing something different.  It's a letter to my Dad.  Unfortunately when I try to write it directly to him I break down and can't finish.  Sorry, but it's written to everyone else, but it is everything I want to say to my Dad but can't seem to figure out how when we're together.

Dear Dad,

Recently I took a nearly two month long vacation to visit my family and fiance.  It was spur of the moment and completely out of the blue, like all my best decisions are.  It was a blast, and I learned a few things.  To truly understand some of those things we have to look deep into my past, a place I don't usually go.  Too many bad memories, too many old wounds, but I've a feeling it's time to dig them up and show them off.  Like a biker showing off his old scars to impress the ladies.

I was born in Kanab UT, a small town in the southern end of the state.  My family still lives there, or most of it.  Mom and Dad and my younger brother.  My younger sister goes to college just to the north, and visits every summer and on Sundays to watch football with my Dad.  I'm the eldest, and I live the farthest away from home, three hundred and fifty miles away.

I have memories that stretch back almost all the way to the time I was two.  I even have some very fuzzy memories of a maternity ward, although whether those are fact or fantasy I can't say.  The point is this, I remember things.  It's one of my greatest talents.  When I told my father this as a teen, he scoffed and told me to prove it.  He flipped to the news and we watched for about thirty seconds, then he flipped away.  He asked me what the reporters had been wearing and I recited it down to the tacky wrist watch of one fellow.

That pretty much sums up my relationship with my Dad.  I would try to get his attention, try to make him proud of me, and I would always feel like I came up short.  Like I wasn't smart, or fast, or strong enough.  Like I wasn't a good enough son.

When I was a kid, six or seven maybe, Dad wasn't around much.  He left for work early in the morning, and would arrive home after my bedtime.  He was also an Intermediate EMT and a volunteer tech director and MC for the community, despite the fact we grew up in an intensely Mormon area and he is not Mormon.  In short, he worked his ass off so that I could live the best life possible and enjoy a good family reputation.  He didn't start being around or paying a lot of attention until I was in high school.  I attribute this change partly to my love of football, and partly to the death of my twin cousins.

We've never been on the best of terms.  He's a stubborn, arrogant, pompous ass, and I'm not any better.  He's probably the single best man I've ever known.  When I was a teenager I said many hurtful things.  To say I didn't mean them at the time would be a lie, but I do regret them now.  It's only been in the past year or so that I've realized how good a man my Father is, and how hard he tries to be a good Dad.

From the ground up, and without a college degree, he has made a career, bought a house, and built enough financial standing to get a loan so that I can attend college.  He taught me almost every thing I know about Theater Production and Tech, as well as pushing me to get my EMT certification and to go to college for something I love.  He is one of the greatest driving forces in my life, and I wouldn't be the man I am today without him.

I've only recently learned how proud he is of me.  He doesn't say it often, and a couple of years ago I would have missed it entirely.  But now, I don't know why or how, I see it more.  Maybe that's part of growing up, being able to see how the world works and what people mean behind what they say.

Dad, I love you. I'm so proud to be your son, and so proud of everything you've done and continue to do for our family.  I know now that no matter what happens, you will always love me and you're proud of me.  You're truly amazing, in so many ways that I will never be able to explain to you.  I'm so very grateful for everything you've done to help me.  The road has never been straight or smooth, but you've always been there when I've needed.  I'm sure that we will continue driving each other nuts, but I love you.  You're the best man I've ever met.

Proudly your son,
David F Owens III

Nearly done

Well, they're all written.  Every short story that will be going in this book, The Power of The Heart.  They just need to be typed, revised, sent to editors, revised again, and sent to the publisher.  I'm exhilarated and terrified.  Some of these stories have been knocking around the inside of my head since middle school, and others are so recent it's ridiculous.  It's a strange thing, to watch this book grow, piece by piece.  I almost imagine this is what it's like to have a child, watching them grow, taking their first steps, forming words, then sentences, sending them to school, and then watching them leave home to make their way in the world.  Scared that they're going to fall flat on their face, but knowing you have to let them.  If they never fall, they'll never grow.  I'm so excited, but I'm so afraid.  I hope you like it when you read it.  Thank you for your constant support.

Turnings

The secret turnings of my mind are strange things to see in action.  I say this merely because I feel compelled by some strange, secret, dark, florid part of my heart to provide an explanation for myself.  I have posted no stories here in what feels like a mortal age.  I have given you none of the updates I promised, none of my secret whispers, no thoughts, no ideas, no inklings of feelings or passions or ideals or events.  This is because I hit a stumbling block.  No words I wrote were of any quality worth sharing.  I struggled with it, feeling guilty and mildly depressed.  I wondered if the Gods had given me a gift or a curse in my ability to write, in my way with words.  I wondered if I would forever be cursed to write only a little at a time, if my pool of inspiration was shallow.  Two things happened to change my view on this.
The first is that my lovely lady love shook me out of my depression.  She taught me that all things have their time and their season, and if I couldn't write I shouldn't bother my self with it.  I should do other things, make music, read, exercise.  I shouldn't even think about my stories.  To her goes a resounding thank you.  I will never, ever be able to thank her enough, for this and a thousand other things.  Even if I should grow to be the best writer of my generation, able to spin tales beautiful enough to make the mountains weep, I will never find the words to tell her how much I love her, or how much she means to me, or how wonderful she is, or how much she has helped me, or how grateful I am.  And that, in and of it's self, is a very good thing.
The second is that I found something quite wonderful.  A blog post, from one of my favorite writers.  Neil Gaiman in fact.  The post said, quite simply and wonderfully, that I do not write for anyone but myself.  My time spent writing is my time, and my stories are mine, and if it takes me a month to write a short story, so be it.  If that is not pleasing to some, they can sod off.  I cannot, quite frankly, spend all my time writing, nor should I. If I need to take some time off that is an understandable and necessary thing, and the whole world will have to accept it.  Thank you Neil.  I know you more than likely will never read this, but the gratitude is there all the same.  You may have saved my writing and my life with that blog post.  And thank you Pat Rothfuss, for having a blog that led me to that post.
So, let's get down to business eh?  It's time for me to finish some stories that have been chaffing at their reins.  I do not know when they will be finished, but it should be relatively soon.  I thank you all for your patience, and your thoughtfulness, and I urge you to follow me, simply that I may receive feedback on my writing.  It helps more than I can say.  To those of you that have already followed me, please, any feedback is welcome, even a simple good job helps me continue.
That said, the path is laid, it stands before my door, ready to sweep me off my feet, and I've a mind to let it. Let us see where it takes me before that final crossing.  When I reach that, I hope to have done something to worthy.  I hope to have let my light shine forth across the world.  I hope to see you all in the clearing, before that final curtain of mist is drawn, and the last isle stands before us, and I hope you will be proud of me.
Until my next post, may your paths be straight and smooth, may the stars watch over you and the moon guide you, and may all your songs ring true.

David F. Owens III