The Motions of the Day

4 December is always a strange day for me.  I mean, there are all the obvious things that have happened that I can focus upon–the Mary Celeste was found; the first Burger King was opened; Fred Hampton and Mark Clark were murdered in Chicago; Tony Todd was born, Frank Zappa died–but there is something else I have that keeps 4 December in my mind.

It was my first wedding and divorce days.

1982 I was married the first time.  It was quick and simple.  My then wife was someone who’d been married once already.  We finished up, we went home . . . that was it.  Congratulations, enjoy your life.

It wasn’t easy.  There were some good times, I won’t lie.  There were times that were very nice.  However . . . the poor certainly outweighed the good, and it came to an end.

In fact, I was at work on 4 December, 1995, when my first wife called me to say everything was finalized, the marriage was over, congratulations.  Six weeks later she was engaged to the guy who is still her 3rd husband.

I was talking to a friend I have on Facebook, one who I knew through a writer’s group, and who used to game with me back in the dark, dismal days of the late 1990’s.  We were talking about the support we get from out significant others when it comes to writing, and the ex came up.  The comment from my friend was something like, “Yeah, she used to think we were sort of strange,” and I mentioned how, after I began writing more, she began getting down on what I was doing.  She once went so far as to say that after the very first thing I wrote, everything else was shit.

Writing is a very solitary venture.  It’s a need you have to tell a story and have others enjoy it as well.  It’s a lot of work: it’s not so much as writing, but all the stuff afterwards with edits and re-writes that really bring out the story.  And when that is all behind you, there is the task of finding a publisher or going the self-publishing route, and either venture takes time.

There are many conflicting emotions I have about my first marriage, and I played my own part in its disintegration.  But the thing that hurt me the most was how, at the time, I was told, in very uncertain terms, that I didn’t do anything that my then wife liked, that I was wasting my time, that I simply wasn’t any good.

Yes, I still get those doubts, but it’s not as bad these days.  I’m blogging; I’m doing articles for a few websites; and I’m writing stories.

It’s what I want to do.  I don’t want to stop.

Not for anyone.

Not anymore.