Entering the Fourth Trimester (EXTRA INNINGS)
Back in school, back in the day, it seems that a lot of emphasis was placed on the use of outlines in any writing project. Looking back, I distinctly remember that I was not a fan of the outline. I’m asking myself tonight the reasons why. Was I just lazy? But it seems that I remember assuming that most of the published authors probably didn’t bother with outlines. That assumption is certainly not grounded, but good gracious, can you imagine Bob Dylan writing an outline before he sat down to write “Visions of Johanna?” I have no way of knowing but I doubt that HG Wells, Jane Austen, Herman Melville, F. Scott Fitzgerald, or any of the writers of classics relied on an outline. As for me, I’d not yet imagined myself writing anything that wasn’t a requirement for obtaining a diploma or a degree. There was one secondary school teacher who must have seen at least some promise in my abilities in the writing arena, but my interests were elsewhere.
It wasn’t until midway through my first semester in college that the “writing seed” was planted. My writing 101 instructor requested my presence “for a few minutes after class.” The writing instructor had a bit of advice for me that day, advice that I so, so, so wish I had taken that fall afternoon in the year of our Lord, 1981. I can quote her words that day, though I cannot remember her name, which has become more regretful as I progressed down life’s path. She said, “Mr. Bracey, I don’t know what your career objective is, but you should consider a career in writing because you are gifted.”
I wish. Man, how I wish that I had possessed just a freaking thimble full of intelligence that day. Ah, the possibilities that I see, now that I’m approaching my 60th birthday. Possibilities that outreached the vision of the seventeen-year-old boy standing before her that day. The bumbling and fumbling teenage boy in me politely received the compliment but failed to produce any response. Yet another instance of why there should have been a law against allowing 5-year-olds to enter first grade. Who knows, maybe being an identical twin has something to do with the way I processed information back then. Whatever the reason though, I failed that day to realize that my instructor was imparting valuable information to me and I just utterly and completely missed the connection. Perhaps, though a long shot, she might have been opening a door for me, but I missed the thread, I missed the thread. What, if anything would have changed? Or the larger question might be, “Of all of the gifts that I could have been blessed with, why writing?
My twin brother and I reached our 59th birthday back in October. We spoke on the phone, wishing each other “Happy Birthday” and my brother mentioned that, “I never expected to make it this far.” We had never spoken of this before, but as “twin things” occur, I wasn’t surprised to hear him say it. The reason is that I have shared with others that I didn’t expect to make it much past 58 years old either. Since October, I’ve given lots of thought to the fact that I really only planned for 58 years and find myself a bit lost as to what lies next.
My writing teachers all demanded the use of an outline. Perhaps if I’d followed their instruction, I’d have three published novels by now. Maybe more. My latest effort to fall victim to “writer’s block” is “Of Emerald Eyes and Happenstance.” The writer of that work experienced a big old heaping “shit ton” of life during, and since the time he hit the block. To be frank, he flew the proverbial coop and I’ve been looking for him since. I’ve incorporated the various tools that are supposed to combat the creative paralysis known as writer’s block. I feel most of the exercises suggested probably could work, though none did, probably due to the lingering effects of the aforementioned big old heaping “shit ton” of life that caused the lockdown of my right brain, and the self-imposed solitary confinement of the writer there. If an outline had existed, could the stoppage of momentum be prevented? Could I have somehow escaped the frustration of writer’s block? Would the writer in me have been able to summon the courage to open his hemisphere and see it through to the end?
The thought occurred to me that if I had written an outline for my life, I would have summed it up at 58. So I sat down and outlined my life to this point and it appears that my life has been lived in 17 – 20 year increments, give or take a few years, which fits easily in the 59.5 years that I’ve drawn breath. Hence, the title of this offering. So for the purposes of the new outline of the Timeline of DBeazy, I went back a bit to August of 2022 to mark the beginning of my “Fourth Trimester.” Some who know me know that there were a couple of “Bucket List” items that I was able to fulfill last year when my daughters purchased tickets for me to see my favorite band, Midland, at Billy Bob’s in Fort Worth. Yes, I loved the music, and of course, I’ve spoken of going to Billy Bob’s for many years, but the trip was more than just a couple of “bucket list” items to scratch off the list. The truth is, I’ve never been much of a planner. I tried it once many years ago, and it worked so swiftly, so effortlessly, and so completely that I couldn’t comprehend it all. It was inconceivable to me that every single plan I had made had been accomplished, and so improbable that somehow, I made no future plans. Fear of success is the only plausible explanation that I can think of.
As I said, I planned once in the past and it worked, then came that part of life when plans tend to get derailed. When ardent plans morph into responsive actions. When demands take precedence and there is new weight riding on shoulders not yet developed for it. Everything that isn’t necessary gets put on a shelf somewhere and the coach calls for the “Prevent” defense instead of laying on the gas. We all know what happens next. What was there to win, is all of a sudden, there to be lost, and regulation ends in a draw.
I sit here tonight. I sit here on the same barstool where I find comfort and life ceases to exist beyond these walls. I sit here tonight where life accepts the song that lies beyond the lyrics, beyond all of the notes and the chords, and beyond the musical expressions made. With every fiber of my being, I summon the writer that left, the one who once sat, often with eyes closed, fingers pecking away at keys, typing quickly as lines fill the screen effortlessly as though any break in concentration might break the rhythm and flow of thoughts, losing them forever. I yearn for those days when I would awake and stare in awe at words on this screen with no recollection of writing them. Over the last year, I’ve tried many times to find the current that leads to the wave that I was riding, backtracking in an effort to pinpoint the cause of the break. This may explain why I’ve been writing about things other than that “Green Eyed Girl.” Trust me when I say, I’ve read my latest work, and some of it is bad.
This is where I find myself. Since the third trimester came and went, well, I’ll just call it “extra Innings.” And since I concluded that a new trimester had begun, I decided to listen to the old advice and jot down an outline for my next 17 – 20 years. If I’d passed away at 58 as previously discussed, I would have left this world with successes as well as failures. But suppose I make it to 60 and I just sit and wait for the train that Warren Zevon spoke of called, “When All is Said and Done.” What wonders and adventures will I have missed? Without a published work, would I have passed with an incomplete legacy?
I am here tonight, early in the fourth “trimester,” equipped with knowledge of the mistakes made during the first three. I begin it by calling for that writer to return. I call for him to unlock the right hemisphere because “Part 1) of Section A) of Roman numeral III)” of the outline is entitled, “Of Emerald Eyes and Happenstance.”