I haven’t been in this place in a while. I forget—forgot—what it felt like. What it smelled and tasted and looked like. It’s like coming back to your hometown after being away for years: so much is different, recognizable, but so much stays the same.
What’s the same is us, the two of us, back here in the place, trolling the same halls we used to roam, running fingers over old doorknobs and window frames. We’re both looking for something. You might be seeking that trademark villainy or another episode of DMFRH or even an update on the Swoaps (I don’t have one: sleeping dogs really do have to lie sometimes). I’m looking for a voice. For the words.
Along the way, we tend to forget why we came here at all. You know when you leave your chair and walk into another room to get the thing and then you cross the threshold because “What the fuck did I come in here for?” That’s where I am. I got up 3 years ago and went into another room to get…something…and I cool forgot why I was there at all. I forgot what I was trying to do. And while I was trying to remember what I came in here for, I wasn’t in my chair doing the shit that sent me down the hall in the first place.
Does this make sense?
There was a time, in 2013, when I was writing all kinds of stuff: I was working on Come Hell or High Water and I had this blog and I was doing shit on the regular and outside of this, I had the Day Job Dragon that I was riding or trying to slay or simply trying to avoid being burnt by. There was some sense of balance in my life then: my words were being heard, I was living as a writer and a consultant, the two halves of my whole self were in pretty good tension. I was living a complete life.
Then I left because I needed something from the other room.
I dove headlong into my professional life, trying to build something or broaden it—giving more to it than I did anything else. I had my reasons: I went all in so I could eventually own my life enough to do what I really wanted to do. Write. But I forgot to write along the way. I struggled to put pen to paper, to put words on the screen. I agonized over finally getting Come Hell or High Water to a place that people could or would read it. In short, I fell out of balance and you paid the price.
I’m here to ask for some forgiveness.
I’m not going to plead my case. I’m not going to write a collection of promises and earnest intentions. You’ve seen that already. In January of 2014 and again in 2015. I’ve said I was back in a series of half-hearted and incomplete overtures that don’t show any type of consistency or commitment. I’m not going to add another one to the list. One thing I tell my kids is “No one cares about what you say; everyone cares about what you do.” So I’ll just…do. Today. Tomorrow. The day after. I’ll show up and knock out my 500 words and we’ll just repeating that process.
Until I find my rhythm and remember why I came in this room.