Tag: #amwriting

I haven’t written about how qualified and competent Joe Biden is as our president. He is uniquely qualified to be president, especially right now. That I haven’t written about this may be due to possessing that certain Iowa bias based upon his three dismal appearances in the Iowa caucuses, including in 2020. I don’t blame him for axing Iowa in the nominating poll position. No one asked for my opinion. He is successfully holding back the forces of authoritarianism and fascism.

While returning to writing my autobiography it’s immediately clear: I have a lot of work to do. Given the limited window of October 2023 to March 2024, what work will I do? I need to get Part II framed up with main events so I can later hang details upon it.

The early part of a life is easy to describe because during education and early work experience, a single thread can tie everything together. That’s less the case as a person moves on to next steps, which may include marriage, a family life, relationships, work, and pursuit of health, welfare and happiness. I wrote previously about this and what I said then holds true. Part II is to describe the life for which I spent 30 years preparing.

A related process is going through boxes of belongings and downsizing. Partly this helps focus on aspects of the story I might have forgotten. Partly, the unused detritus of a long life should be passed on to people who might use it today. This is better done by the owner than left to heirs. Our child doesn’t want all the stuff that fits into our house, so I would be serving her interests by processing it now. For a while, I’ll be going through and eliminating possessions, keeping what best fits the story as it evolves.

Lastly for today, I need to set aside a specific time of day to write. That’s likely to be after I finish morning tasks and eat breakfast. I hope to settle into my desk by the eight or nine o’clock hour and write until noon.

Thanks for reading! Make it a great day!

For three weeks after graduate school in May and June 1981, I visited a number of friends. The trip took me to Springfield, Illinois; Columbus, Georgia; Fort Rucker, Alabama; New Orleans; and along the Mississippi River north through Vicksburg Mississippi; Portageville and Ballwin, Missouri; and then home to Iowa City. It was the last trip after finishing my education and before applying said education to my life. I had no idea how things would turn out.

The trip was unlike the Grand Tour I made after undergraduate school. Since then, I had served in the military, lived in Europe for three years, attended graduate school on the G.I. Bill, and moved through degree preparation like a fish swims through water. Two artist friends brought a bottle of champagne to my place and helped celebrate my graduation. We discussed audiences and art. How much are artists influenced by their audiences? Should they be influenced? I believed then, and more so now, a writer must concern themselves with an audience. In 1981, I had no art, little public writing, and no concept of audience other than people who held a certain undefined social status.

Each place I went held vestiges of antebellum life. From the black housekeeper of an IRS worker, to racist attitudes among my former Army buddies, to a local culture where the next Ku Klux Klan meeting was all the social buzz, it was everywhere I went.

What struck me more than anything was the ordinariness of people I met. People stood at odds with the American culture I know. Or maybe, they represented an American culture I hadn’t come to know. While Lincoln’s bones rest in Springfield, the living there seemed unprepared to take up the unfinished tasks of the dead. Instead they participated in a culture devoid of life as they performed old, well-patterned ceremonies of living that had lost their meaning by 1981. My trip was a hard reckoning with reality.

Near Columbus, Georgia I visited a place that today is called Historic Westville. The ticket I bought is printed with the message, “Westville. Where it’s always 1850.” Westville is a fabricated village made from buildings built before 1850 and moved to what was once an open field. It was to represent the zenith of cultural life in the antebellum south. People who had visited Colonial Williamsburg would be disappointed by Westville, yet the designers did the best they could. Attendance was slight the day I visited.

In one building I met a period costumed woman who showed me an example of home spun thread. There was a spinning wheel and she showed me how it worked. However, despite the knowledge, she didn’t know how to make homespun herself. I found something about this disappointingly characteristic of modern day Americans. We may know the ideas behind how things work, to actually do such work, to put ideas into motion, is a step too far for many. Americans, above all else, must practice those things they know are important. When it came to equality under the law, the south of my trip failed to measure up.

After finishing my long education I had to get going in life. I felt an urge to put into practice what I learned during the first thirty years. I knew then I couldn’t be like some of the friends I encountered on this trip south. What I would become was both unknown and an open book. As much as any other time, I began writing that book in 1981.

The writing choice before me is a garden of forking paths. What winter 2023-2024 produces will depend upon a number of decisions I make this month. As I pursued completion of an autobiography, things got complicated.

Do I next work on the first part, leading up to the time of this photo, or pursue the second part? I wrote more than 60,000 words in each thus far. Part I is about me being born through graduate school, Part II is about marriage, fatherhood, career, health, socialization, and intellectual development.

There is a case to work on Part I. I sent out copies of the draft finished last winter to a few friends. The feedback presented ideas of which I hadn’t thought. There is a substantial revision in the future. Do I do that now, while the feedback is fresh?

There is an equally powerful case to work on Part II. Stylistically, I’m not sure what I will do, yet the chronological approach of Part I does not seem as relevant or possible. Fleshing out what that will be is a time-consuming process with potential revisions and re-writes ahead. Do I take a stab at it and get something down on paper this winter before editing and revising the whole work?

I’m leaning toward the second path. The chronological format until 1981 makes sense because I was enacting a path to education that was part of my upbringing. By that year I felt my education was finished and it was time to live the life for which I spent 30 years preparing. The rest of the book is that story.

The trouble is there is too much information, too many resources, and too many complexities to incorporate in the narrative without making it too long. I must choose which elements will be presented. Some of this is easy, and parts are complicated.

Part of the narrative is the highlights of our life as a family. It is no one’s business what goes on in a family. At the same time the context of family makes us who we become. I want to lay down a bare bones history for our child to read and hopefully know in addition to their own memories and narratives.

Work life is also important. Beginning with my time in transportation and logistics, earning money to support our lives took much energy, physical and mental. Family and friends saw one side of this. Preserving what I experienced is equally important.

Two geographies stand out. The first is described on the U.S. Geological Survey map titled Davenport, which includes Davenport, Iowa City, and the part of Cedar Rapids in which we lived. Most of my life was spent in this geography. The second is what I call The Calumet. It is Lake County, Indiana and Chicago, yet more than that. For six years Merrillville, Indiana was the base camp from which I explored the Eastern United States with work. In addition to annual waterfowl migrations, lake-effect snow, and a culture driven by the end of the industrial revolution’s expansion, it was the place where our child started school and we owned our first home.

There may be additional narratives which include politics, volunteer work, my writing life, cultural engagement with music, radio, television, and photography, and development of a kitchen garden. The book will end with the coronavirus pandemic and a hopeful look forward at the rest of my seventies and eighties.

Just writing this post has been helpful in picking which path. As soon as I get the garlic planted, I’m ready to devote my full attention to writing. Next step will be de-doing the outline.

No single narrative describes my or anyone’s life.

That said, I wrote my obituary, a two hundred word narrative intended to communicate generalities of who I was, and meet a specific public need without being too special. I’m not talking about this. I have a few other narratives in mind.

I’m fortunate to have copies of my resumes dating back to 1975. I’m not sure employers do resumes any longer, favoring online applications that protect their legal liabilities. However, almost 50 years of resumes show my changing story. I keep up my LinkedIn profile with accurate jobs and dates of employment. I’m not really talking about these public-facing narratives either.

What is most interesting to me are those times when my personal narrative shifted. There are seven in between times at this writing:

• The time between graduation from university until enlisting in the U.S. Army, especially the time spent living in an apartment on Mississippi Avenue in Davenport in 1975 (18 months).
• Living at Five Points in Davenport after military service beginning in 1979 (Eight months).
• The time between graduate school and getting married, especially the time living in an apartment on Market Street in Iowa City beginning in 1981 (18 months).
• Working for a large oil company in the Chicago Loop beginning in 1989 (18 months).
• Retiring from transportation and logistics beginning July 2009 (17 months).
• Coping with retirement income needs beginning November 2012 (14 months).
• Dealing with the coronavirus pandemic beginning March 2020 (Two months).

Each of these periods proved important to how my life changed. They contribute more than what fits in a 200-word obituary. They are at the core of my autobiographical writing.

At the moment, I’m researching the third in-between time in Iowa City for my autobiography. Some of that writing will spill over to these pages, so stay tuned.