Nobody Reads This Page – ‘Unfinished Manuscripts’

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

The process of writing is an inexact science. One that can be unpredictable and befuddling to experience first-hand. While authoring books and posting regularly on social media and in the blogosphere, I sometimes find myself stalled creatively with projects that may never be completed. These ideas linger on the basis of merit, around the rim of my cerebral consciousness. Yet fail to find a path to wholeness of the sort I intended at the beginning. Revisiting them as fragments stored in my personal files can be vexing. I often look over these partial works and think that with only one extra minute of consideration, any of the total might blossom like a flower with a long cycle of maturity. But reaching such a happy end is more often than not, unlikely. So, these bits and pieces remain where they are, scattered on hard drives and in folders of typewritten material from yonder days.

 

With ‘Home to Ohio, Humbled in the Midwest’ I was able to revise one of these idiosyncratic experiments by editing and repurposing discarded nuggets of text. The first version was to be a tongue-in-cheek volume titled ‘Grocery Gods’ that spoke about my service in the supermarket industry. I tried to rework that theme into an earlier take on my personal history, about learning the trade at Fisher’s Big Wheel. I thought that this adventure in department-store operations might find more fertile ground for exploration. Both of these visions ran out of fuel too quickly. But when I looked over the wreckage with a magnified perspective, it glowed like an Edison bulb. Offered as a follow-up to my book ‘Channel 13’ from days in Ithaca, New York, the storyline at last had an authentic reason to be crafted. While that kind of success did not soon repeat itself, it continues to inspire hope.

 

What follows here is a list of some jagged splinters that still come to mind, when I am in between other viable endeavors at the Icehouse desk.

 

EVERGREEN ESTATES Vol. 2 – When I wrote the original book, it was a collection of stories birthed during the isolation of Covid lockdowns that paused activity across our nation, and the world. I actually created much of the document on my cell phone, while secluded in the household living room. The collected stories flowed so freely from my fingertips, that I thought a second serving of similar prose made sense. But after struggling through four chapters, I realized that the moment had passed. I didn’t have the same vibe in effect. Repeated attempts to recreate the spirit of what went before have failed. Only a cover shot from on the porch, after a snowfall of 28 inches, exists to inspire what could come into being. If only my mind would cooperate...

 

FORGOTTEN FILES – In one of my four-drawer cabinets, there is a physical folder of vintage creations sired when I lived in New York State, and soon after returning to Ohio. Some are loose fragments intended for Biker Lifestyle magazine, or song lyrics penned along the way for use in making demo recordings on cassette tapes. And even manuscripts sent to various publishing outlets with which I never had a lasting relationship. A moment of reminiscing dependably puts me in a reflective mood, where I think that a collection of such work would be worthwhile to deliver in print. Yet every try so far has left me cold. I can’t get past the beginning. If my own interest wilts so easily, it is hard to think that readers in the public continuum would feel differently. Therefore, I have surrendered to the numbness of futility.

 

CONVERSATIONS WITH JANIS – My oddball friend from Saybrook Township, Ohio, west of Ashtabula, has appeared in various projects over the years. Sometimes as herself, but most often as the inspiration for a counterculture character needed to offer diversity. We first became friends after my second divorce, when I wanted to find someone to share trips to a local Chinese buffet, for food and lively conversation. Eventually, these jogs to Geneva morphed into walks along her country lane south of Lake Erie, where we would discuss a surprising roster of subjects. Art, history, politics, and even religion popped up like dandelions in the metaphorical grass. Though her favorite subject was television programming. She would opine about ‘The Walking Dead’ with such complexity and precision that eventually, I started watching the AMC series because she had described episodes in great detail. I reckoned that there was irrefutable logic in trying to document our private discussions, like a Beat Generation novel. But Jack Kerouac, I was not. The attempt left me sitting at my keyboard with drooping eyes and a sagging jaw. Again, with a nearly perfect cover having been constructed, thanks to the Microsoft program Paint 3D.

 

THE WISE GOSPEL OF BUSINESS, REVISITED – I took the speedy birth of my first confessional about pairing theology and retail management as a sign that more value could be squeezed out of the template. It seemed as if my late father had blessed the scroll from eternity, and whispered pertinent advice. Yet upon setting up a Genesis II introduction, I found myself unable to repeat the miracle. Visiting Bible Gateway online didn’t help. I only found myself more lost in the holy scriptures, and in tales of verbal sparring with unruly customers. My heart was pure enough, but the underpinning of viable lessons went stale. I had already raided the cookie jar. My progenitor seemingly had nothing more to say except for the words of Jesus, in Mark 4:39, ‘Peace, be still.’

 

Labor in the home office is a continuing activity. One that keeps me training like an athlete, using my creative abilities so that they will not atrophy from neglect. There is no better methodology to stay awake and aware in intellectual form. Eyes and ears perceive truths, while the mouth may profess them usefully. In literal form, or as fantasies revealed in naked sunlight. Whatever the result, their place is assured. In the shadows, or exposed for inspection. Either fate gives them a tangible worth that can never be erased.