c. 2024 Rod Ice
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(6-24)
I have always had a scattergun strategy to achieve goals as a professional writer. Said in plain language, I write continuously, on various and often unrelated topics, and then utilize the content in a variety of ways. Sometimes this has meant penning articles and columns for a traditional newspaper, or magazine. Or a newsletter relating to a group in which I am a member. Recent years have seen me shift my focus to posting and managing online content. And the publishing of books and Kindle volumes that are available through Amazon. As a salesman, my skills generally have proved to be lacking. Authorship is my forte, not hawking goods for a financial benefit. Yet I have stayed vigilant in contacting potential subjects that might be interested in what I have produced, and in soliciting allies for my quest to be recognized. But on a recent afternoon, while partaking of adult refreshments here at my rural homestead, a realization zapped my consciousness with the force of a bullet.
None of this really matters, at all. The act of creating art is its own justification, and reward.
Even with my palate drowning in Yuengling lager, this weighty revelation hit hard. In the past week, I had managed to make contact with a magazine editor from the music field. A fellow who was at the helm of a revived version of a favored monthly I used to follow in the 1970’s and 80’s. Contact pages in a modern context rarely offer postal addresses to submit copies of a physical manuscript. So, I have been mostly limited to sending out e-mail queries. This kind of connection often gets ignored due to a lack of real-time administration, or the mass quantities of garbage that always seems to float through internet sites.
But thankfully, a response to one of my random attempts came from a figure in the area of New York City. A person of interest with responsibilities for managing both print media product, and web-borne resources. His cyber-blast caught me completely by surprise, as I was about to depart for an appointment with my general physician.
I scrambled to package up a copy of my ‘Channel 13’ memoir, something that I thought would hold his interest. There was only 15 minutes available to accomplish this task, and include a personal note. But I did it at a frenzied pace. Then mailed the envelope after my medical visit.
Throughout the rest of that morning, I felt light-hearted and confident. To have such an opportunity fall into my lap was invigorating. It had me feeling giddy and anxious about discovering more strategies to advance my career as a hired scribbler. But with a cold brew in hand, sitting on my square porch in rural Ohio, a different mood took hold. One that was oddly sober for thinking with brain cells that were slightly inebriated.
I ticked off a personal list of things that would change if I won a chance to jumpstart sales of my titles, and move forward as an author. But instead of imagining all sorts of gratuities and accolades that might appear, this exercise left me feeling cold.
The reality came in like a rocket. I would still be a disabled, unemployed man in his 60’s. Someone who had fallen into early retirement, at the age of 55. I would still be socially shy and isolated, still a contrarian voice in a Midwestern wilderness of mainstream habits, and still happiest when pecking away at the keyboard in my home office.
In other words, I would be a generational extension of my late sire and mentor, Rhoderick D. Ice.
My father was someone who prized education and reading. His university degrees told only part of the tale of a life spent preaching the Christian gospel, and helping others who were impoverished or afflicted with life challenges. He wrote constantly, from his youthful days until just before he entered a nursing home, and gathered himself for the end of a long and productive journey. His offerings were many in number and diverse in subject matter. He wrote on religious themes, but also reflected on personal memories of growing up in Columbus. Even science fiction and fantasy flowed from his fingertips, when inspiration appeared. He had a vast intellect. And a curiosity for others who had traditions and beliefs that were outside of his own experience. When he gained assets along the way, they were always dispersed to help his family, and others in need. He did not hold onto wealth or earthly treasures. What he valued were souls, and expressions of fellowship and faith.
With the Pennsylvania brew as a catalyst, had now I tapped into that vibe on my own terms.
Gaining an advantage in the marketplace would of course make it easier to get along, day-to-day. A few dollars here or there would cover expenses and mean less pinching of pennies to reach the end of each month. But otherwise, that kind of victory would be fleeting in nature. A boost to my ego, if I had one. A flickering candle lit by circumstance. A pat on the back, before returning to my desk and reviving the pursuit of a writer’s craft.
A theory in the back of my mind has always been that there is no past or future. Only the moment in which we live, the here and now. Everything else is a product of imagination. Or perhaps, the perspective of a seer, actively perceiving their surroundings. That moment has always been my refuge.
Johnathan Larson, the composer and playwright, said it more eloquently in his noted musical, ‘Rent.’ A favorite of my niece who has a theater background.
“There is no future, there is no past. I live in this moment as my last. There’s only us. There’s only this. Forget regret, or life is yours to miss. No other road. No other way. No day but today.”
R.D. always lived in the moment. He did not dwell on old battles or inequities, or injuries. Instead, his focus was to remain active and relevant. He certainly looked forward as a believer in redemption, and hope. Yet his mindset remained rooted in maintaining a purposeful harmony with the planet and its many inhabitants. When blessed, he returned that good fortune to others. Rather than allowing himself to be changed by wealth or privilege. The yield that was he died poor and exhausted. But riches of family and friendship made him exalted as an example of one who squeezed every drop of joy out of his mortal journey. He never strayed from the chosen path. Silver and gold meant nothing. He wanted to work!
Sitting alone with my container of Yuengling, I hoped to eventually echo that philosophical achievement. And continue the legacy of a true believer, and a wordsmith.
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