John Fitzsimmons

What Now?

My books, after endless editing, formatting and revising again--and again--and again--are now out in the wild. My feral birds have flown; my leaky boat on a windward tack has left the harbor, and I am now bushwhacking an unmarked trail in an unfamiliar forest.

I feel strangely alone.

My books are like kids who have all left home and have lives of their own. I know, after all my winnowing of words, these sheaves of parchment are above the ordinary, by how much, I have no clue, aside from kind words from friends and whatever gut instinct roils my belly, distilled from thirty years of teaching writing. It is like I woke up in some episode of “Survivor,” and I have a task, a few tools and several friends to get me started--sell as many books as you can in as short a window as possible.

Winner takes all. Whatever all is...

Now I simply wait with the patience of Santiago for the Marlin to snag my hook and tow me where fate tows the fated. Even then, the sharks may circle my dory and devour the flesh from the carcass of my words. I will be left with the bleached bones of a fleeting triumph disappearing in the silting of an ebb tide.

Some torn pages blow scattered among driftwood. Some beachcombers are scavenging for polished words. A diaspora of ink spreads among rivulets in the sand.

The yankee candor which rules my inner voice urges me to smile and move slowly in motions oiled by forethought, patience and laconic wit. It is a soothing, low-bellied tolling of admonition to accept who I am and what I have just parceled out to humanity. I did what writers set out to do. I wrote out the rhumb-line of my existence. I shipped my wares in a packet to a distant warehouse, and now, stuffed in satchels, I pawn them door to door. I hope one of those doors is your door--some portal to your mind and heart and soul and being.

And then, stealing words from Black Elk, “My heart will soar like an eagle.”

And I will go back to my desk and start writing again.

Thanks,

Fitz

November 24, 2021