Talking to Myself

Life is weird, you know.

Sunday morning, finished reading the local paper, or what is left of it post newspapers' demise. Can we call it a paper if it only exists online? 

I had emailed a friend about the difference between being a screenwriter and being a playwright and it got me thinking about what I have said about screenwriting. So, I cruised through my blog to see and found this. 

This is the original link (https://coyoteunderground.blogspot.com/2007/07/life-in-split-second.html ) but you can read the whole thing below.

BEGIN TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE

After I completed EMT training and started answering emergency medical calls for our fire department, I worried about how I would do when we were called to our first car wreck.

I didn’t plan to be it.

Monday morning, I cruised the Net, checking activities in Portland, planning our vacation next month to the Oregon coast.

I made progress on my current script and liked what I read. Maybe this will be the “one.”

Ate lunch, collected my Dad and we ran errands in the afternoon.

On the way home, at an intersection I’ve passed countless times, a man driving a full-size Dodge pickup, was waving to a friend, and started across the intersection without noticing I was already there.

He hit us at the driver’s door, which sent the Chevy sliding sideways up a hill until it hit the soft dirt at the side of the road and commenced to roll.

Shaken witnesses at the scene said the car rolled three times.

Fortunately, I don't remember the roll.

I clearly remember the scene out the windshield, sliding sideways up the road. Then starting to roll.

Returned to full consciousness after coming to rest upright.

This ceiling center console which held interior lights and a place for the garage door opener, came loose and bashed into my head.

Every window, save the back one over the tailgate, broke out.

Six Good Samaritans ran to the car, all clutching their cell phones, all calling for help, all trying to assure us help was on the way.

One older lady held my hand while trying to call my family, and she was so upset, she couldn’t get her phone to work. The rollover must have been a horrific to watch. No fun to endure.

Neither air bag deployed.

Volunteer fireman, guys I’ve trained with, used the Jaws of Life, to remove the door so they could package me for the ambulance.

Package. That’s what we call it. An intricate set of procedures to insure the patient suffers no further injury before medical help can be reached. I’ve practiced this several times in training. Works slick, but trust me, it’s no fun being the package.

Another team removed my father.

After eight hours, the hospital sent us home. Dad has a broken collar bone. He’s out of commission for six weeks.

I have cuts, strained muscles and a heck of a bruise on my head. (And I later discovered, a torsion injury in my back from the seat belt that saved my life.) Even my hair hurts.

Today’s Wednesday. My aches are fading. I’m a little less stiff. What doesn’t seem to diminish is my memory.

I clearly remember the view through the windshield and having the presence of mind to think, this is my life. This moment. This second.

Not in three weeks on vacation. Or next fall when the Nicholls are announced. Or that fateful day I get it all together and something sells.

This second, I’m rolling a two ton car.

Make your life what you want it to be. Not next week or six months from now.

This second. 

END OF TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE.

So, here I am on Sunday, wasting time, and always in the back of my mind is a little voice who sometimes whispers, sometimes SHOUTS, Why?  

Why are you still doing this? Writing, submitting, believing?*

Now, a lot has happened since 2007. Some good. Some bad. Mostly just regular life. 

The last two years I've enjoyed a type of career success that I'd never had before. Right now I'm riding something pretty hot, so who knows what will happen? Could be colder than deep space by tomorrow.

Or not.

What my 2023 self needed to know was what my 2007 self learned. 

Your life is what you make it. 

Make it what you want.

And I didn't even need to wreck the car again to remember.

*My latest work has a pivotal moment where the character wonders about the nature of Hope. Why do humans persist in hoping? This morning I paid $40 to get a download of a scientific study that proves there is a portion of the human brain that generates hope. 

I'm still trying to get my mind around that concept. It's not a Pollyanna character flaw or silly wishful thinking. Or a socialized construct of the modern mind. It's our brain. Our actual meat and blood brain.

How 'bout that?