If It Weren't For You

Tell the truth — Eric Clapton

I was advised to have a website, because it would give me legitimacy when it came time to look for a literary agent. Any suggestion that would contribute to my success was welcome.

I actually took a course in web design when I went back to college in 2010. At that time, the knowledge I gained was critical to making a quality website. One that would load quickly and keep the attention of the viewer. I mean, that's important? Right?

As it turned out, in the present day, that vast store of knowledge has been sadly archived in the attic, along with cassette tapes and wide lapels. In fact, due to how fast and how often internet technology advances, it would have zero impact on my ability to fulfill my creative enterprise.

For a minute, I had an "Oh shit, what now" moment. That passed quickly. Next, I did what comes naturally to me—panic about money.

My daughter has a website that supports her business. It has all the bells and whistles, a wide variety of content, a store, etc. She needed it to be professional in every way, so she hired a team to build it.

I don't know how much she spent doing this, but I'm confident the cost is beyond anything I could afford. Just like a private, custom tour bus is beyond a tricycle. Although, to be fair, the tricycle has red ribbon tassels coming out of the handlebars.

I'm a decent surfer when it comes to the World Wide Web. I navigated my way to several 'Top Ten' lists for D.I.Y. site design. A few names consistently rose to the top. Very good news.

My next step: question all the results because, as we all know, the internet exists solely to bamboozle me into handing over my hard-earned cash-o-rama.

As per usual, I put in my twenty hours of research, which narrowed down the choices, and then I threw a dart.

One of my prerequisites was that the company offer hosting, domain name assistance, and most importantly, in-house website design. My needs were few, so the design should be relatively straightforward.

As it happened, the company I picked gave me the option of having artificial intellegence bring it to life. I worked hard on the prompts, and in just a few seconds, voila! In front of my eyes was a website that was as functional as a square wheel, with all the beauty of a rejected section of retread tire, lying beside the highway.

What I did get was a framework. After six fun hours of deleting, adding, swapping, rewriting, and editing, I had the site that I use today. I still believe that was time well spent.

I like to look at my website. I like going back and rereading some of my earlier essays. Fortunately, they still ring true, and that is a big relief.

When I started, I was writing a new essay every week, and then it became every two weeks, and then once a month.

I don't feel bad about that, because at the same time, I was working diligently on a book. Also, not only am I a crastonator, I'm a pro-crastonator.

Here's what happened in the second half of June. I was on the site and saw that the last post I made was on May 8th. So I panicked a little. What was up with me? How come I wasn't writing?

Book. Pro-crastinating. Sure.

Now it's July 5th, and I'm finally working on an essay. It seems that in my history as a writer, the desire to write, even poorly, has to lure me away from the fear of writing. And here we are.

Here we are… Ugh…

Usually, when I'm not writing, it's because I'm stuck in the thought that I can't write. That, regardless of how well received my work has been, clearly, everything I've written up to now was a fluke. The sort of crazy mind that is often associated with anyone creative.

That's not what is going on today. Today, I'm not worried about whether or not I can write; I am worried about what I will write.

I'm not in a good frame of mind. Between my inability to stay away from the news and my love for fictional accounts of dystopian civilizations, I do not see good things on the horizon.

Here's my conundrum. I was sad, and smugly judgmental of all my fellow citizens who were under the spell of Fox News. I (smugly) proclaimed to my friends that these people were living in a house of fiction that made them angry and irrational.

I'm not laughing now. I'm in a dark mood. My exposure to the news, to the posts on social media that I actively search out, is affecting my sleep, my relationships, my sense of humor, and maybe, most importantly, my experience of daily joy.

The pundits I respect are foretelling a very near future that scares the hell out of me. If I had the means, I would gather my family, buy some sort of estate in Tuscany, and get us safely away from here. There is one tiny obstacle in my way—I'm just all of that money away from being able to pull it off.

Right now it is 7:46 p.m., July 5th, 2025. Shit. Words are failing me.

–two hours later–

Okay, here goes. I have a thought about myself that I've been avoiding. I've been putting it off, trying to deny it any form of sustenance, anything to keep it from being official.

My friend has a John Deere Gator. That's a little motorized farm cart, sort of a beefed-up golf cart. She is sitting next to her grandson, who is driving it all by himself. I'm touched by this moment. His thrill, her love and affection. As soon as they are out of sight, the air goes out of that balloon.

My band played for an hour at our village green on the Fourth of July. We had a great time and got an enthusiastic reception from the one hundred and fifty of our friends and neighbors who were hanging out. People came up afterwards and told us how good the music was, and how great it was that we had this band, and where are you playing next? Everything I could hope for.

There were five more hours of celebrating to go. More and more of my island community were showing up. It was festive, joyful, inclusive, and heartfelt, and as can happen in a small community, a solid point of connection that, however briefly, was able to overcome what divides us.

So… pretty great, right?

I didn't stay. I packed up my gear, had a bite to eat, and drove home.

It became clear to me earlier today that I am, and have been for some time, in a gentle downward spiral.

The love and affection that is offered to me isn't landing the way it did last year. My joy is tarnished. My sense of humor is forced. My fears are amplified.

I don't want to write about that. I want to be witty, compassionate, insightful, and eloquent. And I want to offer hope.

I'm not sure what to do now. Anne Lamott, Andy Borowitz, Pema Chödrön, Brené Brown, and my closest friends are offering me encouragement. There is a path being laid in front of me that would give me direction. Pragmatic actions are being discussed that apply to what is happening around me.

I have a life that I'm grateful for. I have friends and people who care deeply for me. I have most of what Maslow would want for me.

Also, I would rather not be thinking what I'm thinking and feeling what I'm feeling.

I find solace and comfort knowing that the people whom I love and respect, who believe in prayer, are indeed praying.

All that.

And tonight, there is some air missing from my tires.

That's it for July 5th

July 12th update:

I have been talking with the people I trust. I have been rolling on my back and exposing my soft underbelly. I have tried to calm my mind enough to take in what they are sharing with me. I have taken advantage of the opportunity to help someone other than myself.

I can’t point to anything other than these general influences, but I’m feeling better. I am feeling more joy and have regained some hope.

These results affirm my suspicion that connection and showing up are vital to my well-being.

And it doesn’t hurt to live on an island, in the middle of the sea, surrounded by people I love and care for.