I’d had an idea for a book for a few months, and decided to push my energy in that direction to see if anything stuck. Whenever I had the opportunity, I’d write. It felt good. Really good. The first chapter came easy, but then I labored through the next few. Between work and home, there was hardly any quiet time to sit down and have anything like contiguous thought (a requisite of writing in long form, I’ve learned.) Whenever I could find a couple of hours, I’d go back and reread what I’d written to familiarize myself with where I’d been, but would end up editing the whole time and then the quiet time was gone. My creative energy was being wasted on editing.

Noting my mounting frustration, my wife agreed to let me go away for two weeks to try and finish what I’d started. She found a cottage in Blowing Rock, NC, and I managed to get out of work for two weeks – and then on April 27th, I left. Taking a car full of provisions, my laptop, and my 14-year old Australian Shepherd with me.

The cottage was perfect. The weather was dreadful. It rained the entire time I was there. And for the first nine days, thick banks of fog would roll in around 5 pm and leave around noon the next day. Plus, there were massive ravens in the trees around the cottage which made it feel like I was stuck in the movie Excalibur. In other words, it was a perfect writing environment for a book about a man who goes crazy.

But here’s the thing – I didn’t know how to write a book. I’d started dozens of them over the past twenty years, but never finished any. I’ve penned hundreds of 500-word blog posts. Written plenty of poetry and short stories. And of course I’ve written more ad copy than I care to admit. But never a book. A book was uncharted territory. Still, I went up to the mountains expecting to do just that.

Back in April, I read “The War of Art” by Steven Pressfield. That book helped motivate me to do get serious about writing. On the drive up to Blowing Rock, and for the first day there, I listened to Stephen King’s “On Writing.” Both books helped give me an idea of what to do. They both basically said, “Sit down to write and trust what happens.”

I had no idea what to expect. But what transpired was something like magic. Twelve days later, I finished. I’d written a book. 225 pages of real, contiguous story. I went up with about 18,000 words, and averaged about 4,000 words a day while I was there. Way more than I’d ever written before on one topic. It was work, yes. Damn hard work. But good work. The kind of work I could get used to.

During those twelve days, I learned some things:

* It turns out I’m an afternoon guy. Mornings were still for routines: cooking breakfast, cleaning up, taking the dog for a walk in the rain, managing my fantasy baseball team, showering, making the bed, etc. I’d sit down to write around noon and go until dinnertime. At night I’d watch baseball, talk to the family via FaceTime, and sometimes write a little before hitting the sack.

* Cooking is not my favorite thing. I’ve never been anything like a foodie, and this trip confirmed this fact. I didn’t eat much (only when necessary), and as a result I’d say that I went home with about half the provisions I took up with me. Still, other than driving into Blowing Rock for pizza a couple of times, I cooked every meal. And did not enjoy it.

* I write best in complete silence. I tried writing against the backdrop of baseball and music, but unlike writing 500-word rants for the blog, I found that the long stuff likes quiet. This bodes well for the future as I’m nearly deaf in my right ear.

* People like to tell you to stay away from social media when you’re away writing. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m no robot. Connecting and sharing on Facebook and Twitter was my touchstone to sanity. Though I certainly didn’t live on the social networks, I did check in a couple of times a day. And other than for the Braves, the TV was off the whole time.

* My dog thinks she’s my mother.

* Sitting down to do the work is the most important thing. We’ve all heard about muses, and if not for experiencing that phenomenon in miniature a few times leading up to my trip, I’d have not spent the time and money to go. I believed in the idea of muses. Only, the muses don’t just show up and help you when you call for them. They require that you are in the best position to let them work through you. There were many times those first few days of my trip when I didn’t have a freaking clue where my story was going. I knew how the story ended, but didn’t have an outline of how the plot unfolded. Rather, I kept my fingers on the keyboard and amazingly, words came. The right words. Words I didn’t expect. It quickly became clear that I wasn’t really in control of the story at all. About halfway through the trip I did end up plotting the end, but only to help stay organized. I mostly let the muses do their thing. And it was good.

* Writing fiction is like sitting in a room alone and telling yourself a story that you make up as you go.

As far as the book itself, Minor King is the story of a man who rises from hopelessness to reach the American Dream only to discover that sometimes dreams change. I’m currently in the process of editing it – and I have to say, it doesn’t completely suck. Yes, there are things that I have to tone and tighten, and no, it’s not Hemingway. But it’s good. I’d love to say it’s great, but I don’t think I’m capable of great. Good will do. If you’re a fan of adverbs and adjectives, however, you’ll hate it.

I’ll let you know as I get closer to publishing. Thanks for being an inspiration to me to finish this first one.

***

Jim Mitchem

between dark and twisted boughs.

Constant companions at this mountain retreat.

Evil muses who grab my attention

and pull me in the wrong direction

down a path of lies and a pile of bones

of writers who came before me.

***

Jim Mitchem

There’s also a fear that I’ll get up there and fall in love. That nothing will ever be the same afterward. That somehow there will be this awakening inside of me that will make it hard to come back and conform to the limitations of the machine. That my children won’t even recognize me afterward. I do not fear this demon as much as respect it. I’m well aware that it could be the first demon dressed in nicer clothes. So I push this demon into the corner and tell it to keep its mouth shut. It fears me more than I fear it.

Finally there’s the excitement of stepping onto a narrow footpath that leads into a fragrant forest. The great unknown. A chance explore places I can only dream about now. The rush of the darkness. Just me and a notebook. And my old dog. This is what I’m focused most on – the journey into the woods.

***

Jim Mitchem – (Don’t worry, I am doing this. I’m just trying to articulate how fear moves around in my mind. It’s a clever bastard.)

I read this morning that an actor had died. You probably didn’t know him. He was 95. That really is a full life. But when he was in his prime, I was just a boy. About ten. Now I’m nearly fifty. I have no idea where the time goes or how we move through it. But it does. It does every single day. And for the most part we don’t realize it. Until it’s too late. What a tragedy it is that we don’t live like every moment is precious and singular in its place in our lives. That we get wrapped up in the minutia of the machine – worrying ourselves with things like status and ego and how much money we can accumulate instead of seeking out someone new to love in our lives, or creating art, or just laying on the cool grass and being overwhelmed by the stars. Try to remember when you were ten. Consider how fast it goes and what really matters. Chances are, you won’t live to see 95.

Every moment, every breath, a poem.

Rest in peace, Major Sidney Freedman.

***

Jim Mitchem

Am I afraid? Sure. A little. I mean, I’ve never done anything like this before, so I have no reference point. But my fear isn’t as much of failure, as it is the general unknown. Hell, I’m probably more afraid of success than failure. I do not fear hitting a creative wall as I trust my ability to slip into a trance and let the muses take over. I do have that limited reference point. And yet, I’m not one of those guys who takes responsibility for having any talent to write. I have no idea where the words come from. Whenever I’m “in the zone” – I’m basically something like a conduit. I don’t try to over-analyze this, but rather just go with it. This is not to say that what I come out of the mountains with will be anything like a great work. Don’t get me wrong, I love the story. I believe in it. And I’m very excited about the prospect of finishing it and eventually sharing it, but I’m not an idiot. This endeavor isn’t anything like an end game for me. Rather, it’s an attempt to discover what kind of things I am capable of in terms of storytelling. Writing has been a creative outlet for me for as long as I can remember. I’ve never had any talent for drawing or painting. I never learned to play a musical instrument. I can’t dance or act. And while I certainly haven’t always been a good writer, writing has always been something akin to a playground for me.

So what is Minor King about? It’s the story of a man who battles his way out of hopelessness to achieve the American Dream only to discover that he has an inner demon he must face in order to fulfill his destiny. I’m sure it’s been done before – I have no idea. And I really don’t care. This story is something in my chest that needs to get out. As far as a genre, I guess you could call it semi-autobiographical fiction.

When I told a friend at work about getting away to finish the book, he said, “So you’re pulling a Secret Window then?” Which made me instantly paranoid that when I get up there to the cabin, and I’m alone with the muses – that I’ll be confronted by a madman. And he will be me.

This is not a vacation. It’s a working retreat. Every day will be filled with a routine designed to make the most of my situation. There will be no sight seeing. No fly fishing. No trips to the outlets. I will buy provisions when I arrive, don a robe, and get to work. In terms of shutting down outside communications – I’m definitely turning off the big stuff for the bulk of each day. Maybe the entire time. I can’t get caught up in any online drama while I’m up there. I will be in regular contact with my family, however, as I have never been apart from them for more than a couple of days at a time – and it’s not in my nature to do so. They are my daily touchstone to sanity in this world. They’re what keeps me balanced. Thankfully I won’t be completely alone as I’m taking an old dog who thinks she’s my mother.

Yes, I realize how lucky I am. I’m grateful to my friends, my coworkers, and especially my wife for this amazing opportunity. I am truly blessed.

Now, onto the fun stuff.

***

Jim Mitchem

As a writer, in particular a copywriter who has spent his career having conversations with people in his head, I’ve been able to glean a lot about the human condition simply by observing how people share and interact in these mediums. Some of the most amazing moments occur during times of crisis. Like the Boston Marathon bombing. Or Newtown. Or the Japanese tsunami. Events that affect us all on a universally human level. It’s remarkable to observe how we grieve here – and how we support each other’s grief to lift each other out of it. It’s not about ‘saying the right things’ during these times as much as simply connecting and sharing and flinging emotional filament into the universe hoping that it catches somewhere. It always does, by the way.

But there’s something else that happens in these times of crisis that reveals a dark side of the human condition. When something like the Boston bombing happens, we tend to turn into sheep. Yes, we need to discover critical information. Yes, we need to help each other grieve and overcome. But beyond that, we become sheep for the media. I don’t know about you, but having the media serve as our shepherds during times of crisis doesn’t comfort me one bit. Sure, the media might break important news – and sometimes may get it right – but trust me when I say that the media doesn’t really care about you. It doesn’t exist to inform you. The media (all media) exists to sell advertising. Period. Informing you is a byproduct of this main goal. So whether it’s a hurricane bearing down on the Gulf Coast, or a bomber hiding out in a neighborhood, when you’re glued to the television or computer to satisfy your need to consume this critical information – you’re giving the media exactly what they want. Eyeballs. I read a piece on Slate last night that offers an excellent alternative to becoming sheep during time of crisis. I highly recommend reading it so that the next time a crisis occurs (and it will definitely occur) you don’t become a mindless sheep that’s led around by an evil shepherd that profits from your human fallibility.

Combined with the seemingly mundane routines of daily life, our personal struggles and accomplishments, and the big events that connect us all – it’s truly remarkable to observe the human condition in these spaces. When I say I feel blessed to know you, I mean it. We may never even meet in real life, and we may not always agree on things, but I feel you. And you feel me. And it’s beautiful. After nearly five years, I can’t imagine life without you.

***

Jim Mitchem

“They lied to you sweetheart. I’m sorry.” And then we hugged it out. I’ve always tried to protect my children when it comes to the Internet – restricting their searches, setting time limits on usage, locking them out of sites with certain keywords, etc. etc. But clearly her curiosity found a way around my firewalls. I hate all advertising that intentionally lies and is malicious. And it’s this hate that has driven me to never lie in any advertising I’ve ever created. Even though I’ve been asked to use my imagination for malicious purposes more than once.

There’s nothing creative or effective or good about lying to people. Fuck you malicious advertisers.

***

Jim Mitchem

Cozette set up her new watch on her own – shifting between modes to set the date and get the time exactly perfect to match all the clocks in our house. And then she started announcing the time. Every few minutes.

“It’s 7-11 make a wish!”

“It’s exactly eight o’clock everyone!”

“Daddy, it’s 9:43. It doesn’t feel like 9:43, does it? It feels earlier. Oops – it’s 9:44.”

Just what I always wanted, to be constantly reminded of time slipping away from me. At some point over the past few years I’ve accepted that time really is just sand in the hourglass. I don’t wear a watch. Haven’t worn one since my early twenties when I had to wear one in the Air Force. It’s not a rebellion thing – I just don’t like jewelry. But for The One Ring that binds me to my wife, I’d wear no jewelry. And of course I don’t need a watch because time is everywhere. Besides, it’s not like we need to know the exact time all the time. Morning, afternoon, night. Those are the times that matter. For all other references, I look at my phone. Or the stove. Or the the dashboard in the car.

I wasn’t always so indifferent about time. Like most people, I’ve spent most of my life in the heart of the machine – rushing around trying to get to the places I needed to be. Every day like a time clock: Punching in. Punching out. Collecting pay for the time I sell. I guess I think that if I ever resort to wearing a watch again, I’ll be back in that muck.

I’m 48 years old. A year is 365 days. Every day has 24 hours. That’s what I know. If I’m drinking coffee, it’s morning. If I’m eating dinner, it’s night. Anything more than this is a stark reminder of how swiftly time moves past. And I think this outlook on time is why I haven’t been very concerned about our kids wearing watches. Or learning how to tell time on a traditional clock. But a few weeks ago Cozette’s teacher said she thinks our daughter would benefit from a watch so that she could stay on task as she moved from project to project throughout her day – in fourth grade. You know, to prepare her for life. For the daily grind. For the race. For the machine.

“It’s 10:10 make a wish!” my little girl calls out from her bedroom so that we can all close our eyes and send a wish up to heaven or wherever they go. My wish is almost always the same. And every day it’s granted.

Poetry in moments.

***

Jim Mitchem

It’s like this – when I heard the voice of God in my head 22 years ago, I didn’t stop to ask whether it was Jesus or God talking. I was just completely overwhelmed with a presence of beauty and light that I immediately trusted. I didn’t ask questions. I just went with it. And as a result of me trying to remain humble in the presence of God since that day – my life has continued to change for the better. Except, that’s not really true. My life continues moving along like everyone else’s – it’s how I deal with life that has changed.

I believe in God. I believe He is everywhere. And I believe that He gave every one of us a conscience to make our own decisions – and that every decision we make is an opportunity to embrace love, or fear. To have faith in our hearts, or resort to our limited visions and reference points. To choose to believe, or not. I believe. Though I’m not entirely sure why. I just do. Happy Easter to all my Christian friends. I hope that the meaning of this day overwhelms you with love – and that this feeling stays with you longer than it takes to digest your Easter ham.

***

Jim Mitchem

When I was about fourteen, Bump and I were fishing in the middle of a Florida lake when a squall line came up on us from over the pines. We fired up the jon boat motor and raced to the edge of the lake. About halfway back across, the wind slammed into us and the chop grew to 2-3 feet. And in a jon boat, in the driving wind and rain, 2-3 feet is plenty. I looked over at Bump, who was steering the boat from the back, and saw fear in his eyes. Of course then I became afraid. But rather than hunker down in the boat and hope for the best, I then did something totally illogical. I stood up as best I could at the front of the boat and screamed into the wind, “LET’S GO! LET’S GO! LET’S GO!” Before being thrown back into the boat, landing with a thud. I smiled and looked back at Bump. He had lost his hat and was squinting into the rain, but was smiling too.

Then we both yelled like rebels all the way back to shore. With dinner.

***

Jim Mitchem