Middle Ground

I should be working on my Philosophy test, but the words and meanings are all pushed behind the idea of The Book. It sits there on my shoulder waiting to be finished.

It’s almost there now. I have one more editor to meet with. One more set of ideas to sift through. One more session of page creating, picture editing, getting it all together.

Almost there.

And now I’m more terrified than before.

Sitting here, on the middle of the bridge, too far down to turn back, not quite in the safety zone, is the worst part of bridge crossing. I remember the first time I walked across the Poetry Bridge in Minneapolis. The traffic raced beneath me. Lives scurrying from point A to point B with no thought of me and my drama. Didn’t anyone care that I was so alone? Didn’t anyone know how little value I placed on myself?

I had the option at that moment to make them remember me. To become a life they would never forget. To stop their rushing and force their attention to me. I didn’t, but the thought occurred to me. By not finishing the crossing of that bridge I would have made an impression on them. A horrible one, to be sure, but I would have become a part of their lives. They would see me then.

Today I stand at this metaphorical bridge and find a different scene. If I don’t cross this bridge, if I go backward, if I never finish The Book I will cease to make an impression, no one will remember me, I will be the focus of no one. I could be literarily invisible.

There is a great deal of comfort in that anonymity. For one thing, there is no risk of painful backlash if I simply slide off the grid here. I could take down the website. Stop answering e-mails and phone calls and before long everyone would forget my ramblings and go about their business without me just like they did a year ago before I started publicly writing. There will be no criticism of my expressions, no doubt about my sentence structure, no dislike of my endless strings of thoughts. No exposure of my doubts, fears, failures, inadequacies.

Like the voices which pulled me across the Poetry Bridge all those months ago, something compels me forward. I am not sure why my writing is so important, but I feel it is. Not in an egotistical “I have something to say!” way, but in a “I have lived this, am better for it, and you can make it, too” way.

Had my routine not been interrupted a couple of weeks ago, The Book would already be out there. You would know what I’m afraid of. Although many pieces have been strewn about, only a couple of people have read the whole thing. Their reception pushes me to the other side.

I think, by next week-end, while you are scurrying about your lives hither and yon without thought of me, a momentous event will occur. I will hit the button that says “send” and off will go the first edition, ready for publication, real library-ready book containing my words.

I’m not sure if angels will sing or heaven will notice, but I know a little lady with brown eyes, a tall Swedish man, and a biker in a leather who will be looking from beyond smiling. Whatever value they saw in my little life at the beginning, I give this book back to them in appreciation.

God has been very good to me.

If you haven’t yet, and care to, please visit the website: krisanewman.webs.com. The snatches of prose mentioned above are posted there. Although I’ll have links here for purchase, the website has a little more information.

Thanks for walking this bridge with me. It’s nice to not be alone.