I was delving into some old floppy disks when I came across a year’s worth of personal journal entries. For some reason, I want to air this material. Something about finding a book that I have already written:
Sunday, November 09, 2003
Happy birthday to me. Not that I actually observe this silly tradition. It’s for kids.
Suzanne did call. She’s trying to butter me up, or actually does love me, or both, and maybe some other motives, or just that she’s a nice person under all those neuroses.
Complicated, my life is. I should be writing science fiction like I always wanted to do. I had better do it soon, or I won’t be able to enjoy it as long. I want to influence a generation, perhaps revive the hard science fiction genre, but combine it with a new sensitivity and insight into character. That’s what SF mostly lacks, real character, rather than just cardboard characters, cartoon characters.
Well, I just never know where my fingers are going to take me when I sit down to write to myself.
What happened with the editor job? Who knows. Perhaps the guy hasn’t made up his mind yet, although that seems weird since he’s losing his present editor in three more working days. I guess the call cold come on Monday, which has sort of shot my plans to reorganize my life based on the new job. Lots of things to end, lots of end games to play.
You remember end games, how good I am at packing and moving, at making final arrangements. It’s almost like I have to move every so often because moving is all I really know. I have no roots. My mind is not tied to any place or to any people. I know movement, though. I know saying goodbye and leaving. I know starting over fresh, although you’re never entirely fresh because you bring your old baggage with you, inside of you.
I have moved only two times in 13 years in Madison, once into Julie’s house, then here. I tried to have some stability for Boy.
Thought about my dad while watching a commercial where a dad holds his baby boy up on one hand, the kid balancing there, standing on the big hand, the two of them doing a trick, the little boy delighted to be a part of it. My dad was like that, showing me off. I basked in it when I was little. I loved doing things with him. He was like a big kid in many ways, full of fun and a little mischief. Always making jokes and puns, turns of phrase, making up funny lyrics to popular songs. He would have like the facts I started writing songs. Who knows, he may have even helped with them, given the lyrics more depth based on his experience.
What was his experience? He was 32 or so when he met my mother. Man, he was in Europe after World War II, and probably could have had as many women as he wanted.
This is where I mentally start working on “Finding Captain Zukowski,” my story or maybe novel and film that is a fictionalized version of what I’d really like to do, and will do a little more of if I get the time and the chance, find out more about his Army days by talking to some guys who knew him then. It will do him proud, just the fact that I made the effort, and made up some stories about him that I thought would sell. His real stories were probably even better. That’s what I will say in the epilogue.