Blogging... Five years in... The Sailboat...

(Dear Reader:)

Keeping a digital diary is very modern, but five years ago, in 2011 I started blogging just to try it out. Not thinking anyone would read my posts, it provided a channel for me to practice writing and find a voice for deeper expression. Also, as the supervisor of school communications, it was an experiment in social media: the Head of School thought Twitter was the coolest thing going, but wouldn't know a "weblog" if it rolled in front of his shiny grey Camry. The New Rostra was my own, and my impression is that many artists don’t create for their audiences until much later in their journey. Blogging allows the writer an intersection of their thoughts and lives; sometimes in juxtaposition, like my partner does here with her art and a diagnosis of breast cancer:

www.theartofcancerblog.wordpress.com

Origins
As I finish 5 and ½ years of blogging and this 142nd post, looking back, I see the same kinds of topics initially placed on the Blogspot® “Profile”: fiction, politics, religion, sports, culture, books, movies, wine, and basic “lifetime” story-telling which has attracted almost 46,000 site visits. Even in today’s fast paced social media society, some of my longest posts are the most clicked; nevertheless I am still surprised when a stranger takes the time to read and comment on what I’ve written. It's fun hitting the “Publish” key after spending time and effort writing a post; however, it is also rewarding to think that a reader out there relates to what you’ve written (agree, disagree, like, dislike, but just read it). This is not a Writer's Manifesto or a Declaration of Blogging Independence, but I'm sure that nowhere else can you sear ideas onto a page like a weblog. Twitter's 140 character limit is a ceiling, a natural filter, so it is on the New Rostra where I explore in depth those thoughts most captivating. 

Building the Machine
Through blogging I’m encouraged to write more, even attempting chapters which might someday be cobbled into a book. There’s a lot of fiction stirring around in my brain if I can ever find time to put it down in short chunks. As I’ve read two (well-known) best-selling authors' latest novels this month, it occurred to me that books are written one chapter at a time, like building a brick wall, brick-by-brick. There’s no magic to it—work is required, and continuity, flow, and character development must be consistent throughout; but a story is made like our lives unfold, one-day-at-a-time. These simple truths do not break any ground to anyone who writes, but blogging reinforces this reality.

Talking w/ Charlie Rose on 11/23/2016, Jon Stewart said about the challenge of developing his long-running Daily Show, which I'm comparing to the art of blogging:

“Would we be able to develop a process, within the inherent juxtaposition of a creative pursuit; which is to say, can we build a machine that is redundant enough, and rigid enough that it can sustain inspiration, improvisation, and creativity?” (end quote)

Dark Doubt
Like a dark enveloping cloud of dense fog, doubt seeps into a writer’s brain, and we tell ourselves there is just no use! No one will read this crap. Who has the time to go to your blog? Aren’t you glad you don’t feed your family doing this? Why would anyone believe anything you put down in writing, who do you think you are?… And so on. Since I’m not trying to leverage my website into advertising income, I don't fight the anxiety of caring (or needing to care) if anyone really visits. If writing posts is my "business", then I’ve lost the love of the work, giving up amateur-status (from Latin amator ‘lover,’ from amare ‘to love.’). Blogging is in some ways about Love. Without being critical of professionals, amateur-status for me, is like the force that makes the sailboat move across the ocean. From tracking site statistics, it is apparent that the more one writes, the more people visit, and the more passionate the topic, the more clicks the post receives. The love of the work, the frequency and passion with which it is done are important, and data has proven this at the New Rostra.

Obstacles
Allow me to admit that sometimes I don't know whether I'm lost or found; I lose the power to write, adrift without creativity (but this is not a investigation into the paradox of "writer's block"). So many topics and issues are on my mind, often I can't sort them out - the cup overflows. With the freedom to sail anywhere across the vast ocean, the writer must not veer off course; but instead, making tacks and turns throughout the plot, one must chart a course and find their destination. Along the way the cutter loses power, “in-irons” as the "doldrums" are called out on the sea. These doldrums, where doubt steals the usefulness of the sails, can only last awhile; soon the writer is back on her way, inspired and moving along with the winds, as if catching one’s breath. As in life, writing is a process, a task, a habit, which must be supported and practiced on a regular basis or it gets atrophied, slow, or even stilled. Doldrums can mean the loss of momentum: even though this blog is a priority, sometimes I can't summon the passion or motivation to write. It's OK to wait, and let curiosity build.

Tomorrow's Sunset
So, as the sun sets on another year of blogging, I'm looking forward to what next year brings?! I'm counting on numerous topics to power the canvas sails. Thank you to the reader, and a salute to all bloggers who think, feel, and post. Keep up the good work... Sail on!

Keeping my tradition of posting a music video to accompany my blog post:

Ben Rector -- "Sailboat"  https://youtu.be/rRyXY4oo21A

This song illustrates the writer's plight, we often feel like a sailboat... 

benrectormusic.com

The New Rostra©Mark H. Pillsbury

Part III: The Funeral of Shelby Austin

(Photo: AP Photo/Jason DeCrow)

“What the f*<k you mean I ain’t invited?!” Gerri shouted at the large man outfitted entirely in black, holding a walkie-talkie. “She was my wife, for Chr^st sake!”

Just inside the narthex of the huge New Hope Baptist church in Atlanta, Georgia, the scene played out with crowds surging inside the sanctuary.

The dark clouds over a noontime Atlanta sky heightened the somber mood of the congregants, even though Gerri Green’s passion was crackling like lightening inside the foyer of the church.

He leaned into the security guard but pointed toward the front of the building, where displayed upon a raised bier was a platinum casket with silver handles, adorned with hundreds of red roses, and covered by black velvet; appropriate for the saddest pop icon the world knew, Shelby Austin, otherwise known as the “Voice.”

Pleading and arguing at the same time, Gerri said, “This is not right, my man; Shelby was my life. I have to sit up front, I was her husband?!” The guard, unmoved, retorted dryly, “You were her husband, Gerri,” “You’re not family anymore, and only family are sitting upfront. Period.”

The big security guard was doing the pointing now, “no one gets up there without me escorting them.” 

But Gerri was gone...

He moved like a cat, avoiding the nine-lives bestowed upon a feline, swiftly pushing open the two swinging oak doors and walking right up to the center aisle of the church under the watchful eyes of mourners. Just like Gerri to demand the attention of the moment, he stopped right in front of the pewter colored box and dropped to one knee, doffing his black fedora. You could have heard a pin drop to the old slate floor.

All week Shelby struggled with her addictions and the impending 4^th trip to a very private rehab clinic near Sedona, Arizona. Jittery at rehearsals for the Grammys® and avoiding accountability from her handlers, Shelby was going to have one last “good” weekend in L.A. before trying to kick pills and booze once again, helped by professionals. Her mentor Clive Davis’ party at the Beverly Hills Hilton was the warm-up for Sunday’s awards ceremony at which she was scheduled to sing. The practice sessions were dreadful, but she kept assuring Clive that she was quitting cigarettes, getting healthy.

Gerri Green did not force the Voice to lace her marijuana cigarettes with base cocaine, but by the end of their tumultuous 15-year marriage they were buying kilos of the drug to blow together. The weight of his guilt and the reality of her passing drew him here today, even though he was not welcomed.

“I am so sorry for what I have done, God.” Gerri prayed at her coffin. “Keep her and protect her,” he was tearful yet defiant, he could feel the daggers in his back as thousands stared, seeing him as to blame somehow for her death. “She was your angel, Lord, take her back now; thank you for my time, for her love.” Gerri got up slowly, kissed the index and middle fingers of his right hand, and touched the sealed coffin, dropping his head and turning just as the security team reached him. “Good-bye, sugar,” he said, looking back toward Shelby.

He could barely walk down the aisle, the retinue almost carried him by the elbows. All agility and power were gone, seemingly left at the foot of the coffin with his prayers. Gerri Green was a broken, forlorn man retreating toward the rear of the chapel. The squawking walkie-talkies chirped over the silent stares of each row as he was escorted out ignominiously, like a criminal on a perp-walk, destination: an Atlanta police car.

She could not beat this devil, nor the others that haunted her; Gerri Green was the personification of the wrong turns her life took in the 1990s, from which Shelby Austin never recovered. Now she was free. Even though her body was tightly enclosed in front of the throngs of friends and admirers assembled here today, later to be laid to rest; her soul was in heaven. Shelby was singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among the angels, and making music to the Lord with a joyful heart.

Life is lived either moving toward God or away from Him. Shelby’s commitment to her Lord wavered over the journey through fame, which turned out to be a cortege. All our most lovely moments perhaps are timeless, and so it was as Gerri made his way out of the church and into a waiting cab; he heard the song playing on the Atlanta FM station, surely commemorating the somber ceremony about to start behind him. It was the song that always reminded him of her love, and he hated to share the damn thing with millions of fans. The warmth he felt of the “good old days” of which the song reminded him, was surely the illusion of timelessness, and yet he was sure Shelby would have wanted to say good-bye before he left.

As the song played on the car radio, he spoke to her again, ripping apart inside, but with a proud exterior, “dear Shelby, I will miss you so much, you were the best thing that ever happened to me and I screwed it all up!” “Please forgive me and watch over Bobbi Kristina. I will always love you.”

“Now drive!” he screamed to the cab-driver, and it was over; he could look toward the church no longer.

©Mark H. Pillsbury
[this is a fictional account partly based on real life characters, not meant to be factual; it is a dramatization of Whitney Houston's funeral, any other similarities are coincidental]