Drenched
I’m lying down on a beach I don’t know the name of. It’s cold, too cold to sit upright in the wind. The kids don’t care; they’re playing in a large puddle with nothing but their suits on.
I cling to the sand, trying to glean some warmth from billions of miniscule stones.
Brian goes back to the car. It’s just me.
I close my eyes just for a moment. I hear them splashing, laughing. Our son is four, our daughter two.
Things become quiet, and I open my eyes.
There is only one child.
My mind moves quickly through the possibilities.
Kidnap.
Meeting the ocean waves alone.
Maybe she’s followed Brian around the corner.
Was I asleep?
I jump to my feet, and before I even have the chance to call out, I see her.
She’s still in the puddle, but though the depth was only six inches where they’d been splashing, now she’s three feet under water.
She’s looking up at me, eyes wide. I’m surprised that she doesn’t look scared, just confused. I jump in after her and scoop her out. She spits out some water, but I’m not sure she would be crying if I wasn’t there to let her know something was wrong.
But she does cry.
I race her back to our things and pull off her suit; then I cover her with my wool sweater, wrapping her up in it, and I put up the hood.
She’s in my lap, but there isn’t much I can do with the two of them but wait.
The beach is deserted.
By the time Brian returns, the kids have calmed down. I hand him the baby and walk back to the car in my soaked yoga pants, shivering.
I am shaken in every way.
Sunday
We photograph together every week, rain or shine, usually just the four of us. We drive all over the place in the snow, even to Niagara Falls one day.
Senior year, and some of my friends are trying to get the college to try out a student speaker program; the student’s perspective on art and the greater world.
They say I should do it. Because of what I do. Because of my work.
I don’t. Not because I don’t want to, but because nothing comes of it. This is actually okay, because the truth is that, in this case, it really is the thought that counts.
I was having trouble coming up with what to say. And trouble coming up with a way to hide my tics so I wouldn’t embarrass the hell out of myself up there on stage.
These people support me, though. I know they understand, even if they don’t get it all the way. It’s just an eccentricity that they accept. They are good people.
We go to a butterfly museum near Buffalo in January. It’s warm inside, a huge greenhouse, and my friend has the little bugs landing on her head.
Some people shoot in color, but I see the world in black and white. I read the dull tomes written by Ansel Adams and am fascinated by his resolve.
The butterfly may be blue, but she is simply a shade of gray on the other side of my lens.
Goodnight, Sweetheart
It’s Christmas Eve, and for my one Christmas Eve present, I’ve received new flannel sheets. They have a pattern of little cartoon sheep across the fabric, some white, some blue. I’m under the covers, and I’m warm. Safe.
My brother sits on the bed, and I immediately ask him for a story. He’s eleven years older than me, and, well, I’m pretty sure that of all the people in my life who love me, he loves me more than any of them.
He delivers on his story, an epic tale of flying cats and spaceships. I spur him on to make the story longer and longer, not wanting it to end.
Eventually, though, it has to.
He gets up to leave, and I complain.
He slowly begins backing away from the bed on his way to the door. And he sings to me not a lullaby, but an old, bluesy song.
Goodnight, sweetheart, well, it’s time to go.
Ba-ba-da-da-dum…
Goodnight, sweetheart, well, it’s time to go.
Ba-dum, ba-dum…
I hate to leave you but I really must say
Goodnight, sweetheart, goodnight.
The best part is the ba-ba-da-da-dum part.
I beg for him to stay, but he’s insistent, and eventually, he sneaks out the door with one final phrase…
Goodnight, sweetheart, goodnight…
<<<<< >>>>>
Dear Readers,
I must admit, I’ve been struggling with the camera. You may have seen this already in what I’ve been posting. Am I lazy? Am I blocked? Do I just not “have it” anymore? No, I think it’s something else. I know how to put a composition together, just like I know (generally speaking) how to put a sentence together. So, what’s the problem?
I’m gun-shy.
You may have seen that post-it of mine that reads “You can be afraid and still write something.” That’s very true, and I believe it’s true for all types of art.
However, in my case, and in the case of many, many people I know, being consistently, legitimately creative with a gun to your head is nearly impossible. For an artist (or author, in this case) to produce art, there needs to be a clear runway before them, a touch of magic by the grace of God or the universe or whatever, and the desperate need to tell a story.
I’ve spent a lot of years writing things based on what the indie author world advises. Mind you, I like the majority of the projects I’ve developed over the past 10 years, but in a lot of cases, to be “successful” (let’s say, enough to pay your mortgage) one must write in the same genre, the same series, and rapid release the books out into the world so that people gobble them up once they find you. It’s called writing to market, and it is possible to do, even for me.
But I don’t like it.
I do all my fiction writing (except short stories) by dictation. I’ve used dictation for at least 5 or 6 years, and it allows me to tell a story that 1. Gives a better reading experience to those looking for a good story (this is based on reader feedback), and 2. Do it in a reasonable amount of time; more than 1 book a year, less than 5. Trouble is that the pressure to constantly produce more, more, more is overwhelming.
Take my Light Chaser series (listed on Amazon under J. B. Cantwell). I’ve written 4 ½ books out of 7 in that series. That means that if I’m able to write like a superhuman, I could potentially finish the series in 1 year.
But think about that. One year. A full year’s worth of work that may or may not result in you being able to bundle it all up and sell the whole series. A year of uncertainty. A year of intense pressure. A year of making $0. Then, add in a year of social media (TikTok, Facebook, Instagram, and now RedNote) and anything you can think of to promote the series whether you’re a social person or not.
It's hell on Earth. And it’s why I jump around: because I’m constantly struggling to do it right, to write that last book in the series, to be faster and better than anyone else, and to package that book up with a shiny new cover to the tune of $500 on average. So, that leaves us with a year with no pay, an intense effort to produce, produce, produce, a grand on covers and even more on editing, and praying, praying, praying that someone buys the damn thing when all is finally done.
That’s a hell of a risk. It’s enough to make just about anyone’s head spin. And it’s lonely.
So, that leaves me feeling that very same pressure with the camera around my neck. It’s just not reasonable.
I’m not quitting. I’ve had some ideas, and I’m going to look into some shooting opportunities. But don’t be surprised when you don’t always see my visual work here. I need time and quiet to create. But I will create.
I hope you’re out there creating in your own way, too. Drop me a line or comment below and let me know how you best nurture your creative mind. We can share notes. Until then, stay safe, stay unsafe, and create. That’s what I’m going to do.
Jen
