A Professional I Am Not

Every poet has an origin story. Mine began with a chessboard, a funeral, and a moment that forced me to speak from the heart for the first time.

If you want to understand the voice behind these poems, this is where the story begins.

Quite often I tell someone the length of my writing career, and they immediately respond with some claim of my status of professional achievement.  

The fact is, I don’t think I have ever attempted to cross the threshold between amateur and professional. I just write. It’s been a hobby since middle school and helps with depression when it comes around.  

With that said, I do have enough pride in my work to at least perform a 20-minute proofread and probably an edit if I don’t get sidetracked first. 

I remember submitting some official documents one time. As I followed along, the Judge read. 

I noticed I left words out. Misspelled about 10% of the main points. And ready for this, didn’t even sign the damn things!  

I know what you're thinking,  

“It’s ok, we all make mistakes as we evolve.”  

Yes, yes, we do. Bless our hearts. 

I would feel so much better having received that vote of confidence if the truth wasn’t that this happed 2 FUCKING MONTHS AGO!!! In my defense, I rattled the old bones for a few days and was in a certain thought-induced mindset as I prepared the world’s greatest answer to a complaint.  

So why do you ask, have I never taken a gift more seriously?  

I guess that question just earned us the page’s first chance to go on a ramble. 

 Let’s travel back to the beginning and I’ll try to make sense of it along with you. It should be fascinating because I’m quite curious about it myself.  

The first writing I ever did was for a close Uncle that passed. He battled cancer for a few years, and I decided to spend more time with him. He taught me the great game of chess during those visits and over the course of two years, never let me win. When I finally did- two weeks before he passed, I was so proud of myself. For a few moments I thought I saw a fatherly smile fill his expression.  

He had made me earn it fair and square.  

Anyways, once the next two weeks passed, I found myself missing him more than I realized I would. I never took the opportunity to tell him how much those games meant to me. I wanted to do something that I believed would pass the message to him.  

That's what normal 13-year-olds think about, right? So, I requested to write a poem and read it at the service.  

They are called rambles, because as I tell a story I tend to bounce around, but I always, usually, well, sometimes make it back to the point. If not, fuck, we will still have a good time…probably…maybe…shit. 

So anyways, as I said I was 13 and my little prepubescent self thought that I was naturally a Picasso of the pen, so I did what any teen does, procrastinated and did other things. 

 At this age, I was also beginning to, um, participate with certain experimentations including nature's effect on the brain when consolidated into a concentrated smoke form. The results were quite enjoyable but totally bombed my attention span.  

I found myself chilling in my little barn, that was AWESOME, and realizing the service was the next morning.  

I didn’t have one line completed yet.  

I prepared another tater blaster, coughed it down and with every ounce of concentration, and resumed listening to the radio and forgot again. I really miss that barn.  

On the morning of the service, I’m dressed and everyone’s gathered at one of the daughters’ homes. I’m being asked if the poem is ready. It’s not. As we get to the church, I’m asked again. They needed to confirm I was reading, attempting to create time for a guy named Jeff to sing if able.  

This guy is a great singer. I am not trying to disgrace him at all, but in that moment, I said fuck you, Jeff! 

In my mind of course, I didn't cuss out loud in church until a year or two later. Sure, that will be a fun story to tell.  

But this guy was like the most famous Jesus that ever lived that wasn’t Jesus. He played in all the Easter shows at various churches. He was always a piece of eye candy for the unsatisfied wives. He was at every one of our small-town events that you can think of. 

 Today is my day Jeff, Fuck you. 

 “Yep, the poem is done, it’s two pages and I think I can read it in about 2 minutes.”  

Hahaha eat that bag of dicks, Jeff.  

Oh, shit I have like 30 minutes to write a two-page poem, and I’ve never written any poems. And this should have been the moment I knew I should just give Jeff the damn spot. But nope, I’m stubborn and proud if nothing at all, so I grabbed a pen, grabbed paper and hid in a dark corner and wrote.  

I wrote with a sense of purpose that would have made so much sense if I had done it, I don’t know, maybe not 20 minutes before reading it. 

 Still, I’m happy to report that my first-and damn straight was going to be my last ever poem-was completed with about 5 minutes to spare.  

I looked over at Jeff, felt the blood gush into my forehead from the evil grin I was forming inside of a holy house, and congratulated myself for kicking Jeff out of his spot. As a kid, I think that may have been my first vindictive defeat on someone that didn't even know I was plotting on them.  

Jesus would have known Jeff. 

 Jesus would have known. 

I very rarely apologize for my sense of humor possibly offending someone, but religion is one of those times. For those hollering blasphemies at the screen for bringing Jesus into this, one, his dad made me. And he obviously made me a bit of a smart ass.  

I imagine he had the all-knowing power that even he wouldn't be safe from my jokes just as I know I am not safe from damnation. I imagine his end game is that I will either get myself to the heavenly kingdom or irritate the shit out of Satan for an eternity so it's win-win for him.  

Either way, my soul is safe; I very much believe this, and you should maybe worry more about that whole rock casting thing.  

Two, I’m apologizing. Not something many people have ever seen. I can respect this is probably the first of my stories that you have read, and the skulls gave you no reason whatsoever to think dark humor may be in the future. So, I can respect your views and assure you there will be no more jokes about that nature. In this story. After this story, well denial is no longer an excuse.  

Oh shit, so yeah, the service starts and I’m sitting with my family reading the schedule and realize I am the next one to go up as soon as the music finishes. 

 It’s at this point; I discover that I was oblivious to my social awkwardness and stage fright; I just hadn’t figured it to be a part of the scenario.  

Standing in front of everyone never crossed my mind.  

I seriously thought about just handing the poem to my aunt and allowing someone else to read it.  

Everyone knew I wrote it, the credit had been earned, but as I approached her, I put the papers down to my thigh, picked my head up and postured like a grown man, and walked straight to the podium.  

I stared at those lines for a few moments and really didn’t know how to begin. We can all agree from the last few paragraphs; a joke was not the way to go. So, as I fumbled in the empty loft barn called my brain, I glanced at every person in the room making direct eye to eye contact.  

As I came to the last person, I felt my focus go straight to my uncle. 

 Prior to cancer, I never knew this uncle too well. I always thought he could be intimidating if provoked, so I usually stayed clear. His silence was eerie as well. 

 I remembered stories over the past few days that family had shared about him, and some of the things I never knew about him.  

If you're old enough to remember Home Alone, I was Kevin and he was the old man next door. The stories didn't match his real personality.  

By teaching me chess and playing almost every day, he saved me from the bullshit, i.e. he kept me busy and not out doing dumb stuff with bad influences. At the same time, I was giving him one final gift-an opportunity to teach one last person about something he loved, and to spend time with someone that did not pity his sickness.  

My uncle was apparently an extreme alcoholic.  

He became a mean drunk in the earlier years of their marriage. Much of the family remembered times when someone had to intervene or stories from my aunt about the horrible nights alone.  

Eventually, the alcohol was so bad that he was breaking out with boles that were extremely painful.  

As bad as the drinks made him act, at some point he wised up and saw that she was afraid of him, sick of him, and I believe resented him for the life he was giving her.  

Still, there she was, silent, tending to his wounds and helping him to get better.  

On one of those nights, my uncle made a choice to let love defeat addiction and suffered for a few weeks to come out being the best version of himself. 

 I came into the world after this happened, so I never witnessed that side of him. But to run these stories through my head, staring at him lying in peace, I realized how selfish I had been with my poem.  

I saw the meaning behind the time together and the importance of the lessons that chess is designed to teach.  

The strength and confidence that realization gave me allowed me to do something I never would have planned.  

I took a deep breath, placed my poem up on the podium, glanced out again at the gathered family, and never looked back down.  

The very first poem I ever wrote was never heard by anyone there.  

I started just talking and the poem came from nowhere.  

I was proud of the words I had written on that paper, but the words that came out of my mouth that day, well, that taught me instantly why I would be a writer of some sort.  

Overall, the freestyle poem was longer than my original content, but I don’t think anyone would have wanted me to change it.  

My last action before returning to my seat was a decision that I hadn’t made yet. I had thought about it but honestly thought someone would be mad for some reason, but as I came off the podium, none of that mattered. I walked down to my uncle’s casket, slid my hand under his, and thanked him.  

Silently, my thoughts expressed the gratitude so well deserved for the patience and persistence to teach a stubborn asshole like me a few new outlooks on life. Those outlooks are in my foresights still to this day.  

After thanking him, I placed one hand in my pocket and pulled out the Black Queen from his chess set.  

He always played black and I thought it was because I was a kid. I thought I was automatically white with the generosity to let me go first. No, he let me go first so he could counter the entire game.  

I wasn’t the only asshole in those chess games and for that, I felt he should have her with him to take where he was going.  

His queen was being left behind to play life’s version. Until she could return to him, I wanted to give him a reason to remember how important she was.  

I laid the chess piece under the breast pocket of his suit, gathered my emotions, and walked back to my pew and sat quietly. I've never said it out loud, but I believe that was the day I started to become the man I am still trying to achieve to be today.  

Today, I still do things I did then. 

I write, play with stories, play and teach chess. I still make inappropriate jokes at wrong times.  

Rewinding to the beginning of this story, the whole point about being a professional-welcome to how a ramble goes.  

We are making a full circle in real time. 

I never pursued a “professional” writing gig until around 2019. 20 years have passed since the day of that funeral. That day is still the first thought I have when asked how long I have been writing.  

I continued to write poetry, essays, and reports through graduation, and became a father at 19.  

My decisions that will be in later tales were already making life difficult and the time to do any writing dwindled down to nonexistent. 

In 2008, a house fire destroyed all the writing I had. I did not want to relive writing a decade of paragraphs and lose it all again.  

The dream vanished entirely.  

One night in 2016, I was feeling close to death. I drank bourbon every day.  

I had no ambition. 

 I was living at another family member’s home after getting out of jail. 

 I was preparing to get laid down and play video games.  

My phone rang.  

That night, I heard a sound I had never heard before-the voice of a butterfly. A butterfly that just wanted to be vibrant and show off their wings.  

In 2019, that butterfly brought the ability to write again. More importantly, wanting to write at the best level I could.  

Those adventures I’ll share in another story, but for this one, its importance is noted and felt each time I am asked if I am professional.  

I refuse to label myself as such.  

To be one would leave me no room for improvement and without any goal to achieve in my projects.  

The butterfly still speaks to me often, though the voice is much quieter these days.  

Neither my uncle or the butterfly will ever see me achieve the likes of Dean Koontz, Laura K Hamilton, or my personal favorite, Rick Riordan.  

But for those that mutter the questions, there is no answer to give. My writing is the voice of my life.  

It does not need to fulfil a status quo. 

 It is not meant for glory, recognition, or top literary achievements. 

My writings are my personality, my lessons, my adventures, and most of all, they are me.  

Now give yourself a pat on the back. You have made it through the first ramble.  

Thank you for taking the time to read this. If you liked it, be sure to become a repeat visitor and check out the collections section.  

This project is a lifetime of memories wrapped into one portfolio I call a muse.