Balancing in quicksand

As a writer, I hope for my work to be meaningful. There are not a lot of Pulitzer Prizes given away to journalists of community newspapers. (Although I would be extremely honored.) So sometimes, I feel like I am treading water in a sea of quicksand. No matter what I do, I just get sucked into a vortex moving from one story to another.

I honestly try to give every story 100% of my attention and sometimes, it seems to my editor, they get more. When I am truly inspired, I dive right in to the story and begin to feel what my subject may be feeling. Because to me, that is how I try to make you, the reader, feel something, too. I take something away from every interview and every story. I learn something new all the time. I try to put in parts of the story or certain insights that other people would skip. And if what I write ends up meaning something to someone, or someone learns something or is inspired, I feel I have done a good job for the day.

I have felt a sort of quiet honor a couple of times when I have walked into a business or an establishment and saw something I had written framed and hanging on the wall.

I have felt a stronger, yet still quiet honor when I have gone to some one's house and they have saved an article I previously wrote, or a photo I had taken, and hung it on the wall in the garage or stuck it to their refrigerator.

I am always humbled when someone thanks me by a note, or card or personally, for something I have written when it is accompanied by heartfelt words of "Thank you." Hugs are even better.

Those things make me feel like something I did actually meant something, to at least one person.

I wrote a profile article about Denny Johnson, a local Garrison man, a few months ago. During the interview, he told me his life's story, like only Denny could. While his voice spoke of interesting tales, his face and his eyes held his emotion, escaping for brief moments scattered throughout our interview.

Denny passed a way a couple of weeks ago. His funeral was last Monday. Denny was a presence in Garrison that will be greatly missed. I was surprised to tears, honored and humbled when during the service Pastor Chris said, "The family asked me to read this. . . ." and he began reading from the article I had written, several months prior.

My words sounded different when read allowed from the pulpit of a church. I wiped away tears that I tried hard to keep inside. Some tears were for Denny. Admittedly, some tears were for me. I was proud that what I had written meant something to one man and his family.

I don't want to sound like I feel like everything I write is worthy of such honor. I know that to not be true. But every once in a while, something comes along to remind me of why I chose to write.

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." ~Anaïs Nin

My friend Mark, called me a day or two after the funeral, just to remind me of that very thought. He made me cry again. But this time, I had found some sort of equilibrium.

And I haven't worked out all of the bugs yet but I am learning to balance in the quicksand.

Rest in peace, Denny Johnson. And thank you.

Peace.