Unless otherwise noted, Copyright
James C. Hess
2009. All Rights Reserved. Published by Thinking Rock Press, with written permission from the author.
CONTOURS OF TIME are evident in rock formations not far from my home. Commonly known as "hogbacks", they are physical remnants of an ancient, exposed sea floor honed by the elements - earth, air, fire, water - over thousands of years, and stand silently as testament to what longevity actually means in the grand scheme of things.
They are also undeniable reminders of how short a human Life is. The exposed layers are records of what Time embodies: A number of years ago a geologist I know dated several layers of one hogback and determined the following: A layer about an inch in width indicates about ten thousand years. Therefore, a half inch is five thousand years, a quarter inch is 2,500 years, and so on, to the point that the width representing the average human life span of about eighty years is hardly apparent to an individual with excellent eyesight in the brightest light of the day.
Whenever I am feeling arrogant or egotistical or important beyond reason because of something I have accomplished, and I know such feelings are inappropriate as presented, I take a walk among the hogbacks, look to those layers, and am quickly reminded what my particular accomplishment actually means and represents.
Then I go back to my desk, and return to my writing, to do one thing: Produce writing that some day might be more than insignificant - a hairline scratch on the record of Time.
As you age Time becomes more pronounced and apparent, and you come to realize how much time you don't have and how much time you have wasted or used recklessly previously. Of course, resolutions to do otherwise are equally irresponsible. Efforts to better manage and use time are just as reckless, and in the end you realize how foolish such antics truly are. It is better, then, that you make the most of the time you still have before you than to attempt to rectify what cannot be undone.
I am a Writer. I write.
This is who I am. This is what I do.
It was a choice - 'a career path', as some call it - I first pursued more than a decade ago. I have no regrets about my choice. Nor do I have any regrets about where I call home.
And snide remarks made in my direction by sophisticates who otherwise reside in such urbane places as Los Angeles and New York are politely discounted: Why do you live THERE, I'm often asked by these informed types who consider such concerns as breast implants and marital infidelity noteworthy beyond other things. Don't you want to succeed as a Writer? Don't you want to be known, and become famous and rich, and and and. . .?
And what? I reply, still polite, often offering a brown paper bag for their hyperventilating.
There is no reply to this inquiry. I don't expect one any time soon.
Why should I, when these enlightened sorts, whose intellectual value is less than that of a bag of rocks, cannot begin to grasp, comprehend, and understand the fundamental truth involved?
This is my choice. This is my Life.
My Life, such as it is, is not and cannot be measured in terms of value by way of awards and honors imparted by those with self-serving motives. My Life, such as it is, is and can be measured by way of what my writing brings. To me and to others.
On a regular basis word comes to me that a workshop I conducted or a presentation I put on or an essay I published touched the life of another, and inspired them to create a work that is, simply, greatness.
That is what matters to me.
At the same time I won't deny making money from my writing also matters: It keeps me out of trouble and allows me certain liberties and luxuries I might not otherwise be able to indulge: A house that is a home. A vehicle that is paid for. A few dollars in the bank. The ability to sleep well at night because that day a job well done was realized.
And yet, it isn't enough. It isn't enough because my Life does not stand alone.
Look at those hogbacks and realize that they did not come about by way of a single layer. Theirs is an existence that came of great effort and energy, a great accumulation; simply, a singular pursuit.
In 2008 three writers whose work I am told my writing imitates passed away. A few days ago, word came from another writer, whose work inspired me years ago, that he plans to begin this year in retirement. . . from deadlines, that is. After more than forty years of such things he has called it quits and plans to pursue writing that does not require such arbitrary demands.
Which brings me to my writing. As one writer after another steps into the river of Time itself the demand and expectation on those remaining becomes greater.
And it becomes a matter of time.
It becomes a matter of effort and energy and accumulation; simply, a singular pursuit.
A number of years ago, late at night, over several bottles of wine that led myself and another down the path of philosophical pursuit, I realized and decided there are certain things in Life that actually matter and certain things in Life that don't really matter, despite claims made otherwise. When the effects of the alcohol waned I decided something. I decided my writing must be about what matters. So I began a schedule of writing projects. This project would be finished, then that one. Followed by that one and that one, and then that one.
I have maintained this scheduled, despite cries and protests from those who believe I should do otherwise.
This year is no different. This year my attention turns to two mysteries. A John Collector mystery and a Father Chris mystery. Both have to do with what is called 'a crisis of faith'. But they approach the matter from two distinct perspectives. For Collector, who has one foot in the white man's world and one foot in the Native American world, his faith in the legal system continues to erode while his belief in the fundamentals of right and wrong grow stronger. For Father Chris, a perceived radical, his faith in organized religion continues to weaken while his belief in God grows.
People have already asked why I am doing what I am doing - why I am doing this. Because in the end, when all that remains are the contours of time, these works will mean something to someone somewhere.
And that is the measure and value of Life itself.