...don't say anything

One year after I started running, my
buddy, Carl Touchstone, told me I was ready for a marathon.  I wasn’t so sure, so he continued his sales
presentation.  “Sure you are, and this is
an easy one.  It’s the Mardi Gras
Marathon, and the course is totally flat, no hills at all.”  He paused, checked my eyes, saw that I needed
to hear more, so he picked up the line again. 
“Look, the whole thing is across a bridge, the bridge over Lake Pontchartrain.  The weather is always great.  And there is a heck of a party at the finish
line.”

I still wasn’t convinced, but I agreed
to go anyway.  Six of us, from Laurel,
Mississippi, rode down with Carl in his van. 
On the way down, someone looked at me and said, “Are you going to try
the marathon?  You don’t look in shape
for it.”

Before I could answer, Carl said, “He’ll
be fine.  He’s been training for this.”

I thought, Training?  Hell, I never heard of
this marathon until two weeks ago.

Thankfully, the conversation changed
course when someone said, “The weather report is not good.  Forty is going to be the high for the day,
and we’re going to running straight into a 35 – 50 mph wind all the way.  The rain is going to start about thirty
minutes after the race does.

Not only did the conversation change
course, it ended at that point.

An hour later, three thousand of us
were huddle on the north end of the bridge. 
My friend, Jeff Troka, gave me a large garbage bag, the foul weather
gear of choice that day.  The start of
the race was delayed for thirty minutes because it was too foggy for the news
and traffic helicopters to fly.  Finally,
the gun sounded, and we were off.  Just
as I got on the bridge the rain, driven by the wind, arrived, and it didn’t let
up for almost four hours.  After the
first five miles, we were scattered over a long distance.  Carl and everyone who I had been in the van
with were long gone.  There were no
cheering spectators, not even fellow runners to talk to because we were running
single file, in long lines, with the tallest in front of each line, serving as a
wind break. 

At the ten mile mark, runners were
already dropping out, beaten by the wind, rain, and temperature.  Those who dropped out were picked up by
National Guardsmen in deuce-and-a-halves. 
At the eighteen mile mark, I looked behind me.  Where there had been a couple of dozen
runners forty-five minutes earlier, there was no one.  Far behind, I could see a deuce-and-a-half
heading toward me.  I turned back toward
New Orleans and kept slogging along. 

I was thinking about hanging it up when
the truck pulled up beside me.  As it
crept along keeping pace with me, a Louisiana National Guard Sergeant leaned
out the window and said, “Mister, you’re the last one we can leave out
here.  The bridge is going to be open for
traffic in an hour.  Do you want to stay,
or do you want to go with us?”

I opened my mouth, fully prepared to
say, “I’ll go with you,” when John Wayne spoke up; spoke right through my mouth
without hesitation, “That’s alright, Sarge. 
I’ll stay.  I’m going to finish
this thing.”  John even topped it off
with a half salute, which the sergeant returned as the truck blasted away.

I watch it fade until it was gone.  I was alone. It was just me and the
wind.  Even John Wayne was gone.  A long while later, I realized that I could
see the end of the bridge.  I knew there
were two more miles to the finish line after the bridge but I didn’t care.  I was going to quit.  As I got closer to the end of the bridge, I
realized the road was lined with people. 
I caught a small group of runners at the end of the bridge, and together
we found ourselves pelted with confetti and shouts of good wishes, all backed
up by a wall of cheering.  I didn’t
care.  I was going to quit.  I’d made up my mind to quit.  I was just looking for a place to get through
the crowd and sit down on the curb. 

And then my plan went away with the
wind.  A man stepped from the crowd,
moved to my side, and matched my stride. 
A moment later,  he touched my
arm, and finally got my attention.  When I
managed to focus my gaze on him, he grinned, and shouted, “You’re going to make
it.  You’re going to make it!”

I tried to smile back and did managed
to croak, “Yes, I am going to make it.”

And I did, thanks to a stranger, who
cared enough to encourage me when I obviously needed it.

When I stumbled across the finish line,
Carl, wrapped in a blanked, and sipping his fourth cup of hot chocolate, was
waiting, cheering like I’d won the race. 
And, thanks to the man at the foot of the bridge, I had won it.

What’s all of that have to do with
writing?  Everything.  Here’s why.

***********

Last night, I read Kelly Stone’s blog -
Staring Out
the Window

Here’s an excerpt from the post, Hello, Mojo –

“Last
Saturday night, my confidence level shot to an all-time high.  I graduated with my MFA in Fiction from
Southern New Hampshire University and was introduced by one of the four men I
admire most: The Father, Son, Holy Ghost and Craig Childs. When he introduced
me, his first words were "Kelly
Stone Gamble kicks ass." Getting praise for your writing from someone
like Craig Childs kicks ass.

I
came home on an all-time high and again, stared at a blank page.

Then
I had an idea and started to type.

In
three days, I have now written six chapters on a new novel.  Yes, six rough chapters, but my mind is
turning  and I pretty much have the story
line in my head, and with the help of a friend, have created a few very
interesting characters.  I can't wait to
see what they do.”

Five words from Craig Childs,
jumpstarted Kelly Stone.

Last Thursday, I posted a blog called Zorro on writing.  The blog was about a flying squirrel that I
nicknamed Zorro and an indie writer named J.A. Konrath.  No one ever heard of Zorro the flying
squirrel, no one outside a tiny circle of close friends, but every indie writer
who has been involved in eBook publishing more than a week has heard of J.A.
Konrath, so the blog got a lot of traffic, and it generated more comments than
any blog I’ve ever posted.  One of those
comments was from J.A. Konrath.  He
wrote, “Terrific story, Bert. You should be a writer. :)”

I’m 69 years old.  I’ve been up and down the road more times
than you can imagine. I’ve been bankrupt, not once, but twice; I’ve been a
millionaire, and I’ve been homeless; I’ve been shot at more times than I can
count; I’ve had five moments when I knew I’d never experience the next one.  I’ve done all of that and more, so, you’d
think eight words and a smiley face from a kid in Chicago who writes wouldn’t
have any effect on me.  Wrong!  I took a deep breath, and I started writing,
editing really, a new novel called Maddog and Miss Kitty, but before I
did that, I wrote another blog that I called simply J.A. Konrath.

That blog too drew a lot of hits and a
number of comments.  One of those was
less than flattering, and that’s why I’m writing this.

********

My mother told me a lot of things, most
of which I didn’t listen to.  A few of
them I had to listen to because she said them over, and over, and over
again.  The one I’m thinking of is, “If
you can’t say something good, don’t say anything at all.”

We’re all writers.  We know the power of words.  Words are our swords.  Let’s agree, when we’re talking to, or about,
each other, if we can’t say something good, let’s not say anything at all.

Great good fortune to each of us.