I was 10 years old when I made the Wish, my feet sunken in the sand of Omaha Beach, eyes searching for the end of the sea. It was a place of wishes, Omaha beach, and it had nurtured me since I was tiny and new to the world. It had fed my imagination, invited me to dream. My whole life lay before me, as vast and mysterious as the ocean that was lapsing near my ankles, and I didn’t stop wondering where I wanted to go in that adventure. That day, the Wish was born. And it felt right. I carried it back down the scraggly, sandy walkway from the dunes to the wooden deck of the Bach, and went inside after hosing my feet. Carefully, I unclipped my black journal and began weaving the Wish onto the sand-coloured paper with my most treasured pencil. I was only ten years old, but there was no need to wait until I had grown up to start fulfilling my wish. A story was already blooming in my mind, and I felt the need to write it.
Sadly, as the years passed by, that Wish faded to a whisper. But just because I couldn’t hear it, didn’t mean that it wasn’t there.
— — —
July, 2018
Winter was upon us. And it seemed that everything I was working towards ground to a halt, like a clock with frozen cogs. Right in the heart of 2018 - the year that I thought would be my ultimate breakthrough as an Artist - I found myself in the doldrums, picking at my nails and unsure how to proceed with a path that was going nowhere. My failsafe plan wasn’t working either. No workplace wanted to hire me, and I was left trudging through the chill of Dunedin’s inner city to the Ministry of Social Development, not to get a job, mind, but just to conform to my obligations of the Welfare Benefit. When the weather was nice (a rarity), I had a chance to go and and film one of my original piano songs in the beautiful landscapes nearby - only to publish the completed video and reach a new record high of, perhaps, 30 people on Youtube, if I was lucky. Actually, I did strike a vein of luck with one of my filming adventures, when a local blogger named Derek chanced upon me on the headland above the broiling Blackhead beach, and featured me on his blog ‘Box of Light’. Sure, it reached a good 100 people. But ultimately it lead nowhere. I was still poor and jobless, and no amount of ‘filming adventures’ was going to change that, despite my unruly optimism.
But even the filming adventures were running on thin ice, ice which shattered when, of all things, the brakes of my car The Emerald Wagon failed me on the open road. They just… popped, suddenly, and so did the shakes in my hands when the brake pedal didn’t work. It was by some miracle that in the ever-hilly Dunedin, I was on a flat road, and managed to steer the old mut car to safety. But I could not salvage the financial ruin that followed. Without the Emerald Wagon, the Quest was over. I had no choice but to take it to the car doctor, and it was the killing blow that scraped the remainder of my finances dry, down to the bottom cent of an $800 overdraft.
Thankfully, I had a at least one trick up my sleeve.
On days cold and overcast, I wobbled my way out of the Pit lugging my keyboard and the rest of my busking equipment, and made my way to the Albion Place alley to busk. At first, I could hardly call it busking. With my finances in the state they were, I almost felt like a beggar, pleading with music instead of speech; my own piano compositions, bids for a couple of coins instead of performances of musical expression. I was nearing desperation, until I realised the odd irony of the situation. My whole ‘Quest’ was to make a living as an Artist, and that’s exactly what I was doing. I was earning a pittance: just enough to buy groceries from the Four Square. It was a mockery of my so called ‘Quest’. But at least I was surviving off doing what I loved. At least I wasn’t entirely destitute.
I had long since accepted that what I was trying to do was a complete failure. I yearned to have my ‘normal life’ back. I yearned for a full time job, working in some restaurant, maintaining my music as a hobby only… But it never came, despite my efforts. Meanwhile I was sinking further into the Pit, further into laziness and lack of motivation to do the work which was going nowhere. It didn’t make any sense. I thought following your passion was meant to lead to happiness, but it was sending my life spiralling into chaos. I had to do something about it.
But what?
1 month later…
I didn’t know if it was a Monday, or a Wednesday, or perhaps even a Saturday, but I was up earlier than I was used to, and with more enthusiasm to get started on the days work than I had known for months. Equipping my bag and tossing in my red journal, I went into the ‘sun-room’ of The Pit and opened the one window of our flat that looked out to a nature scene. It was my new discovery: a secret way in and out of The Pit. We gave our flat that name because it really felt sunken in the depths of its inner-city building, with only one dingy way in and out - past the bulging rubbish bags and up the rotting-wooden staircase. But now I had found this secret way out of The Pit, through the exuberant private garden of our mysterious neighbour. I jumped through the window and picked my way across the flower bed to the railed pathway, peeking cautiously up at the house above me. It was a fortress, bold and confident, 'King of the Hill’ in the corner of Moray Place. Hoping I hadn’t been caught sneaking through the owner’s private garden, I hurried down the zig-zag pathway and out the heavy gate. And there I stood at the open mouth of The Dog with Two Tails, not 1 minute from my own room. The cafe was more than just ‘my local’; it was a second lounge. My writing den.
The heat…
The story…
— The sun was high and heavy, and it was turning Queensland into an oven. I didn’t mind though. In fact I barely even noticed. I was trying with all my might to do as I promised myself I would do, and finish just one page of writing. That was my one daily goal, and it seemed simple. But it was harder than hefting a boulder up a mountain…
Babbling from the Marina cafe drifted lazily across the road, distracting me from my opened journal. The seagulls squabbling all around me were a nuisance too. I tried to harness my concentration once more, and stared intensely at the page. What was I meant to write about? The weather? Being unable to write anything was so frustrating that it was almost painful. And when a word or two clambered out onto the page, I could only cringe and turn away. I knew it had to be done - it was the only way I could ever become a writer, and becoming a Writer was my first Wish. Gazing out at the bobbing sail boats in the Marina, I wondered how my 10 year-old self managed to write so freely and unapologetically. I owed him everything. I had neglected his Wish to become a Writer all throughout my teenage years, and now I was paying the price, desperately trying to re-ignite the flame with damp paper… If I was ever going to become a Writer, I needed to accept my Writing no matter how bad it was. If I was ever going to become a Writer, I needed to Write!
I forced my gaze away from the Marina and faced the near-empty page once more. Hefting the pen, I let it muddy the page, trying my hardest not to wince. I knew that in the future I would be grateful. So long as I … just … wrote! —
The sound of the toy train zipping above my head brought me back to the Dog with Two Tails. I almost wanted to laugh. The struggle to even budge a word seemed silly in hindsight, as every draft I had written in that red journal was doggerel! I slapped it closed and shoved it into my bag. Ideas on how to edit that story for my blog were already sprouting in my mind as I slipped into the secret garden, and hopped back into the Pit through the open window. Within the matter of a minute, I was at my desk, swivelling on my chair, and opening a new project on my blog. And then I launched straight into my first edit. It would be the 10th instalment into my blog, ‘The Heroes Journey’, and I decided to call it ‘How I became a Writer’.
Finally, after half a year of telling myself I was going to write stories for my blog, I was actually doing it. Every morning that I sunk into my red journal at the Dog with Two Tails, every afternoon that I sat at my desk typing my edits, every evening that I clicked publish on my blog, I realised that this is what my life had been missing. And now, all of a sudden I had this gargantuan project of Writing my life story ahead of me, and I knew that it was a project that would never end. I was making my life into a story, or rather, seeing it for the story that it was. It gave me a fresh perspective on my life and its many tribulations; it gave meaning to my failures. They weren’t failures any more. They were stories. My so called ‘Quest’ and its collapse, my struggle to establish an income with my music, my struggle to grow a Youtube channel, my car’s brakes failing and the resulting financial catastrophe. The busking to earn a pittance, the pitiful job-hunt, my internal battle to maintain structure in my life…
Story. All of it.
I was still a poor bastard, mired in the frosty depths of 2018, trying to secure an income, trying to fix the problems I had created for myself. But at least now I knew that one day I would tell the story of how I did make things right, and what Writing my memoir did for me. I was living and breathing the story, and I wanted it to be a good one.
I wanted to have fun when I wrote it.
And I did.
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