I didn’t obtain permission to run this from the author, which perhaps I ought to’ve. Ah well, hopefully he won’t be offended; knowing him as well as I do, for as long as I have, I really don’t think he’ll have any objection.

Received a short email from a fella who’s been hanging around this h’yar hogwallow since the Aulden Thymes, a kindred spirit and all-around righteous dude with whom I’ve enjoyed a cordial e-correspondence for years. The latest example, name and location of course omitted:

Mike,

I’ll keep this brief, but wanted to thank you most sincerely for the recent series of postings. I had despaired of ever feeling anything like that again at Christmas in my twilight years. Better that Christmas should arrive late in my heart than not at all. Today, at least, I have hope for this miserable world that, in spite of (nay, because of) current happenings, it cannot deny God’s grace and mercy.

Have a most blessed Christmas, friend.

The emaiI’s subject line was “The Sounds of Christmas,” arriving just after the third and final installment of this year’s Christmas music fest had been published. I’m sure I don’t need to tell anybody here how thoroughly this missive made my day, my week, my whole damned year. Made me feel good in a way I haven’t in way too long.

As I’ve related here several times, there have been occasions over lo, these many years when I decided I was all done with this blogging business; I’d said all I had to say, was bored to tears with the whole kit and kaboodle. I would announce my “retirement,” leave that post up for a week or so, then back up the whole site and database, download the backups to the trusty iMac, and delete everything from the server forever. Nobody cared, least of all me. Blogger burn-out is real; I’ve always felt that stepping away from the Innarnuts for a few days is an absolute necessity for anybody who wants to maintain his sanity, his sense of proportion, his psychological equilibrium, if any.

It was my feeling at such moments that, while in my opinion I’d done a bang-up job of designing, setting up, and running the blog these last twenty-some-odd years, and that I still drew some enjoyment from writing essays here, I was finally gonna quit. I think—screw that, I KNOW—that I’m a good writer, that I’m smart, that I’m blessed with an unusual outlook and worldview. My life-experience is unique and multifaceted; I have definitely been there and done that, whatever “there” and “that” might be. Drawing on those not-inconsiderable gifts, I know I can provide like-minded folks with entertainment, food for thought, maybe a hearty laugh now and then.

Even so, I felt the time had come for me to move on, God only knows to what. There ain’t any money in this blogging stuff, not for small-fry types like myself anyway; although I’m deeply grateful for every red cent of it, losing the tiny trickle of subscription/donation money generated by CF and the Eyrie wouldn’t hurt too much. I suppose it’s a different story for big fish like Ace, Reynolds, Hoft, etc. Be that as it may be, the fact remains that I ain’t them, and they ain’t me.

And each and every time this end-of-blog-days mood came over me and I was ready to pull the plug at long, long last, an email would come over the iMac transom from some grunt or Gyrine (even one Blackhawk pilot, which is a whole ‘nother amazing story in its own right; a senior career chopper-jock with extensive combat experience, he was actually involved in…um, never mind, I’m sworn to secrecy on that op) in Iraq, Afghanistan, or another of the world’s garden spots, saying something along these lines:

Dear Mike,

Can’t thank you enough for the Cold Fury blog. Each morning when we roll out of the sack my fire team/squad/platoon-mates brew up some shitty issue coffee, then we all gather around the laptop/cell phone/whatever to check out your latest posts. We all agree that your blog is just about the only thing that keeps us going in this shithole day after day, we all enjoy it more than you’ll ever know.

Reading your blog gives us something to look forward to in this God-forsaken desert/jungle/mountain hellhole—something to talk about while we’re out on patrol, in the mess tent, pulling guard, or just kicking back and chillaxin’ behind the wire. Keep up the good work, HOO-YAH!!!

And BANG, ZOOM! There it all was, hurled right into my teeth by a stern God whose sardonic sense of humor can never be gainsaid, in the very nick of time before I took certain irrevocable steps I would later regret. There was but one correct response to such a jawdropping compliment, which was to grin, shake my head, square my shoulders, and tell myself, “You pathetic puke! Quitcher bitchin’, get yer sad-sack ass over to the desk, and get back to work! Nut the fuck up, check the attitude, and stand the fuck TO, you simple sumvabitch…”

Just that quick, just that easy, suddenly I was reinvigorated. The good old creative fire blazed anew within a spirit that had mere moments before been suffused with weariness, ennui, and indifference, the desire to reflect, research, and write fully restored. If I no longer wanted to do it for myself—which I knew deep down had never really been so in the first place—then I could damned well do it for them.

The brief email up top gave me the same feeling, the same quickening, the same rush. I mean, come ON, man! How many of us can lay claim to doing such a worthwhile thing all unawares for someone, for anyone? When I discussed it with my brother Jeff yesterday, we agreed that it was more or less the same with the band: you sweat, you strive, you put it out there scattershot just as far and as wide as you can without ever really knowing who your work might be affecting, or how. In fact, you CAN’T know, not really, which is as it should be.

Ultimately, every writer, every musician, every worth-his-salt artist in every creative discipline is in the business not of receiving but of giving—endlessly, profligately, every minute of every day, forever and ever Amen. Professional or amateur, struggling, successful, or somewhere in-between, the day comes for each and every serious artist when he or she will be smacked in the face with that home truth, HARD, a life-lesson none of us ever forgets. If you fancy yourself a Creative Type yet chafe at this bedrock principle you’re definitely in the wrong line of work, and should trot your happy ass off and put in an application at Wal Mart or Red Lobster or EZ-Park or some other such outfit you’re better suited for temperamentally toot fucking sweet.

You nock the arrow, bend your bow, release the bow-string, and let the arrow fly straight and true towards a target you can’t even see. Once in a rare while, though, you get to hear the THUNK! when your arrow plunges dead-center into the target. If that’s the one and only reward on offer, best latch onto it with both hands then, and hold on with all your might. Otherwise, that precious jewel will get away from ya every time. As rewards go it might not seem like much, but it damned sure ain’t nothing, either.

When all’s said and done, the rock-bottom truth is that the work is its OWN reward; anything beyond that is just gravy. Be honest, be humble, and above all be grateful; keep that in mind, keep your chin up no matter what, and you’ll be all right. Calls for a rerun of another personal favorite, I believe.

Here endeth the lesson.

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