I doubted I could write without telling the stories of my family and having everyone angry with me for giving away secrets.
I doubted that I could succeed at anything to the degree where it would provide me a state of being comfortable and being able to retire at an early age. I always felt I would be working at some hum-drum job until the day I dropped over from exhaustion and they would have to carry me away from some conveyor belt or assembly line and that would be my ignominious end.
I doubted that my mother and father respected me as an adult when I became one. I thought, 'They will always see me as their little child and that is part of the reason I am unable to function the way I think I am supposed to at the stage I have reached.'
I doubted that my wife trusted me when I left three different jobs because I needed to try something fresh. Twice I took a hiatus and did temporary work while trying to write the Great American Novel. I have reams of typewritten sheets in desk drawers and can fully understand why my ex-wife does not respect me.
I doubted my son would want to follow in his father's footsteps, but as he did not survive past the age of thirteen that will not be a topic of discussion.
I doubted my daughter would be able to quit taking drugs and stay away from them once and for all. If she is anything like me she will have difficulty completing any kind of twelve-step program. She says she has been clean for the last four years but I know she drinks a bit. No amount of my speaking to her has any effect. She gets on better with her mother, but won't listen to her either.
I doubted my doctor when he advised me to get more exercise, when he told me I was too sedentary, that my cholesterol was too high, and I doubted my eye doctor when he told me that I was in danger of developing glaucoma. I figured he was in league with the optometrist who wanted to sell me glasses. I thought it was strange how once I started wearing them just for reading I seemed to need them more and more of the time. Now I have to wear them to the movies. But I don't go to the movies too often. My doctor says I need to walk more.
I am such a doubter that lately I am having doubts about my doubting. I am trying to use reverse psychology on myself. I figure if I question something it probably is good for me, but then if I think it is good for me I am sure the doctor will tell me it isn't and most of the things I have done in the past have led me to this ornery position I am currently in.
Now I live alone and I write most of the time in the evenings. On the weekends, I see a woman I work with. We go to dinner and maybe once a month, I stay at her place or she stays at mine for a night. Once in a while, the family photo I keep on the bookcase catches my eye. It was taken thirteen years ago. If I think about it, I miss my wife and daughter living here with me. I especially miss my son and sometimes I find myself crying before I realize I've made myself sad. I miss my Mom and Dad. When I get like that and it's not the weekend, not yet time to get together with Evelyn, I sit at the keyboard and try to put my feelings into words.
I'm still trying to write that novel, but I doubt it will ever be finished. All that I've read says you should write about what you know, but nothing exciting ever seems to happen to me.
