I’m making only slow progress. In part, it’s due to sorting through aspects of the larger context and trying to boil those down to what is at once brief and understandable. As I do this, of course, my thesis about John Neihardt and the reason for its existence—its importance, for me to make any argument about it at all—becomes unclear.
I get frightened: What the hell am I doing? What am I trying to say here? John Neihardt was a lucky hack! What did he have to do with anything? Without 1960s woo-woo he’d have faded from history as surely as those authors of the books never checked out from the library!
I try all the harder, seeing on the clock that another day has rolled by without me getting much to the paper. “Yikes.” “Tomorrow will be better.” “I’ll try harder.” Etc. All the sudden in my mind it’s the end of summer and I’m standing with my hands in my pockets.
I know I chose Neihardt for a purpose that isn’t quite clear just now. Taking it easy with this thing is just hard, though. And that’s why I write. I don’t have other people around who get it. All the family understands is that father and husband broods around the house and is grumpy again (and again and again).
On the upside:
1. I still have a wife and family.
2. Word from the U of NE editor is that she’s impressed with the new book.
3. With a pharmacological change, pounds gained from one of the medications I got in the Bin are melting off like butter in the sun.
4. The neighborhood pool’s open. I’m often the only dad among the moms.
Life can’t be all struggle and fear, can it?