This is not an announcement. No timetable is forthcoming. I am merely admitting something that should be evident to all who know me: My days as a working journalist are numbered. Weeks, maybe months, maybe even a year or two. (Don’t tell my wife about that last option. She really wants me done with my career and doing things at home and elsewhere in retirement. Our recent road trip gave us an idea of what it will be like to do more traveling, and I have to admit, that does sound like a pretty good plan.)
I came across a friend of mine in a downtown store a couple of weeks ago. I had a question for him: Any advice for retirement? His response was a pretty simple one: Just enjoy it.
The trouble is, I don’t adapt to change well. Going from working hard to hardly working, as the old joke goes, seems like it will have a certain amount of difficulty built into it. I will have to be gentle with it.
A few weeks ago, some mystery writers were here in Bluffton talking about their craft. Writing for a newspaper is quite different than writing fiction, where I’m solely responsible for telling a story — a story that I will have to make up.
I’ve never been a creative writer. I have always been a reporter, telling what has happened as documented by government officials, police officers, or individuals I’ve interviewed. I spent a significant number of years as a sportswriter, and again, that was telling a story that’s not my own. I didn’t make it up. The players and the coaches gave me the stories. I just documented what happened.
The mystery writers encouraged me to give it a try. It’s intriguing, but I’m not sure I can do it — even if after retirement, I theoretically should have time on my hands to give it a try.
I figured when my mother retired, she would pack up her car and drive out to Indiana for a few weeks at a time, staying with her son and her daughter-in-law and her three Hoosier grandchildren. I think she did it once, and then only for a very few days. There was too much to do at home — even though, as noted, she was retired. Her time was supposed to be her own.
I’ve done a little research on matters. Maybe I could write a short story or two. Maybe. Maybe not. It would be something different, and I have no idea if I’d be any good at it. I fear the answer will be no.
Can I live a different kind of life? Can I truly “enjoy it,” as my friend in the downtown store advised me?
I remember literature class in high school where I was told that great literature relies on conflict. That’s a rather distasteful thing, considering that I try to do all I can to avoid conflict. The four primary types of conflict are man against himself, man against man, man against nature, and man against God. I’d like to leave conflict behind, but writing a story without conflict is the very definition of bad literature. So, I think I’ll leave that creative writing idea tucked away somewhere, unexplored. But I’ll have to do something. It’ll involve change and probably conflict — and therefore, some degree of unrest.
This view of my future is weighing on my mind this Christmas season. There’s conflict ahead in my life. I do not look forward to it. Even if it’s the schedule change to retirement, or the change in the type of writing I will do after I wander out of the building at 125 N. Johnson St., there will be some change. As G.K. Chesterton said, “To live in time is to change.” Struggle awaits.
We are in the Christmas season. We are celebrating the coming of the Prince of Peace.
O come, O come, Emmanuel. I need peace, now and down the road.
“Sleep in heavenly peace” has never sounded more necessary — or even thrilling. Can I find it?
daves@news-banner.com
