Restless Drive

There was this book in college. One of those thick, hardbound, coffee table books that you leave out so that people you don’t really know all that well can page through them while you’re in the toilet or something. I think it was called The Book of Birthdays. Or maybe The Secret Language of Birthdays. I can’t remember exactly, and when I searched for it just now, the covers look equally familiar to me, perhaps because they are so similar to each other. Whichever it was, it told you what sort of person you were based on what day of the year you were born. As far as I can remember, it didn’t take year into account, which for some reason made its accuracy even more dubious to my mind.

So this was back in college, and one of my roommate’s friends had the book. My friend Gabe’s birthday was called “the day of Quixotic dreams”. Man, we got a lot of laughs with that one, mostly because there actually was something sort of tragically romantic about Gabe. Mine was “the day of restless drive.” I claimed not to have any understanding what it was talking about.

And yet, here I am making a brand new blog expressly for the purpose of having something to write every day even when I have nothing to write. I don’t like “not writing.” It makes me anxious and irritable, which is especially problematic while parenting. But right now I have so many projects already out there—so many things that I’m waiting on—that to add one more writing project to the mix would be a terrible, and possibly ridiculous, idea.

And so…a blog.

I haven’t had a proper blog in years. I’m not sure what I’ll put on here, but as the name implies, I want this to be fairly focused. It’s a play on the main character’s name in my Empire of Storms trilogy, of course. But the intent is a curated collection of things that keep me from falling into that deep well of despair on a daily basis. It won’t necessarily be pretty, or uplifting, or even comprehensible to anyone other than me. It’s just a space to work things out in my mind, and the idea that someone might stumble across it tends to sharpen my intent.

So here. Some bleak hope for me:

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas