Enjoy "Inception," the first chapter of my memoir, Transformed. I've been working on the book at odd times over the years and it still needs some work. This rough-draft excerpt explains how I became a writer. As always, thank you for reading .
In the winter of 2006 a powerful snowstorm gripped Parsippany, New Jersey, and, as in recent winters, I was a plow driver. On one particular January evening, having worked a long, tiresome shift, I realized that laboring for more than twenty hours without a break had taken its toll. I had become increasingly weary and sleepy. The clock on the dashboard flashed 2:00 a.m. Another long day’s work still lay ahead of me: hours of scraping roads, salting lots, shoveling walkways. My vision was blurry from exhaustion, my head bobbed back and forth. I struggled to keep my senses and my alertness at their peak but my biological rhythms were faltering. I had to push on because I was working against a deadline and time was fleeing. Surrounding roads and highways were deserted, nearby offices abandoned and dark. People were home in bed where they should be, where I wished I was. It’s funny, most plow drivers I knew drew excitement and pleasure from the mere anticipation of an approaching snowstorm. All they could see was dollar signs, fatter wallets, mindless male bonding and long periods of time away from their families, playing with their toys, acting macho, squeezing every ounce of labor from their subordinates yet keeping the profits for themselves. Plowing was by far the worst aspect of my landscaping job, the one I disliked the most, for countless reasons, yet there was little I could do. I could quit but then I’d have a hell of a hard time paying the bills, and more problems would accumulate quicker than this snow. In light of this reality I had to keep my focus on cleaning the roads and staying on schedule. State plow crews in surrounding areas also fought to keep up with the raging storm. Hours ago the governor had issued a “state of emergency” in an attempt to keep traffic at a minimum. In line with the governor’s declaration, plow crews struggled to stay on pace with the blizzard. In blue-collar terminology, “The storm was kicking our ass.”
I had just finished plowing a vast commercial parking lot and craved an emotional and physical jumpstart. Before going to the next job site, I decided to get a cup of coffee at a nearby 24hour grocery. I needed something to help keep me warm and awake, although at this point regaining my emotional and physical stamina was virtually impossible. As I pulled out of the lot onto Route 46, I watched snowflakes the size of marbles falling like tiny meteorites. I couldn’t deny the scene’s splendor. To me snowfall was a magical natural occurrence, but how could I enjoy the show from behind the wheel of a machine and with no time to pause and admire the spectacle. Instead, for lack of anything better, I concentrated on the calming noise of snow and sleet needling the cab of my truck, a remedy for the lassitude of monotonous work. The only sound I’d heard over the last twenty hours was metal scraping pavement, like huge fingers on a chalkboard.
Across the street at a gas station, just beyond the grocery, blowing snow had covered the pumps and completely cloaked an out-of-service tow truck. Streetlights lined both sides of the highway, their bulbs now coated with snow, their rays of light smothered. I saw no sign of life, not even a pedestrian. Or a squirrel. Or a wino. Or a policeman. Talk about a ghost town, this was it! I drove a few hundred feet farther and came to the base of a steep hill. Good thing I had a big truck with four-wheel-drive and extra weight. Even so, I skidded on the slickness of the compacted snow and ice. As I arrived mid-way up the hill I noticed a car in the distance trying to climb but failing miserably. The car’s red hazard lights flickered at me through the squalling snow. I couldn’t help wondering what kind of irresponsible madman would attempt to travel these sloppy, dangerous roads at this time of night—and with an inferior car. Once I got to within fifty feet of the disabled vehicle, I heard the squealing of its spinning tires. Tendrils of smoke from the burning rubber poured out from the sides of the wheel wells. My voice within wanted me to ignore the situation and keep going—but I couldn’t. I felt obligated to see if there was something I could do. After all, I was trained and prepared for these kinds of emergencies. I felt almost certain that a drunk driver was behind the wheel. What other explanation could account for this driver’s actions? I pulled up behind the car and put on my hazard lights. Then I got out of my truck, the stinging wind and snow pellets lashing my face, the discomfort heightening my lucidity. When I peered through the driver’s side door I was stunned to see a young woman who, in the semi-darkness of her car, appeared attractive and nicely dressed. Where had she been? Where was she going? Did she really have to be out in this mess, at this time? I didn’t ask any of these questions. In fact, all I remember is telling her to keep a slight pressure on the accelerator and steer, and then I manually pushed her car, which started gaining traction. Shards of dirty snow pummeled my body like weapons. After a minute or two she got momentum and her car managed to reach the crest of the hill, where it drove off into the night. The driver, after having been lucky enough to find help, had fled the scene without a wave or a beep of the horn—nothing to suggest her appreciation. For a few moments I stood on the desolate highway and thought about her reaction—or lack thereof. Of course I was slightly irritated by the way she had handled the matter; after all, I didn’t have to help her. I could have driven past and left her alone, stuck and vulnerable in a wicked storm. As I stood there watching the snow enrobe the town one word kept rushing through my mind: vulnerable. I started thinking about people who have been stranded in snowstorms in the middle of the night, desperate for help, clinging to hope, at the mercy of others. I wondered what travelers would do if their only means of escaping this kind of emergency was to depend on a stranger, especially a man? The woman I had just helped was indeed vulnerable, and I was a stranger, a worker with a job to do, but, to her, a stranger, nonetheless. I was sure she would one day appreciate what I did for her, but at this horrendous hour and in these risky conditions, she was likely in a rush to get home. That is how I rationalized her actions.
I jumped in my truck and finally got my cup of coffee. Sipping my coffee in the Quick Chek parking lot, I glanced into my work bag and saw my notebook, which was typically filled with boring documents: pending job orders and day-to-day notes. Suddenly, a sense of profound urgency consumed me. I grabbed the pad and found my now warmed hand taking on a life of its own: I started writing about what had just happened with that stranded woman, her helpless and frightening experience in the wee hours of the morning. I started imagining what would have taken place if somebody with malevolent intent had found her all alone as I had. My mind was imparting thoughts of terror I had never conceived of in the past, and I had no other choice but to put them on paper, and that’s how and where I discovered a need—an urgency—to articulate my thoughts through words. It seems rather odd, right? Developing a desire to create and express myself during working hours while parked in a convenience store’s parking lot? But that is exactly where and when it was that I felt the initial spark, that perfect reason to rise above the drudgery of an ordinary life heading nowhere in particular. On that frigid morning I felt like I could really be alone with my ideas and begin to arrange them in a pattern, convey my reactions in a way that I had never thought of before—ever. For a second or two I had the uncanny impression that something was actually wrong with me: my finger stroking the paper, ink covering the ruled page, thoughts and ideas palpitating inside me and around me, my heart beating rapturously. Such sensation and reward were not meant to be wasted on a working man with dirty hands, right? A man whose highest academic achievement was high school, a man whose destiny was supposed to be the prettification of every lawn he touched, a man with paltry English skills. This very moment had instantly begun to change me: my life, my attitude, my purpose, my overall being. I jotted down numerous notes and sentences, all the while letting my once hot coffee turn hopelessly cold. But what could I do? I couldn’t stop myself. The sudden, unexpected bliss of a first kiss—a kiss of fate—flowed through my bones, my flesh, my head, my hand.
At rare times in life something extraordinary happens, and you can either seize the moment or lose it and never find that energy, that unmistakable sensation, again. Of course I’m damn lucky that I followed those impulses and trusted their guidance; otherwise, I wouldn’t have known how creativity feels or what it means. Over time I started to think about my past, where I’ve come from, what led me to this life-changing event; perhaps, if I were to dig deep enough, I could find some answers and better understand the real me—the me who out of the blue was suddenly seduced by the charms of the written word, of imagination, of a lifetime of literary exploration. I felt as if the snow—years of snow—might be melting away.
Although your job had its own inherent dangers, your Walter Mitty moment elevated the drudgery to penning your creative thoughts. Your stranded motorist "jumpstarted" your imagination.
Remarkably well written. The snowstorm was a great start to your inception into the writing world. Only I would've drank that coffee while it was still hot and got back on my duty or fallen asleep with perhaps, dreams of writing what had happened, but not actually ever writing it.
I feel the same passion and energy when it comes to writing, especially about personal experiences that are so interesting to me and also interesting to my readers. The best line in the whole first chapter was what you described as the, "kiss of fate." So often that's all it takes.
My only concern would be that you break up your long paragraphs into smaller ones. I wrote that way for a long time until I noticed that I could read smaller paragraphs much faster with a little breather in between.
A passionate and poignant memoir written by a woman whose life has been guided by the words: "I am here to learn how to love well." The book is a deep examination of relationships, family, motivation, and honoring of the Self.
