A sort of life

Preface to Volume Three

RICHMOND, Va. — Much has changed since we last spoke. Much remains the same.

Nearly six years have elapsed since I last wrote. But for a few moments, I’ve been dry. If I did not write for me, then surely I did not write for you. I gave it up. We’ve had this conversation before: It’s simply too hard to find words when things are good. This has always been true for me.

And so I found myself in a decent job. I met a decent woman. I found a better job. Got married to that woman. Things were good. Generally speaking, things were very good. And I was happy.

And my creativity was gone. The paradox is not new. And yet, strangely, I still find myself surprised by it. And it doesn’t matter. The end result is that we’ve lost six years together. That’s the point.

So suddenly I’m filled with a tremendous desire to write. To try to recapture what I think I had before. What I think I had. Not what I really had. I’ve diluted the memories far too much to really know what that was. But the memories I do have, altered as they may be, are fondly remembered. Not happy. They weren’t happy times. But the writing was good. The escape was healthy.

Things are much different now. Before I wrote to be heard. I wrote for the women readers. And there were a few, believe it or not. I wrote for their eyes. I wrote for their sex. I wrote because I wanted to write.

Now I write for myself. I need a venue to process things. I’ve tried other outlets. I’ve tried other places. Other people. But I keep coming back to this space. This space has always felt like home. And it’s time to move back in.

And this time I’ll be more honest. More open. More vulnerable. I’ll try to be anyway. OK? And I’ll start now: I’m still writing for the women. I’d really like to go back to there. Women that take their clothes off for quality writing are awesome. And I support them supporting me.

So this is for me. And also for them.

Anyway, it’s time to launch this bastard thing. But first a history of sorts: The first chapter I called Volume One: Frank’s Wild Years (1983–2009). That chapter is closed. It wont be revisited.

The next chapter was aborted. I called it Volume Two: The Honorary Consul (2011–2014). In it a single entry saying much of the same things as the entry you’re reading now. You know, that I’m going to write again. That I’ll be back. I made no promises. And I did not write. I did not come back. However, I’m enough of a sucker for history that I do not feel it right to wipe the chapter off the site. In fact, I may go back and try to fill it in with reflections of that period. Again, no promises. But I have a crumbled marriage and years of things that I need to work through. I figure that I’ll stash my reflections here. That period in my life is distinct enough that it seems like a natural place for them to go. Even if written after the fact.

And now we have Volume Three: Rock and Roll Part Three (2015– ). I’m not in love with the name. But names don’t matter much anyway. The point is that I’m going through, and will go through a reawakening of sorts. And it’s time to rock and roll. Again.

As with anything I’m involved in, there’s a fair bit of tech debt to go along with the enterprise. My former content management system went belly up. And so I need to move all the prior work over to this one. That’s going to take a while. I’m going to try to preserve it all. But things may not work properly for a while.

If nothing else, when I die, this place will be the place I will live on. Everyone needs a legacy, I guess. And so here it is. And here it will be.

At least until my ISP shuts it down for non-payment.

“Preface to Volume Three” is from Volume Three: Rock and Roll Part Three (2015–).

And I was desolate and sick of an old passion

And I was desolate and sick of an old passion

A congested Jenny De Soto naps with a Kleenex stuck in her nose in Vienna, Va. on December 5, 2004.

And it's time to rock and roll. Again.