another quitter update

Quitter: Good Luck Not Dying is still moving slowly ahead. Josh has a few more illustrations left, and I have begun the process of choosing where they will end up in the text. I didn’t think it would be that hard, but I am finding the process a bit taxing. The biggest problem is figuring out if I should go full page on the illustrations or weave them into the text. And then where would they make the most sense and how does it change the flow of the words.

Quitter #4 recently received a review from Zine World –

Quitter #4: Everything about this is impressive. The writing is stellar, and the packaging very polished. Trace (Quitter) gives us four vignettes on varied topics, woven into a common, flowing theme. The subject matter is intimate and stark. With precision word-smithing, Trace ventures into parts of the emotional landscape we normally avoid, and engages us by tapping the common well of humanity with an unflinching examination of his personal experience. Inspirational. Trace, cricketbread.com [$1.50 worldwide 20XS :25] –Jack

I went back and looked at Quitter #5 to see if the month long lapse since I looked at it made any difference. The ending stood out as needing some work, and I would like some opinions…

Snow Plows

During a snow storm, the plows mostly come at night. In the sturdy, hoary months of childhood in Western New York, I would lay awake listening as the distant scraping of the plow brushed its steel blades over the roughly poured asphalt. In the dry air, the low hum could be heard for miles, the flashing orange roof lights of the plow radiating off the lumbering snowflakes, themselves moving unpredictably towards any available surface, wrestling the winds vacillating directions.

First the plow would pass to the south of our house, down the thin Barville Road, then up North Byron Road and finally across our unmarked, no shoulder road. As the sound grew closer I would pull my face up to the window, watching the coming lights reflect off every available inch of ground, the thick cover of flurries yielding very little until the massive vehicle was right in front of my eyes.A wave of snow and rock passed over the giant chisel, a chorus of grinding metal and boiled oil, a short echo off the aluminum siding. The sound and lights faded quickly as the driver made way through the expansive grid of rurality, on and on towards the gawking of other children unable to sleep.

In grade school and high school, hearing the plow at night could bring early news of a snow day. More often than not, if the plow was required then it was a particularly heavy storm. School buses were known for driving through just about anything, so there was no need for them to follow the plow in a shallow snow.

As a kid, there is really nothing like waking up to a new, deep snow. The kitchen on a potential snow day takes on a transcendent quality, a vision of potential for all that are present. Coffee brewed and eggs sizzling, cereal pouring and spoons clanking, the radio playing at a louder volume than usual. The room’s state of mind like a puppy expectantly wagging its tail in the silence of an empty house, anxious for the humans to come back. Then finally, the radio voice would begin reading the listing of closings. “Byron-Bergen, Caledonia-Mumford, Le Roy, Pavilion, Pembroke…”

As a young adult, hearing the snow plow took on a different meaning. It meant that the roads were indeed clear for everyone to go to work. Work was canceled only in extreme circumstances, and I never saw that happen before moving to the virtually snow-free South. I followed the clean routes of the snow plow to work on many occasions, a half hour drive through the salted gray and brown of a cold winter. I wondered then – as I do more often now – is this the rest of my life; is this really necessary? Is it worth dying on an icy road just to get to a horrible job? What is it that we truly value?

If there could ever be a time when acorns or walnuts have more worth than gold or silver, when a handful of fresh basil inspires more than any movie screen, when the crunch of a just-picked green pepper incites more pleasure than any amusement park ride, this must be the time. If this is it, I ask only to open up our pretentious imaginations, bring the blood and sweat into the arms and faces of those controlling all the debt, all the shiny credit card machines and all the grocery store shelves of this paved-over dump, make the “movers and shakers” into forgotten paperweights. Afterwards, among the rotting cans of baby formula and pork-and-beans, the stale crackers and moldy bread, we’ll be freed from the grinding ambitionless void of labor and rent, steel toed promises and unforgiving authority.

We demand a simpler life, a new and unspoiled horizon, the nutrition of friendship and family. We are not requesting for this, begging in the face of blankness and cheap suits. No requests; this is clearly a demand, an insistence backed up with all the strained voices and dirt caked sinew that we have left. They will give us what we want or we will take it. We will burn the snowplows and tear up the roads, ready to simply enjoy a heavy snow for its own sake.

We are made for more than this…