A commuter's ticket to inspiration
Writer Michael Robert Gordon, author of "Killer Commute,'' at the Port Jefferson train station Credit:
I have loved writing since I was a boy. I'd sit on the staircase landing at my parents' house in East Northport and write stories or draw. The stories were not important to me; it was the fact I was using my imagination and could feel this simmering joy. I was tapping into a force, some call it Zen, others the force of God.
When creating, I was at peace in the world of my little corner on top of the landing.
For many years I followed the paths that other writers made. Like Jack Kerouac I joined the Navy and worked as a merchant marine. I was also a painter, construction worker, farm hand. I had some short stories published and poetry. I avoided a practical life.
Being responsible for my actions, saving money, pursuing a college degree and finding a career were not acceptable. I was the grand escape artist who pursued many lives, but barely survived. I wanted to suffer for my art until my mentor Richard Elman, a writer and instructor at Stony Brook University, told me that life should not be about suffering. After years of running, I realized I was lost.
I settled down, married a beautiful, articulate woman and have nurtured four children. Time to write became limited, perhaps a few hours on Saturdays. As more children arrived, my passion to write, like a distant dream, was abandoned.
My hours changed at work and I was frequently late. My boss said I should leave the house earlier. I was on the road for at least an hour and a half each way. Maybe I could leave Port Jefferson at 6:45 a.m. to start in New Hyde Park at 9? Finally, I gave up my car and freedom and started taking the Long Island Rail Road.
My abandoned dream reemerged on the train. I type on my laptop as we are tossed over rusty steel rails. My seat is my corner of the world. The conductors are courteous; fellow passengers take calls, but are respectful. I tap and watch seasons transform the passing trees. A glimpse of the rippling Nissequogue River day or night is a ritual. These simple details feed my imagination.
One night on the train, I was alone. I was inspired to write a murder-mystery that takes place on the LIRR, and the novel was published last year.
I don't complain if the fares go up or if there are delays. The train has salvaged my simmering joy.
