Time in a Box

With apologies to the late, great Jim Croce, my memory was found in a box, not a bottle …

If I had a box just for wishes And dreams that had never come true The box would be empty Except for the memory Of how they were answered by you.

Tears.

Tears when I first heard the song, “Time in a Bottle,” as a sensitive child, tears when the song was played at my wedding, and tears when I realized I could appropriate these lyrics and also use them in reference to my dad.

I traveled a long road to be a writer.

Both dad, and Croce, were instrumental.

In 1993 I moved back to Hollywood, California after pretty much loathing my first sojourn there. I had originally relocated to the west coast four years prior from Brooklyn, New York, to meet my destiny as a writer for film and television. My eyes were full of stars and I was fully prepared to become “the next big thing.”

Reality had its own plans.

I didn’t like the food — suddenly bagels weren’t bagels anymore, the pizza was ‘meh” at best, and the Chinese food was not at all what I was used to — and I could not acclimate to the weather. I missed my seasons. What played with my head more, though, was everyone was a screenwriter or actor a half-step away from a deal with Steven Spielberg (regardless of how they paid the bills), I had never seen more plastic surgery anywhere, and I was backstabbed by one of the only two friends I had managed to make during that period.

Though in hindsight the betrayal was valuable as a learning experience, I was, as would be anyone, devastated. The scenario went like this: When my grandfather died I flew back to New York for a week so I could attend his funeral. My friend and I had landed a deal with a prominent TV actor at the time. Although I was to be gone only for a week, he told the actor I had to “quit the job to take care of family business.” When I returned and called the actor, I was told I “never should have quit” as the job was now complete.

“Who told you I quit?”

“Your partner.”

Sadly, this is not an atypical scenario in my business.

All that work I put in and I didn’t earn a penny or, more egregiously, a hint of recognition.

In Brooklyn I had plenty of friends. In Hollywood — which was surprisingly dirty when I arrived as if they couldn’t clean up for me, the nerve — what seemed to matter more than true friendships was how far one could help another advance in their career before they were considered useless.

It became real tough for me to trust anyone. “In New York,” I later told friends, “they stab you in the front.”

After two years and much family fanfare over my moving out west to find fame and strike it rich … I held my pride at bay and moved back in with my parents in Brooklyn.

I had come full-circle, I was home … and yet the second I arrived I felt as though I had given up on my dreams.

If ever there was a key moment in my creative life, this was it. I was never particularly flaky, but I knew. After all the hard work and the stress, I knew in two years I was going to end up back in California.

Permanently.

I returned to teaching special education for two years, saved my money and, newly-motivated, I arrived back in Cali with a kick-ass, take no prisoners attitude.

I found my dad’s letter in my suitcase when I unpacked at my other friend’s house all those years ago, where I was staying until I found a place.

And then I misplaced it.

August 17, 2020.

I‘m cleaning my house and the letter spilled from an old box when I removed its top. I thought it was gone forever.

My dad passed nearly 10 years ago, and I’ve thought about him — and this letter — daily.

About my dream to be a writer and my leaving my parents once again …

”Dear Joel,

Just a note to say it was great having you here and I will miss you, but like I said to you yesterday, you must pursue your own dream. Remain as independent as you are, but never give up your dream. Don’t prostitute yourself or your work to others. Nothing will be gained from it. Do your thing, no matter what. Keep your dreams alive and go after them the way that makes you the happiest.

Speak to you soon. I love you.

Dad”

I’m proud to be a writer today and I’ll tell you why.

Regardless of whether I wear my artistic or journalistic hat, I take seriously my obligation to tell the truth as I perceive it, metaphorically or literally, and not worry about losing readers.

Really, I don’t. I will always write what I feel I need to, and if my work is loved or hated at least its being discussed.

Writing is not a popularity contest, and I don’t worry about my “business.”

I’m far more concerned with trying to turn heads and making a difference.

The rest is gravy.

I all-too-well remember the dark days of financial and spiritual poverty during my journey, which make today’s rewards that much richer. If that poverty returns, I’ll deal like I did before.

#DontEVERGiveUp is the lesson, there.

The scales will tilt based on your effort, which is about the only thing in this world I ever take for granted save for the love of family.

Dad, I’m passing your message on …

One more thing.

A lot of time has passed since that letter was written.

Follow me on this exercise …

You run into a friend you haven’t seen in years. They have wrinkles now, maybe less hair even. They see you and ponder your gut, which you never had before, and something of a hunch in your gait.

“You look great!” the friend lies.

“So do you!” you say, lying right back.

You engage in a quick catch-up of your mutual friends. Many of them are deceased.

You sure are happy to see one another, though.

Then you both go home and ponder what the heck happened to the time.

The time.

I look at the world that way, and the very close family and friends who have all passed. My grandfathers, my grandmothers, all of my uncles, many cousins, one of my aunts, my sister-in-law‘s parents … my dad. As to my deceased friends, I miss them all immensely.

I’m 56 now. “You’re still young,” some would say.

No. No, I’m not.

Not anymore.

Neither are you. Regardless of your age, there is no “young” in this era. Not when 175,000 Americans and countless more around the world have died of a virus … so far. Not when medications for other illnesses, expected in the mail any day, may now be delayed indefinitely.

Life was too damn short before the pandemic. We weren’t able to reclaim our time then.

Now that time is more precious than ever.

I was reminded of that by finding mine in a box, which is what I titled my precious letter precisely due to its words: Time.

Never, ever give up on your dreams. My dad would not have approved.

We have so much work to do to make our marks and the clock is ticking.

Some food for thought.

Thank you, Richard Eisenberg, for the daily reminder. Your message will live with me forever.

If you would like new stories and exclusive content sent directly to your inbox, please enter your email address to subscribe to my free newsletter. CLICK here:

For those interested in a special emailed Sunday edition of “Writing For Your Life,” you can click here: