March 10th, 2025 - Five Bridges
Dear TNY,
“Five Bridges” is…not very good.
It’s Wednesday (I knew it was Ash Wednesday because the bartender has a smudge on her forehead and it took me a minute to figure out why) and I finished the story at the Syracuse airport, and now I’m writing you from a wine kiosk at O’Hare.
I don’t know what the deal is with this story. It just…it’s just nothing. 7800 words of nothing. I couldn’t get into it. Couldn’t relate to any character. Didn’t care about what was happening. It’s just an errant fart.
I guess that’s cool, though. You guys seem to have made a career out of this. So congrats to you! Another page-filler! Another walk down who-fucking-cares lane!
Meanwhile, new shit has come to light. Firstly, I can’t remember if I told you or not, a woman that I met at a writing conference in 2023 (that I became penpals with), she and I were discussing publication. She’s adamant that I put a collection of essays out. A few people I know are. I’ve been hesitant because if you think submission slushpiles are bad, they are color-filled wonders of bounty aplenty compared to agent/publisher slushpiles. We joked about that. A couple of days later, she texted me a long message wherein she revealed she has a friend, a published author, a NYT Bestselling published author, and she had talked my work up to him—a lot—and he agreed to have a look at it, and if it was good he would pass the work on to his agent, who, coincidentally enough, reps nonfic. So I sent him some pieces. Well wouldn’t you know it that within 24 hrs, he responded to let me know the work was excellent and would stick with him for a long time and that he hoped to be a conduit for my work to a much larger audience. So now you are talking to a fella who sent his work, on recommendation from a client, to a real agent of the big time variety. Does this mean I’ll get something? Nope. But it means that a stranger, who happens to be an author, was affected by my work. So affected that he passed it on and hoped his boy was affected. That’s fucking awesome. I joked with the wizard of kindness when all this came up that the National Book Award was on the horizon. And believe you me I’d shit my knickers if that actually happened. What I’m trying to say is that I’m honored this fella read it. As anyone should be. And more honored that he liked it. That it moved him. And the hope is that, guys…the hope is that maybe the work gets a chance to make people feel less alone. That’s what I want. Not an award. Nope. I just want people to feel seen. That, like me, somehow words on a page reached across this timespace void and touched their heartspire and for a minute they felt less alone.
That’s what I’ve been coming back to over and over again recently. This isn’t about me. Sure, I’ve made it about me. But this life, it isn’t about me. And it isn’t about you either. So knock that shit off. It’s about everyone else. So do your part, goddamn it.
I’m flying back from a mission. I was an hour north of Syracuse in the middle of bumfuck snowhell. I flew in last Wednesday and caught a wonderful case of hotfire lungfuck on the plane (which I swiftly gave to the person I was helping). So while I was coughing up actual blood and brown sauce, I was also attempting to dig three structures out of the snow. The first two days were spent trying to clear the 9’ high berm of snow away from the roof of the horse barn so roof snow could be pushed off or fall off on its own. Then Jesus intervened and flattened the woodshop at midnight, a 40’x60’ building 20’ high. It took all the tools and the hay for the horses with it. Needless to say, a fucking disaster. That meant only two of four structures on the property were still standing. And more snow was coming and the house had way too much on top. So we regrouped and hired some dudes and shoveled the roof in a blizzard with them. They were chain smoking while shoveling like fucking divebar gods, and we made it through that night. The next day a dude came with a skidsteer with a snowblower on steroids on the front of it, and he dug around all the structures so there was room for the roof snow to go. All of these men were miracles and I think as soon as they left the property they turned back into the miasma they were before The Flying Spaghetti Monster conjured them for us. For the last two days, firstly, I crawled into the carcass of the downed shop and rescued 20 bales of hay (stored them in the horse barn), and then I shoveled more snow off the house roof, clearing most of it, while the homeowner suffered from the hotfire lungfuck that I dispersed. And I know she would hate this, but I’ll tell you anyway: she was very, very sick so I also tended to the horses and the dog and the chickens (ish) and I looked at the cat, but christ, how are you supposed to take care of a cat, they fucking take care of themselves, and I cooked the homeowner food and did the dishes and kept track of her med schedule and I did all the things you are supposed to do. Yes, YOU! All of you. You are supposed to take care of others. Anyway, last night I went to do a final check on the two horses. One is white and a little moody and standoffish. She followed me around the yard. Didn’t get closer than two feet, but stayed right there (I’m told this is a huge sign she likes me). The other, Rosebud, she came up to me and put her nose in my beard and then rubbed her head up and down in my armpit (this is the second time a horse as done this to me, shout out to my boy Bruce from Ireland baby!), and then when that made me laugh she lifted her big head up and put it over my shoulder and pulled my body to hers, using her head like a hook, and then she squeezed me between her chin and her chest, a real fucking hug from a real fucking horse, so I held my arms out and hugged her back and cried while I was doing so. See, the homeowner would tell you I saved her home, barn, animals. I would not. I would say I worked hard and the three dudes saved everything. As Kendrick would say, sit down be humble. But this horse said thank you. And the dog is, as of this very moment, depressed and pouting in the bedroom hoping I’m still on the roof shoveling snow. Even the white horse came up to me this morning before I left and gave me a kiss goodbye, right before the rest of the snow on the barn slid into the channel the man cut (so now the barn is danger free).
See, I could have made this trip about me. But it wasn’t. Life isn’t about you. It’s about what you can do for others. And I don’t think there was a life, animal or otherwise, that wasn’t thankful I was there. That’s the job, folks. When you can help, you help. And you work your ass off even if you have the flu, COVID, or hotfire lungfuck. Because the dog doesn’t give a shit about your problems. The horses don’t either. The chickens certainly don’t. And we don’t even have to talk about the cat because no shits were ever given. Now, don’t get me wrong, our problems need to be looked after. But in this case, I looked after the homeowner’s problems. And that’s enough. Guys, that’s enough. Because it’s not about you. And the more you make it about you, the less good people you will have in your life. Which is hard these days because all the advertising and products tell you that you matter and you’re important and you are unique and you have something to say. That you deserve something. I’m here to tell you that you don’t. Unless you make it about everyone else.
But, that’s just one hirsute fella’s opinion about existence. What do I know? I just volunteered to fly to absolute danger and work in horrible conditions with sickness and was exhausted the whole time. Or, I tried to live up to the label I’ve been stuffing into the occupation slot on my taxes since 2001: Superhero.
There you have it. Another one in the ledger. Here I go, back into the grind, I have so much work yet to do for my boys.
Nick
P.S. The date this magazine will be published would have been my brother’s 45th birthday. And two days after, my father will have been dead 10 years. FYI, I’d shovel ten years of snow to get either one of them back for an afternoon just to tell them how I’m doing and hopefully they would tell me they are proud of me.
