Where am I supposed to take this?

This is the opening salvo of an experiment which I hope will help determine whether I should, at this late stage of life, pursue writing in a serious way that some say I should have done decades ago. If you'd care to take the time, I'd be extremely grateful for your criticism.

Fair warning, however: except for the introductory paragraphs of this blog, I don't intend it to become a sentimental, self-indulgent review of yet another unfulfilled life of "quiet desperation." Should it degenerate into that, I hope you'll scream (at me). I do have strong views on lots of subjects, so I suspect I'll vent some of them here--hopefully in a useful and thoughtful way--but I honestly have no idea where this might lead me (or you). Therefore, there will be no warranties for this blog's content, nor any tangible prizes awarded for your valuable feedback.

My initial idea for using this blog is to allow prospective editors, think-tanks, and others to have a first-hand, real-time look at me and my writing. This New Era medium seems a lot more current, interactive and, in my case, more honest and authentic than submitting a resume or portfolio of clippings. Whether I am able to realize this goal remains to be seen.

Here's where I am today! After having achieved the "advanced" age of 69 only yesterday (how did it happen so fast?) and having returned to the U.S. A. a few years ago after a long, self-employed business stint in Central America, I managed to effectively alienate the entire real estate industry (brokers, agents, lenders, developers, and others) in my adopted small desert town (40,000) in the Arizona Sonoran desert. I did this after our local paper featured on its front pages my views castigating the industry for their complicity in "stampeding" people into the present real estate "bubble" that has infected even our otherwise obscure corner of the planet.

Shortly thereafter, playing the gadfly, I also managed to alienate about 60 percent of the local population (we are an overwhelmingly "military town") via an op-ed piece that suggested career military retirees have been riding a lavish gravy train that inevitably must be modified in order to release needed money in support of the new generation of active duty warriors. One retiree, a comfortable full colonel, whom I asked to review my op-ed before submitting it for publication, was appalled; he actually threatened to "black ball" me, if I went forward with it. Well, I did . . . and so did he.

Therefore, having (characteristically) shot myself in the foot--twice, this time--it's time to look for new avenues. "Retire!" you say? No, not by a long shot. The boys at the local VFW and Foreign Legion clubs and I simply don't read off the same page . . . they're happy to play bingo and tell each other tall tales about "the good ol' days." I'm not there . . . not yet.

Is there something being hidden under a bushel basket? Over the years, several well meaning friends, relatives, and mentors have insisted that I have a natural, albeit latent, talent for writing. The first major clue came in September 1966 when, to my surprise, the Air University at Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery, Alabama, wanted to publish in its quarterly journal my idealistic essay entitled "A Code of Ethics for Air Force Officers." I submitted this "award-winning" paper to the faculty of the junior officers' school ("Squadron Officer School") to fulfill the final writing assignment required of aspiring young officers assigned to this 3-month "career development" school.

The essay revealed the very idealistic side of me; in it I tried to justify the need for a "nuclear age ethics code" that Air Force officers could use to gauge their personal and professional temperament in their decision-making process. It was marked by lots of enthusiasm but, looking back, suffered in the lack of lucidity of the 10-point (maybe it was more or less points--it doesn't really matter) code I struggled to craft.

In response to the publication that followed after I was back at my intelligence duties in San Antonio, several officers, some who were flying global Cold War missions in B-52's that carried very real nuclear weapons, wrote me essentially unsympathetic letters, suggesting what I could do with my code. No question about it--those intimidating letters put my budding writing career, such as it was, on hold.