Why Do I Keep Doing This?

I’m a writer—at least, that’s my current status.

My life’s journey has taken me through the US Navy, a City of Gainesville firefighter, an electronics engineer, a legal technology consultant, and a Chief Information Officer. And now… I’m writing.
I’ve written and published two memoirs and I’m hard at work on my second novel, a high-tech thriller with a tag line that reads: Artificial Intelligence, Hacker Terrorists, and Swarm Drone Technology… What Could Go Wrong?

From where do these outrageous ideas for storylines, characters, and plots originate?
Like many in this “interesting” line of work, if that’s what you call it, I develop characters and plots based on current events, other books in the genre, and, often for me, everyday occurrences.

I’m retired, but still stay active with plenty of volunteer work. One of my current passions is working with UMCOR ERT (United Methodist Committee on Relief, Early Response Team). We’re often called out soon after a disaster. In Florida, that usually spells hurricanes, tornados, and flooding. In many cases, they’re all from the same storm.

Personally, I’ve made more than twenty trips this year, primarily to the Gulf coast.
What we do is not pretty. It’s hard work. It’s dirty work. It’s certainly not fun. But it is truly one of the most rewarding experiences I’ve had in my life.

Yet… I’m still not sure why I keep doing this?

After a day of clearing out mud & dirt debris from inside a house, tearing down walls, ripping out moldy insulation, working with distraught and displaced homeowners, I can tell you without a doubt that it is physically, mentally, and often, emotionally exhausting.
More than once during these deployments, I’ve stood on the homeowner’s porch, surveying the damage outside the house and just trying to imagine that the water—I’m 6’4” tall—would have been up to my chest, inside the house.

The emotional “roller coaster” doesn’t seem to end. I can’t imagine the homeowner’s state of mind. But working alongside them, I’ve experienced several “moments.”
Two years ago, eleven of us deployed for a three-day mission to Fort Myers, ten days after Hurricane Ida made landfall.
We’d been assigned to a house, located about 100 feet from the Caloosahatchee River. This house sat about two feet above ground… the river had played havoc inside the house for more than a day. Watermarks were visible about three feet on the walls.
Furniture from the living room relocated to the kitchen. Beds, dressers, and TVs were all soaking wet. We hauled appliances, furniture, bedding, and clothing out to the curb. Emptying the lower kitchen cabinets, every pot & pan, every dish, every small appliance was full of brown, icky water—the same color as my coffee.
I was working in a small room. The swirling, relentless water turned everything onto its side. I had to manhandle furniture just to get in. Once inside, I turned over and opened an old cedar chest.
The homeowner was there alongside me. I began to pull out sopping wet clothes, sheets, and blankets. She then reached down and lifted out a pair of jeans.
Although dripping wet, she slowly unfolded them, held them in front of her, and smiled. “I made these myself in high school; musta been 50 years ago.” She looked at me and forced a smile, tears in her eyes. “They don’t fit anymore, but I’m keeping ’em.”
More recently, a team of six of us deployed to Steinhatchee; my fourth trip this year since October. Locals called this the “war zone.” The house in which we worked was on concrete blocks, about two feet above ground; the waterline inside the house was about three feet.
The homeowner had built onto the house several times and knew what he was doing—the rooms were solid. He and his late wife had three boys: two were teachers. But the youngest… was in jail. “Got involved with the wrong people.” He wasn’t sure when he’d get out, but he also wasn’t sure where he’d go. Apparently, they’d had a major falling out.

I was ripping out sheet rock when I noticed handwriting on the backside of the wall of the adjoining room. I called him over. He looked at the writings, one of which had the names of his three sons. Next to it was a note written by his late wife… something like, “this room used to be the kitchen, but we needed another room for our newborn…” dated 40+ years ago.

He stood there for a bit with that long, hard look. As a Navy veteran, I’d seen that thousand-yard stare many times. I knew he was reminiscing about older, perhaps better times. He walked over to another room to take a few moments to himself. My eyes were wet, too.

A forgotten time capsule, something so simple, yet so powerful… the memory floodgates opened wide. On top of all that, cleaning up after this disaster and the long-term recovery was overwhelming. He was fine by the time we left, but I know that was emotional for him. It certainly impacted me.
I doubt either of these two homeowners will become a character in my books. However, I can tell you without a doubt, the emotions I witness, as well as those I feel myself, help me to write those “show, don’t tell” scenes.

Why do I keep doing this? Writing… volunteering… or both?

We do what we can… for as long as we can… because we can.

References to previously written blog posts:
1. #181—Why Do I Keep Doing This? (https://azadkinsiii.com/blog/181-why-do-i-keep-doing-this/)
2. #151—Return to the Aftermath (https://azadkinsiii.com/blog/151-return-to-the-aftermath/)
3. #128—Into the Aftermath (https://azadkinsiii.com/blog/128-into-the-aftermath/)