Addressing the Dash

I turned on the radio on my way to the office recently and found myself in the middle of a discussion. It was a familiar discussion. At least, the symbolism was familiar. It was familiar because it reminded me of how I started a book several years ago.

The analogy is of a man looking at a headstone, of how the person memorialized had a starting date and an ending date, with a dash in the middle. Seconds into my visit with this radio program, the question was asked “what are we going to do with the dash?”

Maybe the answer is too many of us have turned the dash into a run, forgetting where we will arrive.

A little more than 13 years ago, we lost our daughter. She was a barely-out-of-high school teen who embraced life with a sideways glance, having a fair idea where she wanted to go, but not giving up the good times along the way. I wrote a book about the experience because of the perception that many men, including fathers, are not quick on sharing the traumatic stages of life, and therefore find themselves in an unique state of loneliness and “quiet statement of desperation” as the poet might say.

When I wrote what I believed to be a worthy copy, I offered it to one of her close friends, now a young woman who is like another daughter to us. She read it intently from the back seat of a road trip using the torch of her cell phone. I asked for her honesty. What does the story tell? Is it accurate? Does it read well? How do you feel? Questions a writer would want to hear not just from an editor, but also from a reader, a reader familiar with the details.

Her initial review has stuck with me all these years, and strangely parallels the stroll through a cemetery.

She said I had the beginning well, and the end is good, but I missed a lot of things that happened along the way between. She recalled road trips, her relationships with classmates and kids at church, celebrations and just her being Jill.  She effectively encouraged me to define the dash for someone I should have known intimately.

The story was rewritten before I found a publishing format. I talk about her tantrums as a child, her passions and compassion for people she knew,  and her fierce loyalty to friends. I did my best to define her dash.

It is a lesson that stays with me. I think of the bike rides, the walks in the neighborhood, random coffee discussions downtown, unexpected friendships I’ve made. They are my “dash” being defined. The full definition is not written until the final date is stamped. Until then, the question remains: what are we doing with the dash?

Do we take the time to smile at people we randomly meet on the sidewalk? Do we welcome new neighbors? Along the rush of the dash that often becomes a race, take the time to make coffee time an event, not just a jolt of chemical addiction. Keep a seat open at the table when at a café, anxious to see who you might meet that day.

Make your dash a book itself instead of a quick jump between life events.