Losing Everything
3.5/5
()
About this ebook
One evening in the mountainous forest of his isolated West Virginia farmhouse, Martin became disoriented when searching for a horse who had wandered off the property. Wading through the dark and guiding his horse with a belt around its neck, Martin felt as though every step was taking him deeper into the mountains. Instead, he unknowingly spent the night walking in a wide circle that brought him back to where he started. This quickly became a metaphor for Martin's life. "The more lost I get, the closer to home I come."
After growing up with a violent father who nearly killed Martin's clinically insane mother, Martin pursued a writer's life with a vengeance, becoming vulnerable to struggles with alcohol, financial ruin, and legal feuds. Then, after a betrayal by his soul mate, Martin's sanity was in as much jeopardy as his mother's had ever been -- a state of mind that in his case led to gunfire, divorce, and at least one trip to the emergency room.
But Losing Everything is less about getting lost and more about finding your way home again. In his pursuit of stability, Martin uncovered lessons that might help others who have encountered loss: take pleasure in something as small as an ampersand, keep a list of people you know who have died, meet your own death like a warrior, and be glad you don't own a monkey.
Deeply personal yet surprisingly universal, Martin's story is for anyone who has wandered astray. If not a road map, his journey is a guide, providing hard-earned wisdom to illuminate the path home.
David Lozell Martin
David Lozell Martin's previous novels include international bestsellers Lie to Me and Tap, Tap and the critically acclaimed The Crying Heart Tattoo, The Beginning of Sorrows, and Crazy Love. Facing Rushmore is his eleventh book. Martin lives in the Washington, D.C. area.
Read more from David Lozell Martin
The Crying Heart Tattoo: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Pelikan Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Our American King: A Novel Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Facing Rushmore Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
Related to Losing Everything
Related ebooks
Clairvoyance and Occult Powers Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Boss from Outer Space and Other Aliens at Work Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Stuart Jaffe Reader's Guide Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Laws of Recall Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBrand Renegades: The Fearless Path from Startup to Global Brand Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsRevenge by Magic: Hexe, #8 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Light Manifesto: A Guide to Experiencing Christ's Light Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Key to the Universe Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Real Matrix Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings365 Days of Advice Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsRaising Faith: A True Story of Raising a Child Psychic-Medium Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe complete works Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Prophet (Condensed Classics): The Unparalleled Classic on Life's Meaning-Now in a Special Condensation Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThese Wings Can Fly: Discover the Power of Your Mind Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsA Talk to a Spirit... Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Alignment Process Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBeneath the Phoenix Door Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Treasure of Heaven Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe War of Angels: Special Collector's Edition Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHow To Get Off Your Frigging Ass and Make Some Money! Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsWords of Wisdom: Daily Affirmations of Faith Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Formatting Your Paperback Book: 10 Simple Tips to Publishing a “REAL” Book Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsA Thousand Thirsty Beaches: Smuggling Alcohol from Cuba to the South during Prohibition Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHail Mary Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe new Black Magic and the truth about the Ouija-Board Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsYes You Can: Choose, Change, Beat Challenges, Be Happy Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsTalking to Spirits: Revised Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsSpiritually Minded: An Awareness to Spiritual Warfare Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsIt Really Is That Simple: The Low-Tech, No-Ick, Common-Sense Approach to Creating an Extraordinary Sm Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsLive Streaming with the Dead – When Ancestors Visit Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Self-Improvement For You
Boundaries Updated and Expanded Edition: When to Say Yes, How to Say No To Take Control of Your Life Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Think and Grow Rich (Illustrated Edition): With linked Table of Contents Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Don't Believe Everything You Think: Why Your Thinking Is The Beginning & End Of Suffering Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Big Book of 30-Day Challenges: 60 Habit-Forming Programs to Live an Infinitely Better Life Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Stolen Life: A Memoir Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Four Loves Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5How May I Serve Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The 21 Irrefutable Laws of Leadership: Follow Them and People Will Follow You Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Gifts of Imperfection: Let Go of Who You Think You're Supposed to Be and Embrace Who You Are Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5How to Win Friends and Influence People: Updated For the Next Generation of Leaders Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Self-Care for People with ADHD: 100+ Ways to Recharge, De-Stress, and Prioritize You! Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Art of Witty Banter: Be Clever, Quick, & Magnetic Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Introverted Leader: Building on Your Quiet Strength Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsRunning on Empty: Overcome Your Childhood Emotional Neglect Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Never Split the Difference: Negotiating As If Your Life Depended On It Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Child Called It: One Child's Courage to Survive Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Wild at Heart Expanded Edition: Discovering the Secret of a Man's Soul Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck: A Counterintuitive Approach to Living a Good Life Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Chop Wood Carry Water: How to Fall In Love With the Process of Becoming Great Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The Alchemist: A Graphic Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Maybe You Should Talk to Someone: the heartfelt, funny memoir by a New York Times bestselling therapist Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Mastery of Self: A Toltec Guide to Personal Freedom Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People: The Infographics Edition Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5
Related categories
Reviews for Losing Everything
6 ratings2 reviews
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5I bought this book because I wondered what the heck happened to David Martin. In the 90s I bought and read several of his books – all thrillers as he categorizes them. Gruesome. Dark. Evil. Unspeakable. But they fed something in me that needed that at the time. When he dropped out of sight, I wondered what happened and now I know. I almost wish I didn’t. It’s not his tale itself that puts me off, but how it was told. He interjects from time to time that he didn’t write the memoir to go on the shelf next to those other harrowing, daytime movie of the week books, but other than to get it off his chest, I don’t know why he did write it. He admits and I agree that others have gone through far worse, but sometimes his self-pitying tone is a bit much. The opposite swing from that is the self-congratulatory tone; especially when documenting (for our edification) his many conquests of the female persuasion. And his boozing. And I can’t help but visualize his many descriptions of the second worst night of his life with a patina of cartoon violence. He says he just crawled on the floor, swinging his head back and forth and mumbling. That and the gun in the mouth were the extremes of what he calls his madness. His insanity. The night in Tennessee insane. He also did not name either of his ‘esteemed’ wives, each with 18 years of suffrage with him. Whether this was by request of both women or fear of law suits, I don’t know, but it seemed odd. Latter-day coworkers get named, wives don’t, they go by title and number only. His first wife gets barely a chapter devoted to her, but the second gets considerably more. Neither is characterized fully or well, but if he was as erratic and irresponsible as he says he was, they both have my sympathy.Ultimately I suppose, the book’s message is that even when life sucks the most, when you can’t escape your tortured childhood, when you follow bad decision with bad decision, there is still something in your life that makes it worth living. You just have to stop chasing what you’ve lost and pay attention to what you still have.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5David Mozel Martin, distinguished and successful writer, acknowledges his life used to be great, in fact almost perfect. When his luck takes a turn, he compounds his misfortunes with further bad decisions. He starts to lose the things he cares about and the life he loves piece by piece. With some perspective he narrates rather vividly how his life became hell, and how he put it back together. Martin peppers in some stories of his childhood as possible theories for his behavior, and some life lessons for good measure. As part of his style he also mentions what he should have done at most junctures. The story is a well-told brief cautionary tale that ends up advocating somewhat for personal responsibility without too much depth.
Book preview
Losing Everything - David Lozell Martin
ALSO BY DAVID LOZELL MARTIN
Tethered
The Crying Heart Tattoo
Final Harbor
The Beginning of Sorrows
Lie to Me
Bring Me Children
Tap, Tap
Cul-de-Sac
Pelikan
Crazy Love
Facing Rushmore
Our American King
LOSING
EVERYTHING
A MEMOIR
DAVID LOZELL MARTIN
Simon & Schuster
NewYork London Toronto Sydney
To Samuel
Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Copyright © 2008 by David Lozell Martin
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition January 2009
SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or [email protected].
Designed by Ruth Lee-Mui
Manufactured in the United States of America
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Martin, David Lozell.
Losing everything / David Lozell Martin.
p. cm.
1. Martin, David Lozell. 2. Authors, American—20th century—Biography.
I. Title.
PS3563.A72329Z46 2008
813’.54—dc22
[B] 2008036521
ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-9433-1
ISBN-10: 0-7432-9433-5
eISBN-13: 978-1-4165-8046-1
PROLOGUE
THE MORE LOST I GET,
THE CLOSER TO HOME I COME
I OWNED A farm in West Virginia with my wife and we lived there twelve years, the best years of my life. It was an old farm, settled a hundred years ago, a house built from timber cut on the property. Most of the land went up and down and rarely ran flat. No one had lived on the place full time for at least a decade before we got there. We brought the farm back to life as time and money allowed. We raised horses and cattle along with … ducks, cats, dogs, chickens, geese, and a parrot. Also, a brother, friends in crises, sons, friends of sons, a daughter of friends—who came to stay with us at various times for various lengths of times. I earned a living, sometimes thinly and other times fat, as a novelist. Often you hear people say they didn’t know how good they had something until they lost it, but my wife and I knew we had a good life. We even admitted to the same dark dread, that one day someone from the Department of Responsible Adulthood would drive up our lane to tell us we had to stop playing around out in the country and go back to the city to get jobs like Responsible Adults.
Living on our farm those twelve years, we met artists and horse trainers, sculptors and poets, and at least one philosopher, Bob Neff. I think of him as Wisdom on the Mountain and would occasionally make my trek to Bob, like a New Yorker cartoon showing a pilgrim climbing to a mountaintop guru, to ask what he thought about something. Bob didn’t always have answers, but he always had thoughts.
We also made friends with a retired building contractor who was a gunsmith and a composer of classical music. One midsummer evening we were planning a dinner out with this friend, Ed Lockwood, and his wife, Judy. Ed is from New Jersey, a dese and doze kind of guy, outrageously conservative by my way of thinking, anti-intellectual, and yet a brilliant natural pianist and self-taught composer who, at the collapse of the Soviet Union, composed and played a musical piece called The Death of Russia
that brought tears to my eyes. Such was the magic of those years on our West Virginia farm we called Blue Goose.
Before Ed and Judy arrived, a thunderstorm had hit, short but violent. After the storm ended, my wife wanted to call the horses down to make sure they were safe because during the storm six of them had run from their pasture into the forest, which of course was the worst place to be during high wind and hellacious lightning. Five of the six came at her call, and I said I would walk up into the woods to see if I could find the sixth, Annie. I was wearing khakis and a checked shirt, cowboy boots, hardly the outfit for a trek through the trees, but I thought I would quickly find Annie cowering somewhere and get behind her and clap my hands and she’d run for home. I didn’t bring a rope or bridle, not even a walking stick, much less a flashlight. It was a summer’s evening and night was a hundred miles away. Just as I was heading into the woods, I looked back toward our house and saw Ed and Judy drive up. My wife would explain what was happening and I’d return in a few minutes and our evening could proceed as planned.
Living on a farm and spending time outside connects you with the weather and the smells and sounds of nature in ways denied us when we live in the city and work behind sealed windows under fluorescent lights, as I now do. Back on Blue Goose, it had been muggy before the storm, but afterwards, as I entered the forest and began climbing the first hill, the air was clean and cool.
All of our woods were on slopes; everything flat had long ago been cleared for fields and pastures. So I climbed ever upward, bushes and leaves soaking wet from the thunderstorm. I’d have to change clothes when I got back home—which would delay our dinner and then I’d hear about that from Ed all evening long. I was probably smiling in anticipation of some of the outrageous things he would say … when I saw Annie’s trail.
You didn’t have to be a tracker to see where she’d gone, her hooves had torn up the ground and she had broken branches along the way. She must’ve been hauling ass. Horses don’t like to be separated from their herds, so I figured over the next ridge I’d see her standing there wondering where she was and how the blazes was she going to get back home—and if I didn’t see her on the next ridge, then surely the one after that. I came to the fence marking our property. The storm had toppled a huge red oak tree, flattening a section of the fence, and I could see where Annie had picked her way through the limbs of the downed tree and off our property. I guess the lightning had terrified her. Most of what you can understand about horses comes from knowing they are prey animals.
As I followed her trail, I speculated she’d been standing under the tree when the storm hit and maybe she’d been injured by lightning or falling limbs. The previous year we’d found a neighbor’s horse in the woods, struck by lightning, all four hooves exploded, the carcass feasted on by a flight of buzzards.
I stopped for a decision. I could go back now, change clothes, and we could still make it to a late dinner. But I doubted my wife would go to dinner if Annie was still unaccounted for, roaming on someone else’s property, perhaps injured. So we wouldn’t go to dinner if I came home without the horse. Okay, I’d follow Annie’s trail and bring her home and if that made the hour too late to go to a restaurant, then we could have dinner at our house instead.
I continued following the trail. In a thick, hilly forest in the middle of summer when all the leaves are out, you rarely get a perspective beyond twenty yards or so. I couldn’t tell if Annie was just ahead or nowhere near. All I could see was a few yards of the leafy trail in front of me, and all I had to follow was the path a frightened horse had left—still distinctly marked.
As I walked and climbed and walked, the forest changed. The area I was in now had been cut over and was so spare in places that I lost the horse’s trail and had to range back and forth to pick it up again. Up until that point, following Annie had been easy—now it was a challenge, the forest floor rocky with thin soil and only a scattering of leaf debris for hooves to mark. Now I could see farther ahead—but still no horse in sight.
I walked on for an hour more, then another hour, screw dinner, I was bringing this damn horse home one way or the other. I felt savvy each time I found a mark on the ground, a twig recently broken—I was David, scout.
Then there she was, a big nervous bay filly. She had no halter. Because our horses had access to forest, we didn’t always put halters on them when they were out to pasture for fear that they would scratch on a tree limb and get their halter hung up. The top straps on the halters we did use, called breakaway halters, were made of leather, which a struggling horse can break to free itself—unlike what’ll happen with an all-nylon halter, which can get hung up and hold a horse until it breaks its neck trying to get loose. Horses are an exotic combination of speed and fragility, flightiness and stamina, always ready to run, always convinced something is giving chase. They can fall through a bridge and stand up, shake themselves off, and go on as if nothing happened—or they can gently slip on slick concrete and break a leg, split a hip, never get up.
This particular halter-less horse, Annie, was lost and close to panic when she saw me coming through the woods. I reached her and put a hand to her neck and she actually leaned against me as if to say, Thank God you’re here—let’s go home. I took off my dress belt and put it around her neck, not that it would restrain her if she wanted to run but it gave me something to hold as we would have to return along the same steep, slick terrain we had just covered.
First, I checked her for injuries, running a hand along her neck and sides, down her legs, pulling on her fetlocks to make her raise her hooves so I could see if they were all right. She was fine, just scared and lost. Okay, time to go. I grabbed the belt and turned my horse for home.
What I saw made me gasp. Night was standing there. Just behind me. It had been following. I apparently had been traveling west toward a sky made lighter by the setting sun because when I turned around, away from that lighter sky, the woods were dark. Night out of the east had been trailing me as I had been trailing Annie.
I stood a minute or so, blinking, wondering what the hell was I going to do. By the time I looked again in the other direction, presumably west, the sun was gone and night had taken the occasion to throw itself completely around me and my horse.
I wasn’t wearing a watch but estimated I had been gone for a few hours and wondered how deeply into a forest a man and a horse can get walking for a few hours.
We lived in an isolated part of West Virginia, with farms and settlements along valleys and rivers but few people living in the hundreds of miles of mountainous forests between those valleys and rivers. Farms in our area faced the creeks and valleys, turning their backs on the mountains. Nothing was up there … up here where Annie and I were. Nothing civilized.
My wife would occasionally go riding on old logging trails through these mountains and sometimes she’d come upon people unlike anyone we’d ever met—not just country folks but strange people who, we were later told, collected forest products, moss for florists and salamanders for fishermen, and lived not only off the electrical grid but off the grid of civilization. Their children didn’t go to school. Their families were on no government roll. They weren’t taxed or counted. I used these folks or rumors about them as a basis for characters in one of my novels. I called them the barely people—because in the book, they were people … but barely.
So now I’m leading Annie with my belt around her neck, it’s dark and I’m wondering who else might be in this forest through which I’m trespassing, and what’s going to happen if Annie and I fall off a ridge in this darkness and break a human or horse leg? Still, I couldn’t just stand where I was until morning. Annie and I moved out cautiously.
I had lost all bearings for finding the trails we had made, for finding the way back to my property, but I came upon a game trail that we could follow even in the dark. As the night dipped deeper and moved in closer, I stopped telling Annie this was all her fault and told her instead that we are in this together so that if some barely person, coyote, wolf, panther, bear steps into this game trail a few yards ahead of us, I don’t want you pulling loose and running your scared horse’s ass off into the woods to leave me here all alone, I expect you to stick with me so we can face the danger together.
As they say, if horses could laugh …
Eventually I stopped walking. This is ridiculous, I decided. The hour must be closing in on midnight by now. I know the neighbors who live along the road, Big Branch, where our farm is located but I don’t know anyone who lives behind us, in the mountains, in the woods, in the uncharted wilderness where I and Annie were now lost—so where was I going? My wife and friends would be worried. Search parties would be organized. But no one’s going to be foolish enough to launch a search in these mountains in the middle of the night. The weather was warm, they would let me spend the night in the woods and then come looking for me at dawn. I tried shouting a few times and then listening hard for a reply … like shouting in outer space.
An old piece of woodsman advice is to follow a waterway down-stream because eventually that creek will join another creek that will find a river—and along a river, people live. But Annie and I had been at the bottom of several ravines that were dry. Apparently, woodsman’s advice is predicated on finding a waterway. Annie and I had found nothing but mountains and trees. So. The thing to do, I thought, Annie and I will stay here in these woods until morning and not keep wandering around to risk breaking our legs falling off a mountain in the dark.
I wasn’t going to be able to hold on to the belt all night long, however, and if I let go I figured she’d wander off and then regardless of when I was rescued in the morning, we’d all have to go out again to find the damn horse. If I had a rope, I could tie her to a tree. If I had bacon and eggs, I could have supper … if I had a frying pan and a fire.
I was standing there trying to figure out how to secure Annie for the night when I heard a cow. This was good news. People don’t turn their cattle loose into the mountains. A cow meant a pasture, which meant a farm.
I re-gripped the belt and led Annie toward the sound of the cow. She smelled them as we approached. I don’t know if she thought these were our cows and she was home or if she was scared or what, but she became antsy and prancy and I was having the devil’s own time controlling her with nothing but a dress belt looped around her neck.
Before, when we were lost in the deep forest, she had been a model of decorum, walking carefully and bumping against me for reassurance. But now she was nervous, snorting.
We found cows wandering through some open areas along a creek. With the tree canopy broken, the night sky offered light enough we could see to follow first the creek and then the cow trails away from the creek.
My best hope was to come to a pasture next to a road, find a gate and get on that road, and hope someone comes by who will tell me where I am. I’ll ask that person to call my wife.
My worst fear, soon realized, was coming to a farmhouse. It would be bad enough, dangerous enough, to find yourself at midnight coming to an isolated farmhouse from the road, from the front—but walking up to that house in the middle of the night from the back, from the mountains and woods, that’s trespassing and it can get someone, like me, shot. During the day, it’s not unknown for strangers to come to a farmhouse from the road—delivering a package, lost and asking for directions, even trying to sell something. But, day or night, no one comes from behind you, walking out from your own property, already trespassing. How’d they get back there and why are they sneaking up on you? The fact it was past midnight made matters all the worse, which I believe is one of life’s truths, that matters become worse after midnight.
So there’s this farmhouse. No lights on, of course, not at this hour. And I’m standing there with a horse, we’re well behind the house, back in the barnyard. Thank God I had the horse, at least she gave me an excuse—I got lost looking for my horse, I could tell the suspicious farmer, see … this horse right here.
I stood a long while trying to figure out what to do, how to do it. Could I just walk right past the house and down the lane and out to whatever main road the lane connected to? What if the farmer heard us and looked out his window and saw someone in his yard in the middle of the night? It’s not like living in the city where people might be walking by your house at odd hours. Being in a farmer’s yard, uninvited, after midnight was the equivalent of being in a city dweller’s living room—with one serious difference. If you live in the city and see someone in your living room, you call 911. If you’re on a farm and see someone in your yard after midnight, you call on Mr. Colt. I could be shot from a window and then, during the investigation of the shooting, when it came out that I was just a poor lost slob leading a lost horse, people would say what a shame, such an unfortunate mistake, but no one would blame the farmer for shooting me.
My more immediate concern, however, was dogs. Every farm has dogs. They’re usually turned loose at night to run off intruders, four-legged and two-legged. As soon as this farm’s dogs get a whiff of me and Annie, there’s going to be a storm of barking, the farmer will wake up and grab his nearest firearm, Annie will run off leaving me with no excuse for being there, and I’m going to get bitten or shot or both.
I’m scared of dogs I don’t know. I’ve had dogs all my life and I’ve written about them in all of my books; I love dogs. But twice when I was growing up in the country I was attacked by dogs I didn’t know, and those attacks left me with a lifelong fear. Once I know a dog, have been introduced to it, then I’m okay, it doesn’t matter if it’s a rottweiler or pit bull.
But I didn’t know this farm and I didn’t know its dogs and I was scared. I gripped the belt around Annie’s neck and briefly considered hoisting myself aboard to ride through the yard bareback, hell-bent and not stopping for dogs with teeth or farmers with guns. But my wife was the equestrian in the family, not me. Without stirrups or reins or a saddle with a horn to hold tightly to, I could see myself getting thrown off and landing in the middle of the pack of snarling killer dogs, as per