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## Memoir ##

*/ˈmemˌwär/ noun. a record of events written by a person having intimate knowledge of them and based on personal observation. Usually memoirs. an account of one's personal life and experiences; autobiography. the published record of the proceedings of a group or organization, as of a learned society.*

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*Perhaps it was a goodbye you didn’t want to say, a risk you weren’t sure you could take, or a quiet sacrifice no one else noticed. Describe the weight of that moment: the sounds that filled the air, the tremble in your hands, the unspoken words caught in your throat. Reflect on who you were then, what you felt you had to lose, and how that choice echoes in the person you are now, years later, as you sit with this memory. 


This is the second-to-last prompt of the Memoir Monday initiative! I’d like to remind all participants that there’s no time limit on responding to past prompts you may have missed along the way. Even after the initiative is officially wound-down I’ll do my best to vote on and reblog/share Memoir Monday posts…all I ask is you please include the number of the Memoir Monday prompt in your post title as well as using the #memoirmonday tag. Thanks! 


Memoir Monday has grown so much that I won’t be able to comment on everyone’s posts anymore (and get my own work done) but I’ll still be supporting your posts with reblogs, votes, and, occasionally, shares on my other social media accounts (X, Facebook, etc.). 

For all of those who’ve regularly participated in Memoir Monday - keep going, you’re making great progress in chronicling your very own life story for future generations to enjoy. 

For those who missed the inaugural post explaining what the Memoir Monday initiative is all about you can find it [here](https://hive.blog/memoirmonday/@ericvancewalton/memoir-monday).




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*Now for next week’s Memoir Monday prompt:* 

## Write about a moment in your life when you stood at the edge of a choice—two paths diverging, each pulling at your heart in different ways*. Perhaps it was a goodbye you didn’t want to say, a risk you weren’t sure you could take, or a quiet sacrifice no one else noticed. Describe the weight of that moment: the sounds that filled the air, the tremble in your hands, the unspoken words caught in your throat. Reflect on who you were then, what you felt you had to lose, and how that choice echoes in the person you are now, years later, as you sit with this memory.  ##

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## My answer: ##

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It was July 4th of 2017. A film director who’d been reading my sci-fi novel, Alarm Clock Dawn, reached out, interested in collaborating on a script. We had both been writing on Steemit, a blockchain-based blogging platform. At first, I was skeptical—after years in the writing business, I had seen my fair share of empty promises and attempts to bamboozle. But after looking into his credentials, he seemed legitimate.

I agreed and we decided to move forward, and to our delight, the Steemit community rallied behind us. With their support, we began developing a sci-fi streaming series—one I truly believed in. 

At the time, I had been writing part-time for over twenty years while working full-time at an insurance company. I figured I could juggle both, but as the project grew, so did its demands. I found myself sneaking into conference rooms at work to take calls, my mind drifting to the script when I was supposed to be focused on my work at the insurance company.

My day job was stable but uninspiring. After 22 years, I had a decent, albeit average, life. My paycheck covered the basics, and a little more but not much. Then came the inevitable moment of reckoning: Do I walk away from an extraordinary writing opportunity, or do I take the leap and quit my ordinary job?

I talked it over with my wife and she fully supported me (which took away all excuses). I was calm on the surface but a wreck inside. My stomach twisted every time I thought about the decision. On September 26th, I sat at my desk, took a deep breath, and wrote an email to HR, letting them know my last day would be October 14th. Before hitting send, I hesitated—it felt like an eternity. I almost chickened out.

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This was entirely out of character for me. For 46 years, I had taken the safe, responsible path, often at the expense of my dreams. But this time, I wasn’t playing it safe. I was following my heart.

D-day arrived faster than I expected. October 14, 2017—my last day at Securian. It wasn’t the triumphant moment in time I had imagined. Anticlimactic would be the word best suited for it. My coworkers took me out for lunch and threw a small party with cake, goodbyes, and well wishes. But people didn’t linger long—they had work to do, meetings to attend.

The following year was a complete blur—flights to New York, funding pitches, endless Zoom calls, hours upon hours of writing, and a whirlwind of growth and excitement. Adjusting to my newfound freedom was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. But I was too busy to worry for long. I even deferred my salary for the first year to give the project a better shot at success, relying on my savings to get by.

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For the next eighteen months, we poured everything into HardFork. We wrote three full seasons, pitched to studios and agents, and came closer than I ever thought possible. But in the end, HardFork never got made. Life threw some unexpected challenges our way, and my business partner had to step away. With that, the project wound down to a close.

I still wonder how the scripts would have been received if we had stayed the course. But I believe everything happens for a reason. HardFork was a fitting name because, in many ways, it was a pivotal fork in my own life. I choose not to dwell on the fact that it never got produced, but rather on the incredible things it brought me.

That project gave me the courage to leave a job I had outgrown. It introduced me to amazing people in the industry, taught me screenwriting, and helped me develop the confidence to pitch investors and speak at conferences. The experience, without a doubt, outweighed any regrets. And to me, that is the true measure of a decision’s worth.



























 
 
<center> ~Eric Vance Walton~ </center>




 

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