Something Else From My Past

Okay, I will admit I'm a bit embarrassed to post this. My original idea "The Right to Arm Bears" was too uncomfortable—too racy—so I dug through my personal archives.

And found this.

I originally wrote this in 2006 in a very different time in my life.  It was a very different time in all of our lives to tell the truth.  But there's still something about it that resonates to me.

I hope that all of you enjoy.

But if you don't, remember this was written by an idealistic college student who didn't know the real world.  It took me two more years to graduate with my bachelor's and move on to graduate school.  Two more years from there before I actually entered the workforce and saw what the real world was like.

Damn, I was a different person—a kid—back then. :)


LIFE

For years, I’ve wanted to say something profound.  I’ve been wanting to say something that would make everyone go “shit” or “wow” or something exclamatory, and thing that that kid, that guy, hit the nail right on the head.  That day has been a long time in coming, and to tell the truth, it probably will never arrive.  It would be too much if I were to peak now.  That just isn’t life.  But then again maybe it is. 

Last time I checked, life was a pretty fucked up gig.  I mean I have heard of some messed up stuff before, but life is just one of those things.  The joke between men and women is that just when a man comes close to figuring out how the game is played, the women go and change the game.  But life not only changes the game but the rules also.  What was once a foul, now will send you directly to go where you will get $200.  It doesn’t make any sense.

But that is the beauty of it.  It never will, as long as we let it.  And yes, it is up to us to make it change. 

We are a culture who is obsessed with the latest gossip about Bradalina, or what happened last week on Impetuous Homemakers, or the latest CD coming out.  We look for solutions amidst ads of women’s perfume and dromedary cigarettes.  Our kids debate which is better, the big, purple dog or the red dinosaur.  The media tells us what to wear, what to do, what to think?

Where does that leave us?  In years before, generations had things to rally around.  Our parents had Vietnam, our grandparents the Nazis, our forefathers the Stamp Act; but we are a generation in a void.  What rally cry do we have?  Iraq?  Sure.  Which side do you want?  Global warming?  What global warming? It is colder now than it has been before.  Animal rights?  I like my meat.

We are a generation that is lost in nothingness.  We want hope in our breakfast cereal, love in our job, and absolution in our sex.  We are obsessed with being happy and not upsetting anyone.  We are offended by people profiling, but yet we buy music that openly uses such phrases as “niggers” and “bitches and hos”.  Our lives are contradictions upon contradictions.  We look to sports stars to teach us wrong from right, and are shocked when they use “performance enhancers”.  The family has been degraded to such a place that if a mother has the AUDACITY to reprimand her child for throwing a fit in a store, that she will have child services called on her.  It is suddenly Un-American to question President Shrub when the freedom to question is one of the key points of our country. 

This is the world that our children are growing up in.  A world where common sense is outlawed and intelligence banned.  Where we are scorned for following the rules and rewarded for cheating. 

Where has the happiness gone?  When did it become fashionable to brag about being lonely or to drink yourself into a stupor each night?  Day in and day out we drug ourselves through the pain of another day, just to have the life sucked slowly out of us. 

We must cut ourselves free.

I listen to people complain that they cannot fly.  I hear people bitch that they are constrained by rules and politics. That they are unhappy with what they have and nothing seems to make it better.  We all know them.  They stand there, day after day, slowly dying and doing nothing.

Life is an interesting thing.  We hear the turn of phrase “Get a life” and think of it meaning for us to get more into the grove of the culture.  The ironic thing is that instead of freeing us, it binds us tighter. 

When things get tough, we talk about just putting one foot in front of the other and just trying to make our way to the next day.  We put our heads down and force our way forward, despite everything else.  But the thing is, that it will slowly kill us, just as the daily grind will. 

Life begs to be lived.  We need to look up.  We wish to dull the pain, but the pain is what tells us we live.  What would evil be if there was no good?  What would black be without white?  How can we truly know happiness without knowing the depths that the spirit can fall?  What is height without depth?

By crushing one, we crush all.

Without a rallying cry, each person in our generation must find their own.  Sometimes they will scream it loud and long and never be joined.  But sometimes others will join in.  And then we won’t be alone.  We fear to be alone, but we fear rejection more.  No one understands me. 

Bull.

We are never alone.  Our supports are always there, we just need to know where to look.  To explore.  We feel that the popular people must be happy—look at their groupies.  But a man with too many friends has none. 

We must cut the ties that bind.  We must free our minds until they are alone and then we can bind them to friends, to family, to lovers, and even to haters.  Instead of looking for happiness in the bottom of a box of Cracker Jill’s, we need to find it within ourselves and what we already have.

"But it isn’t that easy," the masses say.

The thing is….. it is.  We really don’t know what we have until we lose it, or think we have.  We really don’t know what we can do until we do it.  We really don’t know anything about ourselves until we push ourselves to the limit and beyond.  What I am talking about is not a physical thing, but rather a mental or spiritual thing.  Only we can judge our self worth, and if you have to drink yourself to sleep each night, or over the letter “M”, what does that say? 

As we go through life and hear the commercial jingles and see the sex on TV, we must stop—completely—and think.  How much of this is real? Will it really help us through the crucible and save us?  Can we trust those pushing their ideas?  Or can we trust ourselves and those around us? 

Who am I to judge for you?  All I know is that there is hope for everyone.  Redemption is not just an idea from whatever god you believe in, but nor is it something given away by them.  Redemption can only come from within.  When we have a clear conscience, we are truly free.

 

And then we can live. 

Characterization: Part Deux

Last post, I talked about characterization in a single, specific case and applied the generalization as a rule. Obviously, it's a generalization, and won't work for everyone or in every case. That's the nature of generalizations.  It's a lot like profiling and valid only as long as its guiding tenants hold true.

Which, as I figure it, is a 50/50 chance.

But there's one aspect of characterization that holds true most of the time. And I say most of the time, because I think there's only one rule in writing that's true 100% of the time: no verb, no sentence. Don't ask me to explain that one, though. I couldn't diagram a sentence if my dinner or my life depended on it. You'll just have to trust me.

No, the rule I'm referring to is that we, as writers, have to make our characters "real." I'm sure you’ve heard that one before. It seems to be a core tenet of creative writing. Think on it and consider how many times you've heard that one preached. Personally, more times than I can count.

Yet, I can't stand this rule. It just doesn't work for me. Hear me out, now. I can see you scoffing and questioning my credibility. Not that I haven't made some bold claims before now. Well, I don't think of them as bold, but rather as questioning what I see as the blindly accepted rules of basic writing. Or something like that. Take it for what you will.

I'll let my finished writing stand for itself.

Anyway, what I have issue with is the absoluteness of the rule, that we must follow this rule at all times when designing characters. It's unconditional. But I have a single question for you:

 What is the definition of real?

By that, I mean what is real and what is false? Is Clifford real? You know Clifford, The Big Red Dog. What about Elrond Half-Elven? Harry Potter? Marty McFly? Shawn Spencer? Bruce Wayne? The list goes on. Is Garfield any less real than the Corleone family or Jake Blues?

Hopefully, I've set up a rhetorical question. Perhaps not. But are any of these characters real or even realistic? The Corleones are realistic enough, in a literal sense, with Marty McFly and Jake Blues trailing just behind. But what about the others? Magical characters don’t exist; elves don't live among us. And a rich man pretending to be a bat? At least dogs are real, though not so large. And definitely not so red.

But each character is real enough. Important difference, that. I feel it's necessary to mention the difference between real, real enough, and, as I think of it, real within a form.

Real should be easy enough for us to understand. These characters are real in a very physical sense and fit the finite, specific definition of the rule. Their actions, responses, and options apply within the physics of this universe. There's no cure for death. A thrown ball has certain demands on it that must be met. Reactions are finite. It all has to make sense. This is what we all strive for. This is the world that Hemingway, Cather, and Woolf introduced to us. We understand it and grasp it inherently.

Real enough is what I consider all those people trying to sell us stuff on TV. The walk-off role. Do we care about their motivations or how they'll react to an alien invasion of lower Manhattan? No. What we want from them is the momentary interaction, and then they can disappear back into the mold that created them. And that's about all we care for them, too. As long as they react believably, we're good. They really don't even apply to the rule, but I mention them only for the sake of being thorough.

Then there's the final type: real within a form. Okay, I could use another term for them, too: stereotypes. This ran rampant in early cinema, but it predates that. Look back at Shakespeare. It's ALL stereotypical. Every play. Doesn't make it less fun, though.

The thing is, we still use stereotypes in our writing. Sherlock Holmes. John McClain. Every sitcom father ever. We're okay with that, too. Otherwise, explain the success of The Big Bang Theory. The characters are all stereotypes.

I recently asked my wife if my characters in The Red Dress were realistic. She said no and I felt horrible. Then she went on to say that they're not meant to be. Extremely realistic characters wouldn't work in that book. It's too stylized. Insert the characters from The Walking Dead into The Big Bang Theory.

Not working for you either?

Then I’ve made my point. As writers, we need to be aware of how well our characterization fits within both the world we create and the style we write. Real is relative. 

Characterization with a Bit of Music

I want to talk about two of my favorite subjects. (My freshman English teacher would be pulling her hair out if she heard me begin a paper like that.  Still, I’m going to use it.) 

I want to talk to you about two of my favorite subjects: music and . . . Wait, what?  My editor’s putting her two cents in.  Or at least she is in my head.  Great.  My old teacher and my editor.  All I need now is—

MOM!!!!

Fine, fine.  You win.  I’ll do this “write.”  Hehehehe . . . You see what I did there.  OUCH!  All right.  I’ll do this correctly. 

*************************************************************************************

I want you to do me a favor.  Listen to the song below.  It doesn’t matter if you’re a fan of Billy Joel or if you’ve never heard it before.  Take a moment.  Listen.  It’s important.

Ok.  Now that you’ve disregarded it, go back and listen.  I’ll wait.

“Piano Man” is a fantastic example of characterization and setting a scene.  Because—yes—this song tells a story.  And it could be argued that every story, this one included, needs some sort of action.  And it does.  So I ask you this: where’s the action? 

At first, it seems that it’s right there—the first verse:

“The usual crowd shuffles in.”

But as the song progresses, you find there’s no action there after all.  The action doesn’t actually appear until the end, when Joel talks about performing.  So what’s the beginning about then?  He’s setting the stage, explaining who’s part of the “usual crowd.”  Joel goes on to prove this when he talks about the old man:

“. . . making love to his tonic and gin.”

Joel then goes on to explain just who this guy is by giving you a few lines about lost memories.  The old gent is in a piano bar, asking about sad, sweet songs of his youth.  We all know that guy.  He’s our grandfathers or great-grandfathers.  He’s the old guy down at the VFW Hall who served in Korea.  He’s us, talking with old friends about days gone by.  We relate.  Boom!  Character defined just in time for Joel to move on to John at the bar:

“He gets me my drinks for free.”

Does Joel need to say that John’s his friend?  No.  But in this world Joel’s created, it means something to say that he’s a friend.  In fact, John’s the only one he refers to as a friend, even though he knows Davy and Paul and the waitress, plus the manager.  So why mention it?  Cause it means something.  Telling us about free drinks only goes to further show how good a guy John is.

“He’s quick with a joke or to light up your smoke, but there’s someplace that he’d rather be.”

And, again, we relate.  I’d be a writer if I only had the chance.  My wife would work with movie props.  One of my friends would be a voice actor.  If only, if only, if only.  We know that dream and that need.  You feel for him.  Then we move on and continue to meet the people who populate this bar.

Next up are Paul and Davy.  Only one line is needed about them, but why?  Two reasons.  One: Joel’s already established his credibility with us.  With everyone he’s mentioned previously, he has them fit to a T.  Now we feel we can trust his judgment and understanding of the regulars and just let his opinion lie.  B: That’s all there is to them: 

“Paul . . . never had time for a wife, and . . . Davy’s still in the navy and probably will be for life.”

Read between the lines.  Their careers are their lives.  From our perspective as multifaceted human beings, we may know there’s more to them than that, but it sure doesn’t seem that way.  We, Joel, and everyone else have pigeonholed them.  And right now, that’s all right.

“The waitress is practicing politics as the businessman slowly gets stoned.”

Do I really need to go into that?  No, you see it now.  How about the manager?  According to Joel’s point of view, he cares only about the bar.  Which fits, considering how large his role is in the song.  It’s not that unrealistic.  Drinks still need to get poured, whether Joel plays or not.  So why say more? 

Then there’s Joel himself.  And yes, this whole song talks about him.  Let’s rewind.

The old man:

“Can you play me a memory?”

John:

“Bill, I believe this is killing me.”

And then there’s the refrain:

“Sing us a song, you’re the Piano Man.”

and

“You’ve got us feeling all right.”

What does that say about Joel’s character’s mindset?  He reinforces it every refrain.  He keeps distracting you, but then at the end, the entire song centers on him.  His manager “knows that it’s me(Joel) they’ve been coming to see.” He describes his playing as a carnival—something which brings happiness and joy.  I’m not a fan of carnivals, but it’s hard to be depressed at one.  Of course, this impression is also deepened by the music itself, which sounds vaguely carnival-esque.  Everyone’s sober or depressed until Joel starts to play.  Then it’s better.  They love him, and he tells you by saying:

“. . . they put bread in my jar and say ‘Man, what are you doin’ here?’.”

You know exactly who Joel is.  He’s the narrator, but an unreliable one.  His views are tempered by the colored glasses he wears.  It’s about the music and always will be.  And again, we can relate through people we already know.

Now, if you haven’t done it, go back and listen to the song, keeping this all in mind.  A picture’s painted with depth and color using only the broadest strokes of the brush, but you know everything you need to know.  You have it all in your head.  You interpret the music, the characters, and the bar in your own way.  Though I’ve attached it, you don’t need the music video to show you any of these people.  Frankly, my opinions and impressions differ from those presented.  Especially about the “practicing politics.”

So why do I bring this up?  As writers, we look at characterization as some daunting task.  Every time we introduce a character, we feel the need to create everything about him or her.  Our thoughts become centered on the twitch of the hand, the color and brand of their clothes, how they speak.  What food they love.  The thing is, we don’t need to share all those characteristics.  95% of that information will never have any practical use.  So why worry about it?

I love Robert Jordan, and he will always be one of my favorite authors.  But one of his weaknesses is the amount of detail he expects you to remember each time he introduces a city, a character, or anything else.  Someday read The Wheel of Time.  It’s a fantastic story with a great narrative, but the characterization can get heavy-handed.  And I’ll admit it.  Sometimes I ignore his descriptions and move on, making it all up in my head. 

Now consider Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game.  Give me the description of Ender, Graff, or Peter.  It’s simple: Ender—shorter than average;  Graff—thin, then fat, then thin again;  Peter—taller than Ender, but otherwise an older version of his little brother. 

Simple.  Broad.  Strokes.

I realize this is mostly a stylistic thing, but it’s something you should think on.  Everyday people and places don’t need paragraphs of description.  Yet the more fantastical the concept, the more attention it deserves.  The one exception to this rule that I’ve made up in my head is if what you’re describing holds a special significance—a wedding chapel, the murder weapon, that hobo who saw everything.  But even still, you have to be careful to balance everything so that your description doesn’t stand out like a sore thumb.  It takes some doing.

Myself, I tend to walk the middle ground.  My main characters are hardly ever described.  Stephanie has red hair and Daniel finds her beautiful.  James has grey hair and a moustache.  Daniel?  Good luck figuring that one out, though he has a habit of comparing others to himself (i.e. thinner than him, taller than him, etc).  I spend paragraphs describing an apartment where a body’s found, but write almost nothing about Daniel and Stephanie’s office.  Mind you, this is also characterization of the speaker.  How often would you describe every detail of your home to a stranger, compared to someplace unusual?  It doesn’t happen.  Your house is every day, mundane, but that murder room?  Oh, that’s interesting.

I’ll leave you with this.  It’s an actual description for one of the characters in my book.  One of the whole two lines I spent on him.  And it’s about all you need to know about him:

“The mousy speech sounded from behind me, and I turned to see exactly the type of man you would expect to own such a voice.”

Between Work and Sacrifice

Hi.

I’m back.

If you hadn’t noticed—and I bet most of you have—I’ve been sadly lacking in my blog posts for the past several weeks.  Six, to be precise.  That’s not something I’m particularly proud of.  Over these last weeks, I’ve had to make some sacrifices to stay sane.  Unfortunately, I decided to sacrifice the wrong thing.

You see, work—the thing that gave me a paycheck every other Friday—was dragging me down.  Stressing me out.  Something had to give, and I chose the writing.  Why?  Not because I wasn’t dedicated to my craft, but because I have responsibilities and the pay was good.  So I chose the thing that paid the bills, not what made me happy. 

Now, I sit here before you, unemployed.  I’ve been in many different states in my life, denial being the other one I’m particularly fond of.  Fond, of course, being used in a most sarcastic way.  Because, you see, I had myself fooled that this job was worth the time, effort, and sacrifice.  Clearly, that wasn’t the case.

That burns a little.  More than a little, if I’m to be honest.  I worked, sweated, cried, and sacrificed for nothing.  To make matters worse, I gave up all those things that make me who I am—my passions.  I became a robot and a fool.  No one likes to be made a fool of, even if it’s only in his own head.  There were days that I couldn’t make myself write more than a few lines or edit a page or two before stopping for the night.  Let’s forget about writing blog posts.

The thing was, I was all right with it.  My parents did a lot for me growing up.  The older I get, the more I learn they did for me.  That being said, one of those things they got through my thick skull was the importance of working hard, and, if you care enough for something, you sacrifice for it.  Before now, I’d been sacrificing everything for my writing.  I lost time with family and friends.  Money that could have been used for other things—some frivolous, some not—instead went to an editor or supplies.  Let’s not talk about my health.  But I was fine with it. 

You see, throughout my life, I’ve been smart enough to skate by.  As an adult, this isn’t something I’m proud of, but as a kid?  “Good enough” was, simply put, good enough.  But when things got hard, I stopped and gave up, moving on to other, easier things.  This bad habit has stuck with me into adulthood.  And even though I know I’m doing it, it’s hard to fight. 

Writing was one of the first things I didn’t stop doing when the going got tough.  I don’t know how many times I was knocked down, but each time I picked myself up and started at it again, pounding against that wall with fists, ink, or whatever else was available.  It’s made a difference.  Now, it’s a solace, a place of refuge.  I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

But I did.

That’s why it grinds so much.  I gave up a passion for a paycheck.  As a kid, way back when, I promised myself I’d never do that.  Yet, here as an adult . . . Yeah.

I betrayed myself.  I betrayed my family and friends.  I betrayed my dream.  The last is nearly impossible to live with.  So, despite my dreams, it feels blatantly wrong sitting here writing something for a blog when I have cover letters to type up.  What right do I have to spend my life enslaved to the written word if I’ll give it up, give up my dreams, at the promise of a paycheck?  Is any amount of money worth giving up your dreams?

I am a fan of trivia game shows.  For years, K has been trying to get me to sign up and get on one.  Various excuses have kept me away, the main one being pride.  Well, yesterday I had a realization forced upon me by a friend.  Pride only goes so far, and eventually you’ll be willing to sell it for the right price.  He pointed out to me that pride prevents me from going on a game show, but I’d do it if it meant my novel, my dream, would become a reality. 

And he’s right. 

Knowing the man, he’s probably the only person who could make me see it.  He’s sacrificed for a dream and now does what I want to do for a living.  Not running a comic store like he does, but rather making a living off my passion.  You will sacrifice so much if you’re able to do what you love for the rest of your life.  I don’t think anyone else could have made that connection and made me accept it as readily as he did.

If I’m to be honest, it makes a fatalistic sort of sense, too.  Everything since I took the first steps on The Red Dress has pointed my feet toward writing.  All roads lead to Rome.  Rome being writing.  I’ve met some great people doing this.  My friends and family are fully behind me.  Can I count the personal satisfaction and happiness, too?  Encouragement comes from too many directions to count.  It’s too late to give up.  I’m too caught up in it.  This is my life, and I only get one of those.

So I can’t feel guilty about it anymore.  I need to be focusing on this blog, editing The Red Dress, and writing the follow-up.  No, I can’t do it all the time.  I do need to find a job.  Cover letters need to be written, and bills need to be paid.  But all this feeling-bad-for-wasting-time nonsense has to go out the window.  This experience, if nothing else, has forced me to realize what’s important to me.  And while money’s nice, it sure as hell isn’t everything.  Peace of mind and happiness stack up for quite a bit.

It isn’t so much that I have to make amends for my time in the land of the misbegotten.  Rather, it’s another instance of picking yourself up after hardship, dusting yourself off, and going right back at it.  I never completely stopped writing, you see.  Just mostly.  And that was bad enough.  This was a learning experience.  Now I know what’s important.  Now I know what to sacrifice for.  And that’s just as important as the will and ability to give it all up for a greater cause.

I’ll never stop writing.  Not for the rest of my life.  But now, I’ll never let it get so far away, either.

Solace

At one point or another in our lives, each of us must choose something to find solace in.  Where we find that solace changes depending on the person.  Sometimes it’s an activity, sometimes it’s a hobby—all too often it’s a bottle.  My grandfather finds solace in his woodworking.  My mother in her needlepoint.  I really don’t know what my father does, but I’m sure he has something.  Myself, it’s this—the writing. 

Mind, if you could see me right now, all I’d need to finish the stereotypical-writer look would be the smoldering cigarette.  I sit in a nearly dark room, lit mostly by the computer screen.  A streetlight shines through an open window along with a faintly chill wind.  Melancholy music plays through computer speakers.  A tumbler of rum, uncut, sits to my left within easy access.  Rain pours outside, and I am lost in the thoughts that run through my head, the drumbeats echoing more on my soul than on the roof just above my head.

Bob Seger wrote one of the greatest songs ever about the life of a touring musician, “Turn the Page.”  In it, he writes about “the echoes of the amplifiers ringing in your head.”  The same goes for writers and their prose.  You can’t ever seem to let that go.  Words bounce around your skull like some sort of mouse amped up on both sugar and speed.  Those words are your saving grace when you’re seeking that solace.

Sometimes, without them, I don’t know what I’d do to stay sane.  It’s saved my marriage, kept me from staying inside that bottle when I crawl in to avoid the outside world, taught me ways to live that are not easily described, and allowed me to communicate with my fellow human beings when the spoken word has failed.  It’s no wonder that written communication has survived hurricanes, floods, tragedies of all kinds.  That no matter how much we try to ban the written word, to control its influence, it always backfires. 

I put this to you.  The written word has the ability to transcend you, me, and everyone.  To mold us into something greater than the parts of the whole.  Each word we write has the opportunity to become more.  We recognize that as a species.  For those of Faith, we find God in the written word.  For those not, we find something else, something just as spiritual. 

So what’s this have to do with solace?  Think about it and you’ll get it.  It’s a way of centering ourselves.  There are times when I wonder about the wisdom of this drink at my elbow, but I never once question the wisdom of why I write.  Does everything get published?  No.  But they are always the right words to soothe a troubled soul. 

It beats a bottle.  I’ve crawled into one of those before.  And crawled back out.  Not on a regular basis, but sad to say, I’ve experienced it.  Tonight’s one of those nights when I want to shut out the world around me.  Work.  Family.  Friends.  Television.  Everything. Just gone.  That’s why I love that I’m a lazy guy.  The glass holds a finger’s worth and the bottle’s downstairs.  And I won’t go downstairs again until tomorrow morning. 

But tonight I’m troubled.  I’ll admit it.  I’m questioning decisions and reactions, unsure if I’ve chosen the right path in my life.  Should I be more than I am?  Less?  Life gives you only so many bridges. Have I crossed all the right ones?  My thoughts are my own, these concerns overwhelming my thought processes for over a week now.  And I have no answers.  At least none that satisfy. 

So instead of trying for answers, I’m looking at a new path.  Just acceptance, for tonight at least.  To find solace in those things that I love with those people I love.  That’s why I’m here, in a dark room before a computer screen when I have books to read, video games to play, movies to watch, with a drink in my hand.  Peace. 

But now that drink’s gone, finished.  And with it, my time here.  K’s home and the rain’s stopped.  That wind has turned downright cold, and the window needs to be shut.  The cigarette never was.  “Turn the Page” has transitioned into “Her Strut.” The light turns on, diminishing the computer’s brightness, and a kiss is welcomed.  Not too long, but long enough.

Fade out.

The List

I’m not one to talk about sex or sexuality.  There are too many people with opinions, all too willing to tell other people with their own opinions that they bang in the wrong way.  Seems a bit too pot-kettle-black to me.  So, like assholes, I keep mine to myself. 

Figure out the metaphor there.

But last month was one for the books for me.  All Bucket List-like.  I want to talk about it, so forgive me if I jump right in without more of a preamble.

I’m assuming that, like the aforementioned Bucket List, Your Five is a well-known concept.  Everyone I know has a list.  Except for my parents.  And if they do have a list, I don’t want to know anything about it.  But for those of you who aren’t familiar with the concept, perhaps you know it by some other name.  The idea is this:

You have a list of five people.  These are the top five people that, given the nigh impossible opportunity, you’d have a relationship with—most of the time of a physical nature.  There are no penalties, no drawbacks.  Your spouse can’t complain.  He’s/She’s on your list. 

Now you know what I’m talking about.

It’s an escape from your day-to-day doldrums.  Throughout your life, those five names might change; they may not.  Others are close to the top five, but can never quite make it on the list.  It’s a fantasy that we all can relate to, though I can’t seem to appreciate my wife’s obsession with Hugh Jackman. 

Maybe it’s because I look more like this.

I, just like every other person—wait, I’ve covered that—have my own list.  And over the past few weeks, I’ve actually seen two of those fine women.

The first was just over two weeks ago.  On September 13^th, my wife and I attended a burlesque show at the House of Blues in Chicago featuring the wonderful Dita von Teese.  On the list?  Yes.  Oh God, yes!  There was this one dance with an oversized martini glass and . . .  

Anyway, it was a wonderful show.  We stood right next to the stage—at times actively leaning on it—and watched everything in its beauty.  That was the glorious thing about the show—beyond seeing Ms. Teese.  It was a celebration of sexuality, free of judgment.  The whole thing was classy, beautiful, raunchy, and something I’d do again in an instant.  I came home deaf and hoarse.  That’s my most resounding endorsement. 

I want you to notice that I carefully chose one with her clothes on.

While Dita von Teese was important to me, she wasn’t the best, sad to say.  I met number one.  Numero Uno.  The lady at the top.   Last weekend, K and I traveled down to Cincinnati to visit my sister and attend the Cincinnati Comic Expo.  It was a fun little convention, but my draw happened to be one Jewel Staite.  She’s been on several well-known science fiction shows, including Stargate Atlantis and Firefly.  I started watching her at the tender age of “younger-than-I-can-remember-my-actual-age” on a show called Space Cases that aired on Nickelodeon in 1996.  If you’re so inclined, you can watch at least some of the hilariously bad episodes on YouTube.  Jewel Staite was the one with the rainbow hair.  In all honesty, I’ve been following her career long enough that both my sister and my wife refer to her as my girlfriend. 

I’ve accepted this.

It was a big moment for me.  I was all nerves.  She was kind and beautiful.  Afterward was a different story.  I fanboyed out with much hand flapping and hyperventilating.  That caused more than a few laughs, but it was worth it.  And a picture. She took a picture with me.  It’s the wallpaper on my phone.  Tee-hee.

I MET JEWEL FUCKING STAITE!!!!

What’s this have to do with anything?  Probably a whole lot of nothing.  I know that these events may seem small to you, but to me they were the highlight of the year thus far.  Sure, I could give more details, but those I’d like to keep to myself.  It was a couple personal moments for me.  I was so excited.  It’s like meeting an idol.  Or something like that.  I’d do it again in a heartbeat.  And each of you, given the opportunity, should take the chance.  It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.  

About.......Me, I Suppose.

As I look back at all of my previous blog posts, I realize one overwhelming fact: I’ve never really introduced myself.  To be honest, those who know me best within the writing community I frequent don’t know me all that well.  That, in its own way, is a shame.  There’s a hurdle there, and while the rest of you are jumping them, I’m in the stands eating the world’s worst hamburger. 

All my life, I’ve craved attention of a sort.  I always wanted to be the funny guy in the classroom (I wasn’t).  I wanted to be the best at playing the trombone (Nope).  The smartest one around (Most definitely not).  Though I am good at those things, being the best eluded me.  Sadly enough, most of it was my own fault, as I refused to apply myself to anything remotely difficult. 

I’ve always been best at shooting myself in the foot.

So I developed an overactive sense of privacy.  A prime example of this is sharing my picture on the internet.  It’s a running gag between Susan Hughes (@hughesedits4u) and Rachael Ritchey (@rachaelritchey) about what I actually look like.  I’ve been most recently symbolized by my twitter profile picture—my foot—with a beard.  But when I was asked for my actual picture, I posted a rather dashing picture of Tom Hiddleston. 

I should go see a doctor about that.

.

If only I looked that good.

I didn’t post an actual picture of myself because I wasn’t comfortable with it.  Mostly because I’m not, and never have been, happy with how I look.  But I also did it because I found it amusing.  A dry sense of humor is something else I bring to the party—though I usually miss the party altogether. 

The thing is, my inhibition brings up a significant point.  If I’m putting myself out there for each of you to befriend, how can you respond or otherwise interact with me if you don’t know who I am?  And I WANT that interaction.  I love talking to people once I get past being shy.  And that’s really all it is.

Shyness.

So please forgive me, everyone, but I’m no longer in those stands.  I’ve left my hamburger behind (It didn’t taste all that good anyway.), and I’m now at the track. Please ignore those hurdles I miss as I face-plant into the dirt and mud.  I’m still going to attempt this.  I’ve got plenty to say and enough vanity to scream that I might have something worth hearing. 

So who am I?  My honest answer is to quote the Rolling Stones. 

“Hey! You! Get off my cloud.”

Damn, wrong song.  I was thinking more along the lines of “Sympathy for the Devil.”  But the problem with using that song is that after the first line, I’d claim to be “a man of wealth and taste.”  Well, the only part of that descriptive modifier that fits me is that I’m a man.  Or, if you ask K, more like an overgrown boy.  Not that I have any problem with that.  Life will age fast enough if you let it, so why rush the process? 

Obviously, I enjoy writing.  Maybe that was because my parents instilled in me a deep passion for the written word.  I devoured books as a kid.  Couldn’t get enough of them.  While my neighbors were busy with their Nintendo or pick-up baseball games, I lay under trees reading whatever I had at hand.  Libraries were my play parks.  But maybe I enjoyed writing because it was something I knew I could do—and do well, since I never stopped practicing the craft. 

How many stories did I craft as a kid?  I don’t know anyone who knows the actual count.  Do we count lying?  Because I was a bit too good at that.  All I do know was that my parents encouraged me to continue.  As I look back, there’s so much of them in me.  My father’s taste in music.  My mother’s ability to cook (when I want to focus on it).  There’s so much, it’s immeasurable.  They’re good people.

“And now I’m crying,” he says unabashedly.

I digress (See what I mean about avoiding myself as the topic?).  K and I are avid comic collectors.  There’s a whole room in our house in which we display our comic collection.  Everything from original artwork to statues to the comics themselves.  It’s what we do.  We have the gems of our collection, like the first appearance of Marvel’s Thor.  It’s something we do as a couple.  We love to attend comic conventions.  K dresses up as a mean Black Widow and has recently added a beautiful female Loki to her cosplay collection.   And yes, Loki was a female in the comics for a bit.

We own a lot of stuff.

Speaking of K, we’ve been together for quite a while.  We met while in high school—at a Boy Scout camp, of all things.  Best weekend of my life, but don’t tell her that (Love you, Dear!).  The rest has been twelve years of memories.  We were married almost five years ago and will be celebrating our anniversary later this month. 

What else to say?

There’s so much more.  Does education matter (two degrees)?  What about where I live (Indiana, USA)?  Siblings (one sister, three years my junior)?  Humor (Dry as a desert, but I love satire)?  There’s so much, but what’s relevant?  I guess the best answer I can give is ask and I will tell you what I can. 

I have opinions—we all do—that I’ll be sharing throughout the life of this blog.  But here’s the crux of the matter:  I also value discussion.  Strong , sound discussion is one of the simple joys of life.  I don’t have to convince you to change your point of view, nor you mine, but it should provide us the opportunity to expand our understanding of our fellow humans.  So respond to what I say.  If you disagree, tell me why, but do it intelligently.

Perhaps now I will open up.  There are events in my life that could prove difficult for you to understand without a base connection to me.  Last week, I received my novel back from its first professional edit.  Sure, you might be able to understand how that made you feel the first time, but me?  Without understanding my personality, it becomes much, much harder. 

As I wrap up this blog post, I feel as if I’ve already fallen on my face for the first time.  But I promised myself that I’d post this.  One of those things that needs to be done, whether you like doing it or not.  I’m sure more information about my personal life will leak out as time goes by.  Maybe in big swaths, maybe in tiny portions. 

But no matter what, each word will be exactly me.  I will be honest and heartfelt.  My passions will seep through:  pride in a refurbished desk (I love woodworking—runs in my family), or fixing a broken toilet, or repairing my Dodge Neon (over 260,000 miles and still running smoothly—or smoothly enough), and my other achievements—big and small.  No one else is going to do this for me.  Time for the big boy pants.  Though I still want my banana splits.

Had one yesterday.  It was delicious.