Tag: writing

A Writer’s Pathway

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After over a year of planning the plots and ladders of The History of Ruth (H.o.R.) as an anthology, it has come to my attention that it needs expansion into a novel to do it justice. The idea for this particular story has been floating around my mind since 1999 when I was walking through the quad at U.M.B.C. in Baltimore, Maryland. That was when Ruth made herself known to me, and she’s been a naggy little bitch in the back of my psyche for decades now. Seems like a lifetime ago, and, in a way, it was. Back then, I was a different person, unable to articulate all of these things going through my head in a way that would make sense to anyone else. Unable or unwilling to share due to countless excuses. In those subsequent years, the story has been built and broken down more times than I can count. 

Back then, I thought that there needed to be a special alignment of time, space and energy that would propel this (awesome!) idea onto paper like some magical cosmic vomit in a series of epiphanies. After all, if it was not an interesting concept, it would not have haunted me all these years. As you can see from my lack of publication (except this blog space and my weirdo short fiction), that alchemy has not occurred yet. Instead, I was left molding a marble statue all this time, chipping away at it with a teensy chisel as time permits. 

*insert hand motions of tapping a chisel and a chink-chink-chink sound effect* 

That is the reality of writing–not the magic cosmic spew. Sure, some writers get struck by lightning and churn out a draft, then polish it and dispense for mass consumption with (what seems like) little effort. But, the reality is that, to master something, one needs to practice, practice, practice. Yup, bo-ring. Nose to the grindstone and butt in chair, day after day will win the prize. What is the saying? Ten thousand hours to mastery? Wonder where I am in that. By giving up the illusion that I am special freed me to write more and better and to be able to share it with others. Sure, I am still self conscious about it. But I am no longer scared that it isn’t perfect–whatever that means. 

I am a believer that there is a greater reason for the delay. It must mean that something did not feel right. Coming up with the ideas is never the issue. The fight is getting it translated from mind to the page. If I just wrote the first thing that came to mind, which I have done a thousand times, then pushed that out in the world, then it would probably fall flat and seem ingenuine. By accepting that it will be a pain in the ass and just getting it done bit by bit, it removes the emotions and taboos I built around writing that make it seem mystic. There is still emotion around writing, but I learned to channel that into the story, instead. 

A few weeks ago, I signed up to have my writing critiqued by others that actually write. This was the first time that I have asked for formal critique of my work, except for academic writing. Before, I would just have people read the self-edited stories and get general feedback. For the upcoming critique, I took the wrap-around story for my anthology that I had been stewing for over a year (above) and pulled it, coming up with a new wrap-around story just a week before the critique. I spent the day before and the hours preceding the video call restless and nervous. What if I am a terrible writer? What if it doesn’t make sense? What if they tear me apart? Did I do wrong to nix the other wrap-around and, instead, present something that was constructed in a flash? Don’t I need massive preparation to make something of worth? All of these concerns swirled around my jittery brain. 

The critique came and went. I survived. The group had a ton of helpful comments that let me tighten up my story, making it much better. I thought afterward, “See! You always freak out, but then everything ends up okay in the long run.” The new story was actually a much better fit for the anthology and gave me a whole new angle that I did not consider before. I thought about going back to my blog/website and changing my introduction and a few posts regarding H.o.R. being the anthology wrap-around. Instead, I am leaving it to (hopefully) inspire others who want to write to show the evolution of ideas/work and that it is a process that varies between people and has no defined speed. If you want to write, then write. Because that is what makes you a writer. 

The whole process is definitely taking longer than I would like, but, honestly, I don’t want to let it go until the story and characters absolutely ring true and I get it in the best shape I can prior to professional editing and/or publishing. Besides, I decided that I will do illustrations, which is taking some time. I want this, and every project, to be something that makes me feel happy, angry, scared, energized–everything, the same way I feel when I read works by talented authors. I want to emulate that phenomenon and share it with the world. I want to laugh out loud at the funny parts and exclaim, “Wha???” aloud at the plot twists while reading a book. You know what I mean…when your partner gives you the side eye because you seem to be talking to your book at the intense parts. There is no greater joy than being in the moment, taking a person out of their reality for a while, getting sucked into a story, eliciting goosebumps, chills or nausea right at the moment at which it was intended. 

There are no shortcuts through the tough stuff. Keep at it! Scenario drawing of another long-brewing story called The Narew Project. Eventually, this one will be released along with the other story podlings.

Marinating

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Bronx, June 2020. Still stuck in it.

I awoke early this Saturday morning to what sounds like the soundtrack for The Omen. Why are dreadful, frightening opera/chorus pieces being blasted through someone’s stereo at this time of day? I look to the light clinging to the walls around my curtain to guesstimate what time it is. The sunlight seems far after dawn, its hands creeping through the window, waiting to gain purchase and pull itself inside. It seems grey today, flat, without warmth.  

That is where bitter lies. Between the sheets and blankets, sweating on itself into the morning hours. Turning over for a fresh spot without calm, always in motion, even in dreams. It is exhausting, causing strange headaches and pressure in the sinuses from the altitude. Too dry up there. Should have hydrated better before we died for the night. Instead, like the Grey House, I wait in mummy form. I don’t mind, until it chases away those who are watching and waiting. Oh, don’t test me. I will outlast them all, lying here. There are many things that we have learned to allow around us instead of interacting and attempting to affect everything. Too much to stick a finger in, so I let it flex inward instead. As the tissues dry, each finger curls in invitation to lie down and be calm, patient. Ten soldiers at rest, pointing at me. 

Between the headaches and waves of nausea, two eyes peer steadfast out of the other hole in the blankets. The swinging of the fan blades creates wind tsunamis with its movement back and forth. I see two white dots in a field of black, the reflections appearing there, moving in tandem to follow any new focus. The slight air current makes them blink out of existence for a millisecond, making me wonder if I am seeing them floating there at all. 

Emergence from blankets reveals a face around those eyes with their specks of reflections. The tiny worlds in her hair get blown about in annoyance by the air, so she ties it back, even though it’s short. Now, if she moves her head in an abrupt way, the tiny ponytail wiggles like raw chicken pulled apart and hanging by a tendon–like the articulations in a leg or a wing with the quivering fat and skin following in the breeze behind the mass. 

Or, was it a him? They are all the same. All in one, those that hide. Either way, don’t press on its belly or else it will spew back up the snot it’s swallowed all this time. It is rather unfortunate to taste it once, let alone twice. Let it pass past the sphincters and let it be done.

Aspens

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He fell from the heavens to the Earth to the waiting snow. Puffs of diamond dust sparkle in cloudless sun with the impact. Pfffoooot. He lay there like a child, making an angel in the snow as the particles settle around him, sprawled and staring at the endless aqua sky beneath white, reaching branches of aspens thirsty for winter sun. There should be peace in a world connected to the heavens through nature. Humans rush around and miss all this. He stretched his arms and legs as far as they would go and considered the road ahead. 

He wondered if it was worth it to stand. Why depart from the feeling of the crisp air disappearing into his chest, becoming part of him before turning into tiny clouds dissipating with each exhalation? This moment should be savored. His eyes crossed to look at the condensation looming on his mustache. Then, a flash of white-hot guilt cuts to the guts, begging answers of why he decided to fall. He let the feeling wane, focusing again on the warm sun in contrast to the coolness seeping to his thigh backs resting on the snow. Life is long and full of complications. 

He lie back with another poof of the snow, looking toward the sky. Let one second be free to reach upwards just like the tendrils of the aspens. Hope is why he came here. One more second of enjoying the physical pleasures before starting the journey. 

Once the lie got out, everything got tainted. A futile attempt to erase watercolors. Everything already bled where it will settle. “It is out of our hands”, they said. But, whose hands is it in? That is the question. I am on  a quest, looking for the one in charge. It is strange to get used to waiting for something that won’t come. A shift in focus is warranted, but, that may take some time *palms your head down below the water*. They treat him like a dry erase board. Do this. Go here. Adapt. It’s a ghost of a joke the next day. No intent to assemble the bigger picture.

“Oooooh’s” to Heavens. Aspens, 2015

Yer Yarn on Black Friday

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Mockup ideas for my History of Ruth Anthology

The question was asked, “Where are you in your yarn?” My face doesn’t move, but my thoughts pull free from the backs of my eyeballs as if somebody snatched my brain right out of my occiput. My eyeball nerves spin around each other, more rapid by the millisecond like helicopter blades, creating a migraine between my ears bad enough to think the Devil decided to use them to do hemp weaving. The cyclone motion created by my whirring eyeball nerves drives its spiral down into my guts into that empty space not meant to see the sun and I feel like diarrhea. Yes, you got it. Both the thing and the act.

Please remove your happy face from my direct line of sight. I am not the golden calf and don’t have time to placate you at this very second. I am waving my hand at you like you are in front of the TV. Or perhaps a strange safari communication technique. I just want to write, because I feel like…

…if I don’t…

…the less clicks the keyboard sticks, the more sure that my heartbeat sputters words, like cholesterol dulling each dwindling beat on the hardwood floor. The words splay like jacks around me, clacking their little pointy ends along their way away from me. Oozing and pointy, little letters trying to escape.  

I peruse the day that lay before me and consider that I may be taking things a bit too dramatically. So, I take off my sweatshirt and hang my head upside down on my bed so my short hair swishes the floor as I shake my head clear from the overwhelming black blanket of the Hole (the place that I fall through and lose track of time while writing).

Ah, yes, there it is. Despair. Thin and long. Stretching out to infinity so that you squint enough that your eyes go bad, an active aging through its acts. Where does it end? Never does! Ha! Just like the character in Ender’s Saga (by Orson Scott Card), tracing the path and counting the grains of the wooden floor until infinity comes to claim me. But, with much less insight and popularity. 

Self imposed goals and paths. Self imposed tortures along the way. Such is the task of the writer. Like taking a putty chisel to the well-thickened semi porous residues of the white plaster waves inside my skull. You could probably grow flowers inside there. But, that’s another story. 

“My ‘yarn’?” I say, laughing with a smile like a conspirator. “Going just fine. Wish it would stay in one place enough to catch on to something linear. Water wiggle thoughts.” I hesitated a beat, then said, “But, it’s ok to not grasp them completely. Just allow myself to be amused and see what I grab that day. I always think I have time to ponder them later if they are worth anything, and I hope I do. Sometimes good ideas come in pieces.”

I think that was too much talking for my coffee companion. They ask for a meet and greet and I am standing in line while waxing poetic like a backwards Barbara Walters. Least I didn’t cry. But there is still time.

Prisoners

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Walk to work, Bronx, NY

The last I saw of her was a glance back as I was leaving. Her sad and knowing round face looked drawn between the web of fingers that curled around the chain-link fence separating us. I know she was trying not to cry. It must be like tearing off the bandage every time I come to see her. But, I also want to make sure she knows that I am here for her. Twenty more years. Do any of us know how long we have in this life? Should we be allowed to know the desolate future of being stuck in a routine for that long? Just kill me, I think. But, then, I realize the pretext and what that would mean for her and I change my mind just as quickly as the thought had come. 

She took the fall for something that represents only a shard of the truth. The players are so ingrained that the only way would be calculated infiltration and a very long-game plan that relies on people playing roles for nearly all of their lives. Can that be done? On a sunny day, I would say, “You do you.” But, in these cases, there must be the birds eye view: the Camera in the Sky, the Satellite. Those that can program and navigate the worst of the worst situations as the rest get eaten up in the churn. And the Masses sleep, unaware of danger. But, a necessary evil, you say. At what cost and on which authority?

When people cry for change, they don’t think down to that level. It is not as simple as writing a sign, standing in the cold for nine hours and screaming until you are hoarse, then meeting at Starbucks for the debrief. What a mess a life can make.

The Red Dot

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The Red Dot haunts every frame of every application, website or any computer shit/blah-blah electrocommunication with which you shall interact. This “Red Dot” is the name given to that minuscule electronic task that gnaws at the soul of the day. The message, flag, marker, jellybean, etc. It is something undone, something that remains outstanding. It is a torture device implemented by the Powers That Be in order to create a sense of anxiety and forward motion in modern society.

I hear myself speak on this topic and am already laughing to recall outspoken proprietors that had a similar view and came before me. They used words such as “arcane,” and “byzantine,” to describe modern computer systems, just as those before them likely did. It creates excessive huff and puff, but, really, we are kooky, friendly, and the most loving people you shall meet. We just don’t like unnecessary clicking. 

But! Back to the task at hand! The Red Dot that is the pinnacle of human conditioning! It forces a person to move forward with whatever it is that the marker represents. Yes. Done. Mark in the sand. What’s next? This phenomenon is A.K.A, “Light a fire under your ass.”

Why Red Dot? Mother Computer is hovering over the mountain of this Toilet of a Time Period, alternatively relaxing and squeezing her pelvic floor muscles to express the unnecessary fluids that no longer belong. She thinks that this ordeal is private, but we are all watching, of course. She stands, immense at the top of the mountain, palms together above her, red flowing through the constraints of the body of geology, and shaking the frame from the pain.

“To Do”. Yes, we all know. To DO. Not to sit for hours liking Facebook posts and clicking your fake nail on your screen while gossiping about the nature of the Lakers in order to get a hit. 

Are we at a GWAR concert, at work, an art exhibit, political debate or are we now discussing the end of the world as we can plan? One shall never know, You Sicko. I wink at you through the computer. Let’s discuss in person sometime. 

That Red Dot of doing things applies to every job, everywhere. There will be some flag or other means of communication to tell you “To do.” This thing is done, that thing is done. Pass along. Get on the conveyor. Just go. 

Be aware, though, that they represent very important things in some instances. If time is not taken to realize the impact of actions, or to diffuse a bubbling problem, then you should prepare for explosion. But, the check box persists and is now sending its opinion through your computer… 

It is in the periphery, you know it has to be done, but it won’t come forward or sink away. Deal with it. Then move on. Such is life.  

The rat in a cage may push the button for drugs instead of nestling into an area to find comfort. I am pretty sure that I just threw a bunch of historical, psychological, observational and controlled-trials together to make a sort of greatest hits mashup. Hey, this stuff can happen. We should know how people react to it, right?! [To better control them, most likely.]

The point is, is there any difference between addictions and your tasks? Think of how hard it is to say “No” to the Red Dot. It is human nature. We want to complete tasks. 

Not saying it isn’t our fault. But not saying it is, either.  

Conservatoire National Supérieur de Musique et de Danse de Paris, 2018
Paris, France, y’all.

Gape of the Ocean

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I find myself at a precipice and wonder if I should go ahead and jump or find an alternate way to climb down. People did this before and survived, I think as I leaned to look. There are great sensations like the electricity of arising panic when the ocean retreats for a tsunami, with its inhale half Awe and half “Awe shit.”

“Safety Fiiirrrst!,” My intoxicated neighbor would say as he was climbing the tree to trim them. Yes, safety, would be the foremost concern of the anxious mind. The push for the new is always there. The anxious mind sees it as a threat. When you serenade darkness, then it finally talks back, only you are to blame. There is no calm understanding of it at that point. The will to flee kicks in and the dread comes in relentless waves that ooze like taffy, onto each layer, then, sinking into themselves to create a new picture of a plastic endeavor. Fear will eat you this way. Some forms of anxiety are valid. 

So, I put it out there, and waited. Thought of all the things I could do with my time if I wasn’t sitting around thinking. Endless Starts and Invisible Finishes are my specialty, yet again. I was once accused of letting life go by me. Then, I snapped my claws upon the cape of the rabbit hole before me. Once determined, I will not let go.

Sketch and Prose from the ’00’s at some point.
Fairly certain that someone spilled their vodka on my sketchbook at the time.

Howdy.

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Welcome to my site!

I started this to get my writing “out there,” unsure where this thing is taking me.

Why do this?

  • Because I have crap-tons (yes, that’s a measure) of material from years of writing, drawing, making music, general life musings, etc. that is apparently at the point in which I need to advertise myself.
  • Because I am not very good at pimping myself out for art or public entertainment.

The hope of this project is to make money in a way different from my current pastime of practicing medicine as a Nurse Practitioner. I know, slumming it all these years, right? I needed a creative outlet due to reality being a bummer at times.

I am literally writing over the templated WordPress stuff until I figure out what this thingee webpage designing is all about. I am a lowly servant of the people and computers will most likely be running the world soon, anyhow. Here are the facts:

  • I love writing and want to do it fer reals. However, I am realistic in that I am not J.K. Rowling. The wild dream of superstardom shall continue to elude me until it doesn’t. Therefore, “Don’t quit your day job,” as they say.
  • I have over 30 stories that I am compiling into an anthology, History of Ruth (or, the H.o.R., as it has become) that I hope to get published. They are eclectic horror fantasy and usually weird.
  • If Google Docs didn’t exist, those stories would most likely be organized into a Trapper-Keeper-type situation, as I am a child of the 80’s.
  • Success comes in many forms and is best when felt all around.

Ok, that last point was more of a fortune cookie statement, but these place markers serve their purpose in order to jump start my website.

I have always had my hands in art of some sort since I was a kid. As I grew up and began adulthood, I struggled with the grind vs. creativity. Then, becoming a soulless work puppet, I was deeply into professional life and became–shocker!–unhappy with that lifestyle. I sought ways to evolve into something that would not make me want to jump off a cliff upon awakening in the morning.

I found that mindfulness based meditation and writing has helped me to reduce the sense that Da Man is holding me down.

This will be fun. Hopefully for you, too.

KJK