It's simple ruled notebook with 192 pages. In the back, is a pocket folder. A piece of gray ribbon marks the page I last used. An elastic band keeps everything together.
I'm nearing the end of the second Molesine notebook I've started since taking writing seriously. Another is waiting to become the object of my attention for the next few months.
These same notebooks were the ones used by Van Gogh, Picasso and Hemingway.
These notebooks I recommend to many writers. They're currently being used by the next great writers such as Travis Hulce and Bruce Bales.
My first notebook began in December 2005 with little quips and phrases, some from me, others from friends who let bits of wisdom and humor drip from their tongues. Sometimes, at the most inopportune moments.
The pages of the second notebook began last July while on a youth mission trip to New Orleans. Twenty pages in, I began scribbling a scene which is now my latest novel. It's simply titled, "Meds." It's seven pages of long-looping cursive others have said looks more like the Declaration of Independence than a writer's mind diarrhea.
My Moleskine comes with me everywhere, recording moments of passionate thought I don't want to lose. Pages of poetry for Erica and her handwriting from when she couldn't speak following wisdom teeth surgery. Quotes from idiots in court. Writing tips. Drawings.
Notes from the K-Zoo skating comp. Notes on prescription medications and mental illness. Bits and pieces of short stories. A narrative for a zombie comic book.
The pocket itself holds other treasures. A speeding ticket. Bar napkins drooling with sentiment. Doodles and quotations of wisdom handed to me.
It's these pocket-sized relics I never want to lose. If my house would burn down, they'd be the first thing I'd grab.
I don't pay attention when grabbing a new one off the shelf at Borders. I just grab the first one. By the time I'm done with it, I'm saddened that such a good friend will rest on my desk while another will take its place.
Not a replacement, but another extension of its twin. Another great oppertunity to turn the blank pages into something other than just blank pages.
2.19.2008
2.04.2008
My first reading...redux
We walked to the third floor of the Bucktown Center for the Arts. It's snowing heavily outside, flakes sound proofing the streets below us. All we see on the sidewalk are our own footsteps that took us to the locked front door and the locked side door. In the back, we were met by an old poet who immediately knew I was me.
On the top floor looking down, we're alone in the loft-like room filled with empty couches, tables and chairs. It's nearly seven o'clock and the reader's there, but not the listeners. We joke about how no one will show because of the bad weather. I joke that my friends are never on time for anything.
And it becomes time to begin. There's about ten of us there. Most of us are writers.
Ryan begins, reading a selection of his own poetry. Then the old man from the door, seeking input on a poem he wrote years ago and is thinking about switching around stanzas. Then another guy wearing a plaid scarf like an ascot. He reads one poem about how the world will end if Ron Paul is elected president.
Then Ryan introduces me, the featured reader. I've decided to read the homecoming chapter from "A Constant Suicide." Erica later tells me it was probably the wrong choice considering the audience. I was thinking that as soon as I started reading it.
Leslie smiles as me when I look up to read. Her daughter, Catherine, is following along with her own copy, even though I told her she wasn't allowed. Tony watches from the corner of the room. Erica sits up front.
It's the first time I'm reading the book since it was published. I'm having fun reading it, but realizing there were better chapters I could read from.
Then, it's onto the second chapter from the second book. The one that doesn't have the title yet. As I read, I realize it's a long selection. I'm spitting as I talk, frothy white gobs landing on the printed pages. I need water.
When I'm done, there's applause. The first reaction comes from the old poet. "Maybe someday you'll learn to slow down," he says.
A woman in the back says, "You're a very talented writer." I almost blush.
In this room filled with either good friends or complete strangers, I've immediately cured all fears of reading my own work aloud in public.
Now it's time to book the next one.
On the top floor looking down, we're alone in the loft-like room filled with empty couches, tables and chairs. It's nearly seven o'clock and the reader's there, but not the listeners. We joke about how no one will show because of the bad weather. I joke that my friends are never on time for anything.
And it becomes time to begin. There's about ten of us there. Most of us are writers.
Ryan begins, reading a selection of his own poetry. Then the old man from the door, seeking input on a poem he wrote years ago and is thinking about switching around stanzas. Then another guy wearing a plaid scarf like an ascot. He reads one poem about how the world will end if Ron Paul is elected president.
Then Ryan introduces me, the featured reader. I've decided to read the homecoming chapter from "A Constant Suicide." Erica later tells me it was probably the wrong choice considering the audience. I was thinking that as soon as I started reading it.
Leslie smiles as me when I look up to read. Her daughter, Catherine, is following along with her own copy, even though I told her she wasn't allowed. Tony watches from the corner of the room. Erica sits up front.
It's the first time I'm reading the book since it was published. I'm having fun reading it, but realizing there were better chapters I could read from.
Then, it's onto the second chapter from the second book. The one that doesn't have the title yet. As I read, I realize it's a long selection. I'm spitting as I talk, frothy white gobs landing on the printed pages. I need water.
When I'm done, there's applause. The first reaction comes from the old poet. "Maybe someday you'll learn to slow down," he says.
A woman in the back says, "You're a very talented writer." I almost blush.
In this room filled with either good friends or complete strangers, I've immediately cured all fears of reading my own work aloud in public.
Now it's time to book the next one.
1.23.2008
Column...
Here's another column I wrote for the paper.
"Learning from horror classics"
By Brian Krans, Metro East
Say you and three friends go out to the woods for the weekend. Hours later, you've killed them all because after reciting part of an evil book, they all turned into the undead.
Here's the question: Do you go back to the same cabin with a different girlfriend who is also named Linda? Of course not, not because it makes obvious sense, but because you've seen "Evil Dead" and "Evil Dead II."
Oh, the things those fantastically splendid horror films can teach us.
To clarify, I'm not talking about the ones mass-produced with current celebrities seeing the dead or knowing who killed them.
No, I'm talking about horror classics. The movies that make names like Jason, Freddy and Michael even creepier. The greats from the '70s and '80s where fake blood poured like raspberry syrup over a stack 'o' pancakes body count. The ones where the entire score from a movie can come from a synthesizer or an ill-tuned violin. The ones you can rent five-for-five-bucks at Hollywood Video.
Why do we love them? I'm not sure. Maybe it's the fine line between horror and humor. My girlfriend says it gives us another chance to yell at the TV. Maybe so we feel smarter because we obviously wouldn't make such obviously bad mistakes.
Even if you view them simply as entertainment, you'll find the subtle life lessons oozing out like brains out of a re-dead zombie's ears.
George Romero taught us all many valuable lessons in "Night of the Living Dead." My favorite is that sometimes, no matter how bad of an idea it seems, you might want to listen to the raving lunatic when he says the safest spot in a zombie invasion is the basement. Sometimes, those crazies aren't so crazy.
Then again, if the teenage vampire movie "Lost Boys" taught us anything, it's to stick with your gut. Life if you're like Corey Feldman and think the owner of the video store on the boulevard is the head vampire, he could just be. And is.
Another is Stephen King in "Creepshow," the comic-turned-horror classic from 1982. In writing it, he had some sage advice like if your lover's husband wants to bury you neck deep on the beach to save the cheating wife's life, the simplie answer is don't do it. She's probably already dead.
Another lesson from "Creepshow" that Mr. King, in all of his acting might, illustrated that if you find a meteor lands on your farm, don't play with it. You might become a plant and be forced to shoot yourself.
As long as we're talking about Mr. King, let's talk about his short story and the 1984-film adaptation, "Children of the Corn." What possibly could we learn from them? Tons. More specifically, don't let your ego get away from you or the killer cult of kids you're leading will turn on you and sacrifice you to the corn field monster.
Also, be weary of any large group of religiously zealous kids living in a town without parents. Nothing good can come from that.
"Learning from horror classics"
By Brian Krans, Metro East
Say you and three friends go out to the woods for the weekend. Hours later, you've killed them all because after reciting part of an evil book, they all turned into the undead.
Here's the question: Do you go back to the same cabin with a different girlfriend who is also named Linda? Of course not, not because it makes obvious sense, but because you've seen "Evil Dead" and "Evil Dead II."
Oh, the things those fantastically splendid horror films can teach us.
To clarify, I'm not talking about the ones mass-produced with current celebrities seeing the dead or knowing who killed them.
No, I'm talking about horror classics. The movies that make names like Jason, Freddy and Michael even creepier. The greats from the '70s and '80s where fake blood poured like raspberry syrup over a stack 'o' pancakes body count. The ones where the entire score from a movie can come from a synthesizer or an ill-tuned violin. The ones you can rent five-for-five-bucks at Hollywood Video.
Why do we love them? I'm not sure. Maybe it's the fine line between horror and humor. My girlfriend says it gives us another chance to yell at the TV. Maybe so we feel smarter because we obviously wouldn't make such obviously bad mistakes.
Even if you view them simply as entertainment, you'll find the subtle life lessons oozing out like brains out of a re-dead zombie's ears.
George Romero taught us all many valuable lessons in "Night of the Living Dead." My favorite is that sometimes, no matter how bad of an idea it seems, you might want to listen to the raving lunatic when he says the safest spot in a zombie invasion is the basement. Sometimes, those crazies aren't so crazy.
Then again, if the teenage vampire movie "Lost Boys" taught us anything, it's to stick with your gut. Life if you're like Corey Feldman and think the owner of the video store on the boulevard is the head vampire, he could just be. And is.
Another is Stephen King in "Creepshow," the comic-turned-horror classic from 1982. In writing it, he had some sage advice like if your lover's husband wants to bury you neck deep on the beach to save the cheating wife's life, the simplie answer is don't do it. She's probably already dead.
Another lesson from "Creepshow" that Mr. King, in all of his acting might, illustrated that if you find a meteor lands on your farm, don't play with it. You might become a plant and be forced to shoot yourself.
As long as we're talking about Mr. King, let's talk about his short story and the 1984-film adaptation, "Children of the Corn." What possibly could we learn from them? Tons. More specifically, don't let your ego get away from you or the killer cult of kids you're leading will turn on you and sacrifice you to the corn field monster.
Also, be weary of any large group of religiously zealous kids living in a town without parents. Nothing good can come from that.
1.11.2008
My first reading...
So, the folks over at Quad City Arts invited me, so I might as well get over my phobia and finally do a reading of my book. Hope everyone can make it.
Here's the press release Ryan made up:
WHAT: Brian Krans feature reader at MWC’s January Out Loud
WHEN: Thursday, January 31, 7pm
WHERE: 3rd Floor Conference Room, Midwest Writing Center, 225 E. 2nd St. Davenport, IA (in the Bucktown Center for the Arts)
Brian Krans will be the featured reader at Out Loud January 31
The Midwest Writing Center’s Out Loud reading series is back! 2008 is our fifth year, and to mark the occasion, we planning to have featured readers —both poetry and prose— following the open reading part of the evening, which starts at 7pm. Our first feature is Brian Krans, author of A Constant Suicide.
“Brian Krans attended Winona State University in Winona, MN, where he initially majored in criminal justice but graduated with a degree in journalism… In 2004, Krans took his journalism degree to the Quad-Cities to begin covering police and courts for The Rock Island Argus/The (Moline) Dispatch. He’s covered numerous presidential campaign stops, traveled to the Hurricane Katrina-ravaged Gulf Coast area, and the trial of a teen charged with the brutal murder and dismemberment of a fellow classmate that garnished national media coverage… In his non-fiction writing, Krans has interviewed everyone from lifelong prostitutes to BMX biking legends. From police detectives on the scene to convicted murderers in prison… A Constant Suicide is his first novel. He’s currently working on a second.” (from www.aconstantsuicide.com)
This will be his first featured reading and it promises to be a great evening. So come to Out Loud, read some of your own work and then take in the high-intensity work of Brian Krans, our first Out Loud featured reader of 2008!
Here's the press release Ryan made up:
WHAT: Brian Krans feature reader at MWC’s January Out Loud
WHEN: Thursday, January 31, 7pm
WHERE: 3rd Floor Conference Room, Midwest Writing Center, 225 E. 2nd St. Davenport, IA (in the Bucktown Center for the Arts)
Brian Krans will be the featured reader at Out Loud January 31
The Midwest Writing Center’s Out Loud reading series is back! 2008 is our fifth year, and to mark the occasion, we planning to have featured readers —both poetry and prose— following the open reading part of the evening, which starts at 7pm. Our first feature is Brian Krans, author of A Constant Suicide.
“Brian Krans attended Winona State University in Winona, MN, where he initially majored in criminal justice but graduated with a degree in journalism… In 2004, Krans took his journalism degree to the Quad-Cities to begin covering police and courts for The Rock Island Argus/The (Moline) Dispatch. He’s covered numerous presidential campaign stops, traveled to the Hurricane Katrina-ravaged Gulf Coast area, and the trial of a teen charged with the brutal murder and dismemberment of a fellow classmate that garnished national media coverage… In his non-fiction writing, Krans has interviewed everyone from lifelong prostitutes to BMX biking legends. From police detectives on the scene to convicted murderers in prison… A Constant Suicide is his first novel. He’s currently working on a second.” (from www.aconstantsuicide.com)
This will be his first featured reading and it promises to be a great evening. So come to Out Loud, read some of your own work and then take in the high-intensity work of Brian Krans, our first Out Loud featured reader of 2008!
1.08.2008
Inspiration
My favorite author, Chuck Palahniuk, offered words of advice to writers that goes something like this:
Did you ever sit down to take a dump, but knew you had nothing to push out? Did you ever just sit on the toilet and push and push and push? No, of course not. If you don't have to go, you get up, get something to eat, and go about your day. When you have to crap, you crap. Writing should be the same way. Why waste time forcing something out when it's not ready?
It's just great advice. Why try to write when you know nothing will come of it?
And that's where I sit (pun not intended). After finishing my grad school application, which came after the disastrous laptop crash, I felt like I wasn't ready to delve back into the second novel quite yet. Something was missing.
I say it was inspiration.
With complete scenes written out in my trusty Moleskine notebook and a pile of books and articles read for research, something was missing to get me to start tapping away at the book. A few times I tried, but it felt like I was just pushing and straining in futility.
So I stopped. I got something to eat. I spent some time with my favorite people, namely one person in particular. We had some crazy fun times, but we also had a lot of down times. It was a great opportunity for me to clear my head and realize what was important in my life.
(I'm still a fan of the thought that real people are better than imaginary ones.)
So, in the weeks that passed -- holidays included -- I unknowingly got my main character, who currently goes by the name Jake, into perspective. By getting inside my own head, clarifying some thoughts and emotions, I was able to see what could make him tick, what would drive him.
I hadn't felt like a writer in a while because I haven't been writing. I was so wrong. I was writing non-stop, but in my head.
Last night when I sat down to write, I knew what needed to be said, what could be ignored and how to go about it. That's not because I sat at my computer and pushed it out. It's because I spent a good deal of time relaxing, thinking and enjoying life.
In essence, I feel like a writer again, not because I wrote, but because my head is clear.
Thanks Erica.
Did you ever sit down to take a dump, but knew you had nothing to push out? Did you ever just sit on the toilet and push and push and push? No, of course not. If you don't have to go, you get up, get something to eat, and go about your day. When you have to crap, you crap. Writing should be the same way. Why waste time forcing something out when it's not ready?
It's just great advice. Why try to write when you know nothing will come of it?
And that's where I sit (pun not intended). After finishing my grad school application, which came after the disastrous laptop crash, I felt like I wasn't ready to delve back into the second novel quite yet. Something was missing.
I say it was inspiration.
With complete scenes written out in my trusty Moleskine notebook and a pile of books and articles read for research, something was missing to get me to start tapping away at the book. A few times I tried, but it felt like I was just pushing and straining in futility.
So I stopped. I got something to eat. I spent some time with my favorite people, namely one person in particular. We had some crazy fun times, but we also had a lot of down times. It was a great opportunity for me to clear my head and realize what was important in my life.
(I'm still a fan of the thought that real people are better than imaginary ones.)
So, in the weeks that passed -- holidays included -- I unknowingly got my main character, who currently goes by the name Jake, into perspective. By getting inside my own head, clarifying some thoughts and emotions, I was able to see what could make him tick, what would drive him.
I hadn't felt like a writer in a while because I haven't been writing. I was so wrong. I was writing non-stop, but in my head.
Last night when I sat down to write, I knew what needed to be said, what could be ignored and how to go about it. That's not because I sat at my computer and pushed it out. It's because I spent a good deal of time relaxing, thinking and enjoying life.
In essence, I feel like a writer again, not because I wrote, but because my head is clear.
Thanks Erica.
12.25.2007
Oh Christmas...
Sorry, but I've never been a big fan of this day for the past decade or so. I've got my reasons, and their mine. Get your own. This year, however, White Trashmas was so delicious we had to have seconds. Maybe we'll do a White Trashmas in July, too.
On a writing note, I finished the script for the graphic novel on Christmas eve before going to co-workers house and scaring them with weird stories. Nice work, Tony. Nice work.
We begin shooting for the photos for the graphic novel on Saturday.
Until then, with one writing project out of the way until a re-write or anything else is needed, it's back into the novel. My narrator has been sitting aimlessly since the majority of his short fictional life was erased.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to spend my Christmas with fictional characters that I create inside my head.
New Year's can't come quick enough.
On a writing note, I finished the script for the graphic novel on Christmas eve before going to co-workers house and scaring them with weird stories. Nice work, Tony. Nice work.
We begin shooting for the photos for the graphic novel on Saturday.
Until then, with one writing project out of the way until a re-write or anything else is needed, it's back into the novel. My narrator has been sitting aimlessly since the majority of his short fictional life was erased.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to spend my Christmas with fictional characters that I create inside my head.
New Year's can't come quick enough.
12.14.2007
New side project
So, along with the next novel, my next writing project is a graphic novel.
It's the brain child of Alex "That Kid Who Draws" Iaccarino.
It's going to be a zombie attack in a major city. Sure, the idea's been done, but Alex's unique style of art, along with Wizard of Oz Photography, some willing models and usage of Mikey LiLian and Nick Yazbec's apartment, it's going to be something you haven't seen in a while.
I'm working on the storyline while the Wizard and That Kid will be doing all of the art work. We're talking about a perfect-bound soft cover book published under Rock Town Press. It's way more than just a comic.
It's miles away from anything than anything any of us have done before. That is, except for That Kid's love of incorporating zombie's into his mind-blowing art.
Until then, I'm shopping for an axe and polishing up my 9mms because Alex and I are on the hunt for zombies.
Until there's more news, happy hunting.
12.05.2007
Iowa Writer's Workshop
The application is done...finally.
After months of pouring thought into what I'd send to apply for hands-down the best fiction writing program in the country, the envelopes are sealed. Tomorrow I will go to the Post Office and mail them.
I am relieved.
There are thirty seats in the fiction section and the same in poetry. Thousands apply each year.
It's a breeding ground for Pulitzer Prize winners. Vonnegut taught there. Anthony Swafford, author of Jarhead, is guest teaching there this year. This is the writers' program.
I am nervous.
I barely gave any thought to applying to Winona State University. When the acceptance letter arrived, I was happy, but just barely enough to mention in a blog some seven years later. Getting in was just something I did and barely gave much thought.
This is different. This is completely different. Immediately after I decided I was going to go, I began getting signs, or at least what I took as signs about the Writer's Workshop.
Thanks Shawn for telling me to apply. Thanks Shawn, Becca and Pennie for the letters of recommendation. Matt, Leslie and Katheryn, thanks for editing.
Thanks everyone for the support. Thanks everyone who've told me I'll get in.
Until then, there's one less thing on my plate to worry about.
Until then, I wait. Anxiously.
After months of pouring thought into what I'd send to apply for hands-down the best fiction writing program in the country, the envelopes are sealed. Tomorrow I will go to the Post Office and mail them.
I am relieved.
There are thirty seats in the fiction section and the same in poetry. Thousands apply each year.
It's a breeding ground for Pulitzer Prize winners. Vonnegut taught there. Anthony Swafford, author of Jarhead, is guest teaching there this year. This is the writers' program.
I am nervous.
I barely gave any thought to applying to Winona State University. When the acceptance letter arrived, I was happy, but just barely enough to mention in a blog some seven years later. Getting in was just something I did and barely gave much thought.
This is different. This is completely different. Immediately after I decided I was going to go, I began getting signs, or at least what I took as signs about the Writer's Workshop.
Thanks Shawn for telling me to apply. Thanks Shawn, Becca and Pennie for the letters of recommendation. Matt, Leslie and Katheryn, thanks for editing.
Thanks everyone for the support. Thanks everyone who've told me I'll get in.
Until then, there's one less thing on my plate to worry about.
Until then, I wait. Anxiously.
12.01.2007
Update: Laptop
So Gabriel at Computer Evolutions in Davenport fixed my laptop. He wasn't able to retrieve anything on it because the old hard drive wouldn't so much as spin. At least it was fixed for free under warranty.
As far as the most important info -- the book and anything for my grad school application -- I got some of it back.
There's a hero in this tale. His name is Matt Meenan, otherwise known as the valiant copy editor who helped with A Constant Suicide without ever having met me. The first time we met was at the release party.
So, this tank manual editor not only had the documents I emailed him, but also edited them quickly enough that I was able to spend a Saturday fixing all of the necessary corrections. Honestly, he's one of those great editors that not only spots where a comma should go, but also where dates and numbers don't match up.
He's a writer's editor that you have to love. I do.
So, the grad school application is 98 percent done. By tomorrow, it will be ready for the mail. Cross the fingers, say a prayer, whatever, but the Iowa Writer's Workshop is the only thing in my life I've ever really held my breath over.
The silver lining of it was that that the 50 pages of the book that no longer exist will be fun to write again because I now have a better idea of how Jake, the narrator, is and can be true to his character.
Maybe my computer needs to crash more often.
Or not. That's just dumb.
As far as the most important info -- the book and anything for my grad school application -- I got some of it back.
There's a hero in this tale. His name is Matt Meenan, otherwise known as the valiant copy editor who helped with A Constant Suicide without ever having met me. The first time we met was at the release party.
So, this tank manual editor not only had the documents I emailed him, but also edited them quickly enough that I was able to spend a Saturday fixing all of the necessary corrections. Honestly, he's one of those great editors that not only spots where a comma should go, but also where dates and numbers don't match up.
He's a writer's editor that you have to love. I do.
So, the grad school application is 98 percent done. By tomorrow, it will be ready for the mail. Cross the fingers, say a prayer, whatever, but the Iowa Writer's Workshop is the only thing in my life I've ever really held my breath over.
The silver lining of it was that that the 50 pages of the book that no longer exist will be fun to write again because I now have a better idea of how Jake, the narrator, is and can be true to his character.
Maybe my computer needs to crash more often.
Or not. That's just dumb.
11.27.2007
Goodbye friend...
My laptop is dead.
Out of nowhere, my 5-month-old computer completely crapped out on me. The hard drive is fried. In its silent, yet spectacular breakdown, it took everything with it.
Some 70 pages of the next novel.
My grad school application.
All short stories. All programs. All music. All photos.
Lesson of the day -- BACK UP EVERYTHING. I didn't. That's why I'm dumb.
At least it's under warranty.
Once I get it back, I'll start over with the novel. Maybe it was God's way of telling me it wasn't that good to begin with.
Out of nowhere, my 5-month-old computer completely crapped out on me. The hard drive is fried. In its silent, yet spectacular breakdown, it took everything with it.
Some 70 pages of the next novel.
My grad school application.
All short stories. All programs. All music. All photos.
Lesson of the day -- BACK UP EVERYTHING. I didn't. That's why I'm dumb.
At least it's under warranty.
Once I get it back, I'll start over with the novel. Maybe it was God's way of telling me it wasn't that good to begin with.
11.21.2007
11.14.2007
Chapter one of the new novel.
So, here it is, the first sneak peek of my latest novel project. While I'd love to say I'm going to meet the 50,000-word goal this month, I doubt it'll happen. But here's the rough draft of the first chapter. I've got a lot more done than this, but this is what I'm about to throw out there for public criticism.
Please leave your feedback -- as little or as much as you'd like -- about anything. Don't worry about punctuation and typos because I've only re-read it once.
Sunday evening.
Camper check-in.
Objective: Meet & Greet
Kids are the best drug dealers I know.
I’m not just saying that to be funny. It’s true. The likelihood of getting shot or ripped off by a ten-year-old is pretty low. You don’t have to worry about double-cut blow or a bag of weed that’s all stems and seeds. They always carry the best stuff. Prescription strength. And the cost is always right.
That’s why I’m glad that I am here.
I’m standing at the front gates, waving in car after minivan after SUV. Each passing one stirs up dust from the gravel path, creating a luminous haze in the summer sun. Me in my standard red polo shirt and cargo shorts, my arm waves at my side. After hours of welcomes, I don’t hold my arm as high as when the caravan began. A dust film has developed on my sunglasses. I dread the thought of tan lines.
The walkie-talkie on my belt is silent.
Each car unloads a small amount of cargo for one passenger. Duffle bag, sleeping bag, pillow. Everything on the list and not much else. As if on cue, parents haul their kids’ things over to a folding table in front of the main hall.
I watch them as they walk over, looking for the signs that mean anything. A sniffle or a bad cough. Glazed over eyes. A twitchy walk. Jerking heads. A scowl. A cast on an arm. Pale. Too many freckles.
It all means something to me, the way it means something to a parent, the way it means something to a physician.
Sara—at least that’s what I think her name is—greets everyone with a row of perfectly straight white teeth wrapped around her tanned face. Her smile downsizes her enthusiasm.
“Welcome to Camp Wazeecha, where we build strong kids with strong character through strong values,” she says over and over throughout the day. She’s almost chirping.
Every other Sunday, she puts on the same show as one pack of campers leaves and another comes in. The annoying thing is that, for her, it’s not a show. She actually believes the camp motto. It only grows worse when the curtain goes up.
I’d get rid of her if she weren’t so trusting.
The parents stand in front of Sara, or whatever, and I’m watching from a distance, still waving, still doing my best to smile in the thickening cloud of dust. They talk, Sara handing the camper a lanyard and white plastic nametag she pulls from a shoebox filled with white envelopes. That box doesn’t concern me. It’s the one next to her on the ground that interests me the most.
In hordes of unrecognizable faces, I remember the latest of all the check-ins from last year. He’s a scrawny, little mutt of a kid, the weight of his red duffle bag sways him to one side as he walks up to the table. I vaguely recall any details of him, any resemblance of himself changing after a year. Puberty, weight gain, muscle growth. It changes them all you’d think you’d never met any of them.
But I remember that red duffle bag.
Right inner side pouch. A silent small-toothed zipper. Not like the rough one on the outside. This kid was an entrepreneur of amateur sorts. He was smart last year and I feared he’d be too smart this year. That’s what I remember of him, but not his name.
This kid’s mom pulls a large zippered plastic bag from her oversized Gucci knockoff purse and hands it to Sara, if that’s her name. Our grinning hostess accepts it, scribbles on a clipboard, checks the plastic bag for appropriate markings, and drops it in the box.
She smiles to the parents. She stands. She shakes their hands. It’s the silent equivalent of telling the parents to leave.
Your child will have lots of fun here, that handshake says.
Thanks for trusting us with your child.
Your child is safe here.
Most parents hug their kids goodbye. Some give them kisses as these pre-teens squirm away in embarrassment. Almost everyone gets some kind of last-minute physical touch before mom and dad drive off in the van, waving back at their kid like overzealous beauty queen contestants.
Not this kid. After the handshake with Sara, mom and dad turn away and get into their SUV. They drive away, barely even noticing me as they come within inches of running over my feet. The dust clears and I see the kid picking up his bag, pillow and sleeping bag. He turns and walks toward the cabins, knowing exactly where he’s staying. He’s been here before and knows everything here. The places, the regiment, the rules.
The look on his face says he doesn’t want to be here. It also says it’s better than being at home.
My attention returns the box, now cluttered with bags full of brown bottles, blister packs, eye droppers, whatever. My trick-or-treating goodies.
It’s not as full as last weeks batch of campers. That’s a good thing considering last week. As far as I know, none of the parents are any the wiser to what happened. The kids know better than to say anything.
The flow of vehicles stops.
One last group of parents is checking in their daughter as I walk away from my post at the gate. The personal, cheery greetings are done. I let my arm fall limp at my side. This is the last group of campers for the season and I won’t have to stand out in front of the gate for another nine months.
Sara—maybe—waves me over to the table. I walk past the older kids lying in the grass catching up from last summer, giving each other those hugs teenagers do, the one’s where they barely touch. The pre-teens are chasing each other in the grass between the cabins and the bathrooms, burning off saved up energy from hours spent in cars.
There are acres for them to run around, climb trees, break a leg, get lost. Right now, they’re all a calmer form of themselves that will begin around noon tomorrow. It’s part of the clockwork and routine that happens every year, every week.
“This is David and Charlotte Dalton,” Sandra—the name on her nametag—says, standing up next to them. “And this is their daughter, Anna.”
The girl looks me right in the eyes. Somehow, I remember her.
Even if she wasn’t the last camper, she would have stuck out. While everyone else is wearing shorts and T-shirts, Anna’s dressed for a day at the mall, not the first day of summer camp. A short blue skirt hugs her waist and thighs, a pink button-up shirt is buttoned down to show the lacy fringe of a bra underneath.
Only about fifteen years old. Looking like she’s twenty-five.
“Anna, welcome back to Camp Wazeecha,” I say, reaching to shake her hand, a greased grin spread across my face.
David reaches in and grabs my hand before Anna can get a hold of it. He squeezes firmly. He’s obviously tense about something. He looks down at the nametag on my chest. The shine off the top of his bald head catches the setting sun and throws it in my eyes. He loosens his grip. I pull my hand back.
“So you’re the Jake we’ve heard so much about,” he says.
There’s so many ways to take that comment.
I smile and say, “Only good things, I hope.”
And the tension is broken with a laugh. His, not mine. Anna shifts her foot in the dirt and begins to draw something with her toe.
And Charlotte says, “We just wanted to meet you. Anna couldn’t stop talking about you.”
Again a little laugh. Mine, not hers. Somehow, I still can’t think of what they’re talking about.
Not laughing, David is serious. “We were hoping that this summer you could keep Anna off of the horses. After what, um, happened last year, we’d like to prevent another…uh…incident.”
Still, I had no clue what they were talking about.
Looking up from her dirt doodle , Anna shifts her eyes towards me. I still don’t fully remember her, but I remember her eyes. She’s looking at me the same as last summer. Those big eyes.
And I say, “No problem, sir. Lots of kids don’t like horseback riding. There’s plenty of other things here at Camp Wazeecha to make sure Anna has too much fun to handle.”
I remembered her plain brown eyes. I had watched tears stream out of them for hours. And it had nothing to do with the horses. She’s filled out since then. She looks five years older, not a year.
“Excellent,” David says, shaking my hand again, gripping it even harder. He pulls himself closer, his head side-by-side to mine.
He whispers in my ear, “We might be back sometime in the middle to check up, if you know what I mean.” He pushes away from me and smiles. A mean smile.
He looked at Anna. He’s happy now. She’d drawn her initials in the dirt.
“Well, we’re off princess. You’ll be in good hands.”
They hug. Anna squirms. They kiss. She pulls back. Her parents leave in their van, honking their horn and waving like idiots.
Anna stands next to me. Her foot swishes in the dirt. She erases her initials as we both watch taillights glow in the dust. I look down at her. She must be about fifteen or so.
“They didn’t want me to come, but I begged them to let me,” she says. Her voice is quiet, a softer version of what it should be. This bothers me, and I don’t like it.
I give her a soft pat on the back. She doesn’t budge. “Go put your stuff in the bunks. We’re all meeting in the main hall in an hour.”
She walks away, pulling her rolling suitcase behind her. The wheels shake the case as they bounce over every pebble on the path, every bump in the grass.
Sandra begins cleaning up the table. The nametag box is empty. She leaves the clipboard and other box for me, just as I told her to do at the beginning of the summer. Just as she has for the last three months.
“Don’t do anything too extreme to start with,” she says, the chirp gone from her voice. “I’m going to start gathering everyone in the main hall. Will you be ready in ten minutes?”
I look over the checklist on the clipboard. I smile.
“No rush. Let’s make it twenty.”
“Fine, but remember I still need to talk to you,” she says.
“Yeah, sure. We can talk afterwards,” I say not looking up from my clipboard.
She walks away, leaving me with the box. A box that once held fresh oranges now holds
Ziploc bags filled with bottles, vials, blister packs. Medicine for the kids. Medication for whatever ails me, whether self-diagnosed or not. It’s the last week of summer vacation for everyone, including me.
It’s going to be a good session.
Please leave your feedback -- as little or as much as you'd like -- about anything. Don't worry about punctuation and typos because I've only re-read it once.
Sunday evening.
Camper check-in.
Objective: Meet & Greet
Kids are the best drug dealers I know.
I’m not just saying that to be funny. It’s true. The likelihood of getting shot or ripped off by a ten-year-old is pretty low. You don’t have to worry about double-cut blow or a bag of weed that’s all stems and seeds. They always carry the best stuff. Prescription strength. And the cost is always right.
That’s why I’m glad that I am here.
I’m standing at the front gates, waving in car after minivan after SUV. Each passing one stirs up dust from the gravel path, creating a luminous haze in the summer sun. Me in my standard red polo shirt and cargo shorts, my arm waves at my side. After hours of welcomes, I don’t hold my arm as high as when the caravan began. A dust film has developed on my sunglasses. I dread the thought of tan lines.
The walkie-talkie on my belt is silent.
Each car unloads a small amount of cargo for one passenger. Duffle bag, sleeping bag, pillow. Everything on the list and not much else. As if on cue, parents haul their kids’ things over to a folding table in front of the main hall.
I watch them as they walk over, looking for the signs that mean anything. A sniffle or a bad cough. Glazed over eyes. A twitchy walk. Jerking heads. A scowl. A cast on an arm. Pale. Too many freckles.
It all means something to me, the way it means something to a parent, the way it means something to a physician.
Sara—at least that’s what I think her name is—greets everyone with a row of perfectly straight white teeth wrapped around her tanned face. Her smile downsizes her enthusiasm.
“Welcome to Camp Wazeecha, where we build strong kids with strong character through strong values,” she says over and over throughout the day. She’s almost chirping.
Every other Sunday, she puts on the same show as one pack of campers leaves and another comes in. The annoying thing is that, for her, it’s not a show. She actually believes the camp motto. It only grows worse when the curtain goes up.
I’d get rid of her if she weren’t so trusting.
The parents stand in front of Sara, or whatever, and I’m watching from a distance, still waving, still doing my best to smile in the thickening cloud of dust. They talk, Sara handing the camper a lanyard and white plastic nametag she pulls from a shoebox filled with white envelopes. That box doesn’t concern me. It’s the one next to her on the ground that interests me the most.
In hordes of unrecognizable faces, I remember the latest of all the check-ins from last year. He’s a scrawny, little mutt of a kid, the weight of his red duffle bag sways him to one side as he walks up to the table. I vaguely recall any details of him, any resemblance of himself changing after a year. Puberty, weight gain, muscle growth. It changes them all you’d think you’d never met any of them.
But I remember that red duffle bag.
Right inner side pouch. A silent small-toothed zipper. Not like the rough one on the outside. This kid was an entrepreneur of amateur sorts. He was smart last year and I feared he’d be too smart this year. That’s what I remember of him, but not his name.
This kid’s mom pulls a large zippered plastic bag from her oversized Gucci knockoff purse and hands it to Sara, if that’s her name. Our grinning hostess accepts it, scribbles on a clipboard, checks the plastic bag for appropriate markings, and drops it in the box.
She smiles to the parents. She stands. She shakes their hands. It’s the silent equivalent of telling the parents to leave.
Your child will have lots of fun here, that handshake says.
Thanks for trusting us with your child.
Your child is safe here.
Most parents hug their kids goodbye. Some give them kisses as these pre-teens squirm away in embarrassment. Almost everyone gets some kind of last-minute physical touch before mom and dad drive off in the van, waving back at their kid like overzealous beauty queen contestants.
Not this kid. After the handshake with Sara, mom and dad turn away and get into their SUV. They drive away, barely even noticing me as they come within inches of running over my feet. The dust clears and I see the kid picking up his bag, pillow and sleeping bag. He turns and walks toward the cabins, knowing exactly where he’s staying. He’s been here before and knows everything here. The places, the regiment, the rules.
The look on his face says he doesn’t want to be here. It also says it’s better than being at home.
My attention returns the box, now cluttered with bags full of brown bottles, blister packs, eye droppers, whatever. My trick-or-treating goodies.
It’s not as full as last weeks batch of campers. That’s a good thing considering last week. As far as I know, none of the parents are any the wiser to what happened. The kids know better than to say anything.
The flow of vehicles stops.
One last group of parents is checking in their daughter as I walk away from my post at the gate. The personal, cheery greetings are done. I let my arm fall limp at my side. This is the last group of campers for the season and I won’t have to stand out in front of the gate for another nine months.
Sara—maybe—waves me over to the table. I walk past the older kids lying in the grass catching up from last summer, giving each other those hugs teenagers do, the one’s where they barely touch. The pre-teens are chasing each other in the grass between the cabins and the bathrooms, burning off saved up energy from hours spent in cars.
There are acres for them to run around, climb trees, break a leg, get lost. Right now, they’re all a calmer form of themselves that will begin around noon tomorrow. It’s part of the clockwork and routine that happens every year, every week.
“This is David and Charlotte Dalton,” Sandra—the name on her nametag—says, standing up next to them. “And this is their daughter, Anna.”
The girl looks me right in the eyes. Somehow, I remember her.
Even if she wasn’t the last camper, she would have stuck out. While everyone else is wearing shorts and T-shirts, Anna’s dressed for a day at the mall, not the first day of summer camp. A short blue skirt hugs her waist and thighs, a pink button-up shirt is buttoned down to show the lacy fringe of a bra underneath.
Only about fifteen years old. Looking like she’s twenty-five.
“Anna, welcome back to Camp Wazeecha,” I say, reaching to shake her hand, a greased grin spread across my face.
David reaches in and grabs my hand before Anna can get a hold of it. He squeezes firmly. He’s obviously tense about something. He looks down at the nametag on my chest. The shine off the top of his bald head catches the setting sun and throws it in my eyes. He loosens his grip. I pull my hand back.
“So you’re the Jake we’ve heard so much about,” he says.
There’s so many ways to take that comment.
I smile and say, “Only good things, I hope.”
And the tension is broken with a laugh. His, not mine. Anna shifts her foot in the dirt and begins to draw something with her toe.
And Charlotte says, “We just wanted to meet you. Anna couldn’t stop talking about you.”
Again a little laugh. Mine, not hers. Somehow, I still can’t think of what they’re talking about.
Not laughing, David is serious. “We were hoping that this summer you could keep Anna off of the horses. After what, um, happened last year, we’d like to prevent another…uh…incident.”
Still, I had no clue what they were talking about.
Looking up from her dirt doodle , Anna shifts her eyes towards me. I still don’t fully remember her, but I remember her eyes. She’s looking at me the same as last summer. Those big eyes.
And I say, “No problem, sir. Lots of kids don’t like horseback riding. There’s plenty of other things here at Camp Wazeecha to make sure Anna has too much fun to handle.”
I remembered her plain brown eyes. I had watched tears stream out of them for hours. And it had nothing to do with the horses. She’s filled out since then. She looks five years older, not a year.
“Excellent,” David says, shaking my hand again, gripping it even harder. He pulls himself closer, his head side-by-side to mine.
He whispers in my ear, “We might be back sometime in the middle to check up, if you know what I mean.” He pushes away from me and smiles. A mean smile.
He looked at Anna. He’s happy now. She’d drawn her initials in the dirt.
“Well, we’re off princess. You’ll be in good hands.”
They hug. Anna squirms. They kiss. She pulls back. Her parents leave in their van, honking their horn and waving like idiots.
Anna stands next to me. Her foot swishes in the dirt. She erases her initials as we both watch taillights glow in the dust. I look down at her. She must be about fifteen or so.
“They didn’t want me to come, but I begged them to let me,” she says. Her voice is quiet, a softer version of what it should be. This bothers me, and I don’t like it.
I give her a soft pat on the back. She doesn’t budge. “Go put your stuff in the bunks. We’re all meeting in the main hall in an hour.”
She walks away, pulling her rolling suitcase behind her. The wheels shake the case as they bounce over every pebble on the path, every bump in the grass.
Sandra begins cleaning up the table. The nametag box is empty. She leaves the clipboard and other box for me, just as I told her to do at the beginning of the summer. Just as she has for the last three months.
“Don’t do anything too extreme to start with,” she says, the chirp gone from her voice. “I’m going to start gathering everyone in the main hall. Will you be ready in ten minutes?”
I look over the checklist on the clipboard. I smile.
“No rush. Let’s make it twenty.”
“Fine, but remember I still need to talk to you,” she says.
“Yeah, sure. We can talk afterwards,” I say not looking up from my clipboard.
She walks away, leaving me with the box. A box that once held fresh oranges now holds
Ziploc bags filled with bottles, vials, blister packs. Medicine for the kids. Medication for whatever ails me, whether self-diagnosed or not. It’s the last week of summer vacation for everyone, including me.
It’s going to be a good session.
11.06.2007
Tidbits from the latest book
Here are bits and pieces from the novel I'm working on right now. It doesn't have a title, but at least it has a beginning.
- I say we set fire to it all. Let everything burn. Let's start something new from the ashes. Let destruction give birth. Because if you do everything and feel nothing, you might as well put a match to it all and worship what's left.
- Love is the most abundant emotion out there, but hate makes the biggest difference. It's marks are felt everywhere. A gunshot wound. A war-torn country. Famine. Plagues. Summer camp.
- "A parent's job is to make their kid's life better, not worse." The narrator.
- It's a chance to be a kid forever. Fifteen never has to end. This is my Neverland.
- In my attempt to keep things simple, everything became complex.
- It's call a crush for a reason.
- "I didn't want my dad to be my first." A 14-year-old camper.
- Wipe clean my memory of all of this. Enter not into my delirium, but into my psychosis. End my worries. End it all. But don't end me.
- I say we set fire to it all. Let everything burn. Let's start something new from the ashes. Let destruction give birth. Because if you do everything and feel nothing, you might as well put a match to it all and worship what's left.
- Love is the most abundant emotion out there, but hate makes the biggest difference. It's marks are felt everywhere. A gunshot wound. A war-torn country. Famine. Plagues. Summer camp.
- "A parent's job is to make their kid's life better, not worse." The narrator.
- It's a chance to be a kid forever. Fifteen never has to end. This is my Neverland.
- In my attempt to keep things simple, everything became complex.
- It's call a crush for a reason.
- "I didn't want my dad to be my first." A 14-year-old camper.
- Wipe clean my memory of all of this. Enter not into my delirium, but into my psychosis. End my worries. End it all. But don't end me.
11.01.2007
Saturday
Book signing at Borders in Davenport.
2 p.m.
Sure to be the party of the year.
Whatever.
Got nothing.
2 p.m.
Sure to be the party of the year.
Whatever.
Got nothing.
10.29.2007
10.21.2007
One novel, one month
November has 30 days in it, so if someone was dumb enough to write a 50,000 word novel in that month, it'd be an average of 1666.666666667 words a day.
And if you're reading this you know how dumb I am. That's right kiddies, November is National Novel Writing Month. A year ago I had this crazy idea that somehow I could write something coherent at a novel's length. A Constant Suicide ended up being about 75,000 words.
So why do it again? Because I love to torture myself.
Just like last year, I've already cheated. I put down about 8,000 words so far in my next book, which still remains unnamed. I've got a lot of research done and scribblings that should be the major scenes in the book. But to be completely fair, I'll have to get at least 50,000 more words that what I started with.
Again I'll post some of the first chapters when they look fairly decent.
Again I'll spend weekends and nights locked inside my apartment writing away.
Again I'll let fictional characters become their own and act accordingly.
Sounds simple, right? No. I've got a bachelor party to go to in the Twin Cities, a wedding in Chicago, moving apartments, skating, two jobs, volunteering, grad school applications and other things to attend to during the month.
Oh, this endeavor will be such sweet, sweet torture. That basically makes me a literary masochist. Whatever. I've done it before and I'll do it again.
Then I have the fun of re-writes to look forward to, which are their own little batch of terror anyway.
And if you're reading this you know how dumb I am. That's right kiddies, November is National Novel Writing Month. A year ago I had this crazy idea that somehow I could write something coherent at a novel's length. A Constant Suicide ended up being about 75,000 words.
So why do it again? Because I love to torture myself.
Just like last year, I've already cheated. I put down about 8,000 words so far in my next book, which still remains unnamed. I've got a lot of research done and scribblings that should be the major scenes in the book. But to be completely fair, I'll have to get at least 50,000 more words that what I started with.
Again I'll post some of the first chapters when they look fairly decent.
Again I'll spend weekends and nights locked inside my apartment writing away.
Again I'll let fictional characters become their own and act accordingly.
Sounds simple, right? No. I've got a bachelor party to go to in the Twin Cities, a wedding in Chicago, moving apartments, skating, two jobs, volunteering, grad school applications and other things to attend to during the month.
Oh, this endeavor will be such sweet, sweet torture. That basically makes me a literary masochist. Whatever. I've done it before and I'll do it again.
Then I have the fun of re-writes to look forward to, which are their own little batch of terror anyway.
9.28.2007
A column I wrote...
Here's something I wrote for work to fill space, so it'll do the same thing here.
"Some of the best people I know aren't old enough to vote.
And sometimes I wish they could grasp that.
You'll probably never hear about them. They won't show up in the sports pages for football victories or in the scholastic achievements listings.
The whole point of it is to keep them out of the obituaries.
So, I'll tell you about the kids I know through volunteering. The ones whose acts of bravery, kindness, fortitude and all-around selflessness go unwritten about every day would melt your heart.
For most of them, I don't know what they're going home to. Some I know have great parents, while others have none at all.
The ones with the bruises, not from skateboarding, biking or rollerblading.
The ones who sleep under a bridge but still go to school.
These are the kids who should -- by several theories of psychology and sociology -- be the ones out committing crimes because some are neglected by their parents to the point it's crippling. They should be the people I write about every day as a crime reporter.
But not these kids.
The ones who slap me in the face with an ice cream sandwich, and just to gross them out, I'll pick it off the floor we play basketball on and shove the melting ice cream in my mouth.
They'll groan in disgust and laugh hysterically because, for a second, they've forgotten about everything bad in their lives. That's my job. Being a surrogate big brother has never been so much fun.
There's a certain kid that comes to mind. She's so tirelessly concerned about others' problems that she forgets to tend to herself, because someone has made her feel worthless.
It's so depressing it breaks my heart.
And there are so many cases like hers in the Quad-Cities. Kids that could just use a hug or some kind of affirmation of love from their parents or some adult who cares.
It just seems so simple to me, but still I hear it all the time: "What do you know? You're not a parent."
No, I'm not -- at least in the strict sense of the word. What started as volunteering at a skate park ended up to be one of the best and worst things I've ever done.
Best, because of how the kids give my life a new dimension filled with laughter, hope and empathy.
Worst, because I can only do so much.
But, I'm no one special. I'm just some guy with spare time. There are plenty of people out there doing even more with kids far worse off than mine.
The problem is there are never enough willing adults to tell a kid they're worth their time."
"Some of the best people I know aren't old enough to vote.
And sometimes I wish they could grasp that.
You'll probably never hear about them. They won't show up in the sports pages for football victories or in the scholastic achievements listings.
The whole point of it is to keep them out of the obituaries.
So, I'll tell you about the kids I know through volunteering. The ones whose acts of bravery, kindness, fortitude and all-around selflessness go unwritten about every day would melt your heart.
For most of them, I don't know what they're going home to. Some I know have great parents, while others have none at all.
The ones with the bruises, not from skateboarding, biking or rollerblading.
The ones who sleep under a bridge but still go to school.
These are the kids who should -- by several theories of psychology and sociology -- be the ones out committing crimes because some are neglected by their parents to the point it's crippling. They should be the people I write about every day as a crime reporter.
But not these kids.
The ones who slap me in the face with an ice cream sandwich, and just to gross them out, I'll pick it off the floor we play basketball on and shove the melting ice cream in my mouth.
They'll groan in disgust and laugh hysterically because, for a second, they've forgotten about everything bad in their lives. That's my job. Being a surrogate big brother has never been so much fun.
There's a certain kid that comes to mind. She's so tirelessly concerned about others' problems that she forgets to tend to herself, because someone has made her feel worthless.
It's so depressing it breaks my heart.
And there are so many cases like hers in the Quad-Cities. Kids that could just use a hug or some kind of affirmation of love from their parents or some adult who cares.
It just seems so simple to me, but still I hear it all the time: "What do you know? You're not a parent."
No, I'm not -- at least in the strict sense of the word. What started as volunteering at a skate park ended up to be one of the best and worst things I've ever done.
Best, because of how the kids give my life a new dimension filled with laughter, hope and empathy.
Worst, because I can only do so much.
But, I'm no one special. I'm just some guy with spare time. There are plenty of people out there doing even more with kids far worse off than mine.
The problem is there are never enough willing adults to tell a kid they're worth their time."
9.17.2007
Plans never stop changing...
When I was growing up, I wanted to be a cowboy, among other things. Plans didn't work out.
Then, around high school graduation time, it was a cop. Then it was a journalist. At least I hit the mark somewhere close, somewhere down the line.
Now, it's a fiction writer, which--depending on who's standards you use -- I am one.
And next year, plans are hopefully changing again. Like writing a book, I've always talked about a lot of things. And usually it was nothing more than just flapping jaws because I'd never do anything to move from here to anywhere close to there.
But, right now I'm in the middle of shooting for my next goal -- become a college professor and teach writing.
And why shoot low? I'm going to one one of the thousands of applicants applying to the Iowa Writer's Workshop. The legendary writer's program is held at the University of Iowa, which would make me a Hawkeye.
Think of it like Harvard Law for writers. It's like applying for a standard maters program (This one would be a Masters in Fine Arts), but the key points are the writing samples you send in. So, I'm currently working on three short stories to send them -- which I use an excuse, among many, for not updating the blog.
I'll apply with best intentions, but keeping in mind getting in would be a long shot, but also a huge honor. And if I do get in, man are we all partying up a storm.
So, again, please wish me luck on this. I think I'll need it.
Then, around high school graduation time, it was a cop. Then it was a journalist. At least I hit the mark somewhere close, somewhere down the line.
Now, it's a fiction writer, which--depending on who's standards you use -- I am one.
And next year, plans are hopefully changing again. Like writing a book, I've always talked about a lot of things. And usually it was nothing more than just flapping jaws because I'd never do anything to move from here to anywhere close to there.
But, right now I'm in the middle of shooting for my next goal -- become a college professor and teach writing.
And why shoot low? I'm going to one one of the thousands of applicants applying to the Iowa Writer's Workshop. The legendary writer's program is held at the University of Iowa, which would make me a Hawkeye.
Think of it like Harvard Law for writers. It's like applying for a standard maters program (This one would be a Masters in Fine Arts), but the key points are the writing samples you send in. So, I'm currently working on three short stories to send them -- which I use an excuse, among many, for not updating the blog.
I'll apply with best intentions, but keeping in mind getting in would be a long shot, but also a huge honor. And if I do get in, man are we all partying up a storm.
So, again, please wish me luck on this. I think I'll need it.
8.29.2007
Researching fiction...
While I'm still hashing it out in my head, on spare bits of notebook paper and about 8,000 words on my laptop, I'm not ready to release what my next book is about. I'm more timid this time around because I want to sell it to a publisher.
But, I will share some random fun facts I have learned in the process to researching topics in my next book:
- Five percent of the world's population has ADHD and about three times as many people believe the that mental disorder was made-up to sell medication.
- Various summer camps across the country have daily-updated photo Web sites so "helicopter" parents can monitor their children. Some cases include parents checking photos with a magnifying glass to inspect their child for bug bites.
- In Japan, it is common for teenagers and younger girls to prostitute themselves for expensive clothing and other things. All this is done on their own, without a pimp. There are hundreds of documented cases in the United States and Canada.
- A male Beta, otherwise known as the Japanese Fighting Fish, will not fight to the death with another male Beta in its natural habitat because the other will generally escape before any wounds become fatal. Only when the escape route is eliminated, will one fish kill another.
But, I will share some random fun facts I have learned in the process to researching topics in my next book:
- Five percent of the world's population has ADHD and about three times as many people believe the that mental disorder was made-up to sell medication.
- Various summer camps across the country have daily-updated photo Web sites so "helicopter" parents can monitor their children. Some cases include parents checking photos with a magnifying glass to inspect their child for bug bites.
- In Japan, it is common for teenagers and younger girls to prostitute themselves for expensive clothing and other things. All this is done on their own, without a pimp. There are hundreds of documented cases in the United States and Canada.
- A male Beta, otherwise known as the Japanese Fighting Fish, will not fight to the death with another male Beta in its natural habitat because the other will generally escape before any wounds become fatal. Only when the escape route is eliminated, will one fish kill another.
8.27.2007
Anti-drug ad, circa 1987
When we're little, we're always asked what we want to be when we grow up. I've been thinking about that a lot lately, so that explains why the following is in my head.
Anytime someone asks it now, all I can recall is that anti-drug campaign commercial of a cop chasing a guy in slow motion. The voiceover says, "No one ever says, 'I want to be a junkie when I grow up.'"
I'm wondering if someone has by now. Because there has to be at least one person that has wanted to get messed up all of the time, not have a job and basically do nefarious deeds for small amounts of money to get a rock or two. One person, in the history of mankind, had to at least think that sounded like a life-calling.
One person, out of all the junkies, crackheads, stoners, wastoids, crankers, speeders and cookers, had to choose it for themselves. Sure, everyone about to be sentenced for a crime to fuel that addiction says how bad they couldn't control it and it all started with their first joint sophomore year of high school after football tryouts.
Then, before they know it, they're drinking their mom's perfume for the buzz. (Well, kids, try hand sanitizer--it's cheaper.) Then it's pissing themselves in church from sheets of blotter acid put on the Communion. Before you know it, Johnny's a junkie, trying out for Partner for a Drug-Free America commercials.
But, he wanted to be a doctor when he grew up. It was his friend--who's now a lawyer--that wanted to be the junkie.
Anyway, the moral of the story is: Sorry, Partnership for a Drug-Free America.
Someone has said, "I want to be a junkie when I grow up."
Anytime someone asks it now, all I can recall is that anti-drug campaign commercial of a cop chasing a guy in slow motion. The voiceover says, "No one ever says, 'I want to be a junkie when I grow up.'"
I'm wondering if someone has by now. Because there has to be at least one person that has wanted to get messed up all of the time, not have a job and basically do nefarious deeds for small amounts of money to get a rock or two. One person, in the history of mankind, had to at least think that sounded like a life-calling.
One person, out of all the junkies, crackheads, stoners, wastoids, crankers, speeders and cookers, had to choose it for themselves. Sure, everyone about to be sentenced for a crime to fuel that addiction says how bad they couldn't control it and it all started with their first joint sophomore year of high school after football tryouts.
Then, before they know it, they're drinking their mom's perfume for the buzz. (Well, kids, try hand sanitizer--it's cheaper.) Then it's pissing themselves in church from sheets of blotter acid put on the Communion. Before you know it, Johnny's a junkie, trying out for Partner for a Drug-Free America commercials.
But, he wanted to be a doctor when he grew up. It was his friend--who's now a lawyer--that wanted to be the junkie.
Anyway, the moral of the story is: Sorry, Partnership for a Drug-Free America.
Someone has said, "I want to be a junkie when I grow up."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
