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.

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.

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.

A Public Service Announcement

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.

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.

Saturday

Book signing at Borders in Davenport.

2 p.m.

Sure to be the party of the year.

Whatever.

Got nothing.

Iowa River Rumble

It ruled. Enough said.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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."

Latest book

I've started my latest book, a fresh idea that came to me during my trip to New Orleans. Two other ideas I had before I liked, but couldn't seem to get past the first two chapters without agony. Not a good sign.

The latest project deals heavily with medicating kids. It's something I touched on in A Constant Suicide, but it's taking a new direction and a better take on it.

I've just started on it, putting about 2,000 words down. It isn't like last time where it was a race to meet a deadline, so sometimes words were just words. This time, I'm laying down and hinting at back story from the beginning, trying to create rich, multi-dimensional characters that don't really move too far geographically.

I've got my main character, my narrator. And I'm giving him his voice. The supporting characters are coming in slowly.

I hate to be vague in this, but this project's new and I want to make sure I know where I'm going with it before I say much about it. All I can say is that I'm really excited to write it and even more excited to do the research that will go into it.

My goal is to have it completed by the end of the year. At the pace I'm going, that should be no problem.

Again, any and all support is always appreciated.

Compliment?

In the land of the day-workers, I write for a newspaper. And being in the media -- the critics of elected officials, policies, etc. -- we're constantly open to scrutiny ourselves. It used to be under breath and through mail and phone lines, but since the advent of the Internet (Oh, this blessed device!), saying whatever you want anonymously has been everywhere.

Then, while a teenager began trial, a blog was born: QCMediaReview.com. For months anonymous "editors" blogged about what local media did right, wrong and anything else. And blogophiles came in hordes, discussing everything from national media to the hairstyles of local TV anchors.

And, after months of sporadic posts, the Media Reviewers have officially called it quits, leaving behind parting words for each local media outlet. One part about the Argus/Dispatch stuck out to me, obviously:

"Brian Krans seems competent..."

The word "seems" made me crack up laughing. It's like I can fake it for the paper and they haven't met me in real life. It's not a Pulitzer, but from constant media critics, I'll take it!

Eyes on Katrina's After-Wrath

Our van, which the kids dubbed, "Big Blue."


Big Blue took us to the lower Ninth Ward. This is where the storm hit first and where the water was last removed.



We worked yesterday painting a house for a guy named, "Cooler." His was one of many houses destroyed in the storm. Twelve kids from Iowa primed and painted two coats on the house in less than eight hours. The best part was painting over the brown lines across the house where the water level had stained it. Also removed was the spray-painted x that showed that a rescue team had searched the house. The X was above our heads because that's the lowest the boats could get when they searched it. Water covered nearly everything.

New Orleans

Numerous times over the last few weeks, I've heard people say, "I thought all of the work was done there. Why are you going there again?"

I'm sitting in the parking lot of a strip mall. A West Marine boating store is closed for the night. The shop next door is vacant. The traffic rolls past me as I type around 9 p.m. According to the watermark on the house down the street, less than two years ago where I sat was covered in water that would have been over my head.

The Starbucks behind me is, of course, open. Bourbon Street is alive again with all of its delicious debauchery. Tourists have returned to get their fill of plastic beads, and have their vanilla soy lattes that remind them of home.

I'm part of a 20 member group from Davenport who came to help the city that still suffers. It's my second time down to a city that was ravaged by some bitch named Katrina.

No, the work's not done. Yes, I know why I'm here -- and I'm pretty pissed off I haven't been able to do anything about it.

Today, me and the kids I know through SkateChurch toured the Ninth Ward, one of the worst places in the country, even before the storm. It's the area that was covered so well on CNN as people waved toward hovering helicopters, their fingers reaching from rooftops for help.

That was the aptly-named Flood Street then. Now, the Ninth Ward is a ghost town. Not a ghost town because there is NO ONE here, but because there are houses with spray-painted messages on them. One said, "This was once my home." Crime scene tape remains. Garbage and other refuse lines the streets.

Our job here -- as missionaries -- is to attack the problem on a spiritual and physical level. Any of you who have read A Constant Suicide might be able to tell I don't know where I stand in terms of faith, religion, or God. All I know is when you have 150 people touring the ravaged areas, and praying for help, my question I want to scream in the middle of prayer is:

AREN'T WE THE HELP? SHOULDN'T WE BE OUT DOING INSTEAD OF PRAYING?

My last trip here was with a group of city workers from Davenport. They worked all day, only to gripe about the fact they could only work 12 hours a day.

But tomorrow we start working. After going to "worship" three times in 36 hours, I'm about to stop asking God for help and working as his right hand. He needs as many hands as He can get, and not all of them need to be folded, asking for help when the need for it is right in front of our eyes.

Another short story...

Here's the third class assignment from the Monica Drake Intensive.

The whole objective of this assignment was to use lists in our writing, which you'll find a lot of in A Constant Suicide. I wrote an entirely different, longer story for this assignment. It sucked.

So, I took the standpoint of some lonely-hearted, occasionally finds some luck with the ladies guy. Here's what my make-believe character had to say.

Here it is. Please, leave some feedback.

Souvenirs
By Brian Krans

With each one I take something.

Emily. A piece of her bubble gum.

Tara. It was her sparkled pencil case.

I keep a souvenir every time. Something to remember each one by.

Jennifer. It was her scrunchie hair tie.

Erica. A charm from her bracelet.

Katie. A Scantron from her book bag.

First I met them at dances at other schools, water parks during the summer, the mall.

Julie. A plastic miniature wallaby from her keychain.

Now it's at the bar when I'm out with friends, airport hotels when I'm on business, the strip club when I'm feeling lonely.

Meredith. A collection of removed hairpins with a few strands of brown hair stuck between them.

We come together and depart.

Simone. A small perfume bottle in her purse.

Jenny. A matchbook from her hotel room.

I keep all this refuse in a cigar box. It's my little secret treasure chest, buried deep in my closet. They remind me each time was real. They make me yearn for the next one.

Amy. A subway token.

Beth. A Strokes CD from her car.

Christie. A business card she never gave me but I took afterward.

Heidi. Her chrome-plated cigarette lighter.

Tara. Her pink thong lace underwear.

These are my dolls. We dance our dance and then leave each other. We never forget each other, yet we'll never see each other again.

Tonight her name is Sophie.

Tonight I'm taking her wedding ring.

First homework assignment

Our first assignment for my new writing "class" was to write a 2,000-word short story taking part of our life and fictionalizing it. Here's the first draft, so leave some marks about it so I know where to go from there. (Remember, this is a work of fiction.)

The Watcher
By Brian Krans

At first I didn't think all of the blood could have been mine. Then I realized it must have been, I was the only one in the room.

The droplets formed a trail from the closed door to my chair. They crept up from there and followed up my chest as high up as I could see as I looked down with my chin dug into my chest. God knows where the trail began.

You would think I would have noticed how much I had been bleeding. The funny thing is when you're on the tail end of an all-night meth binge, you fail to remember certain things. It's worst when it's a bad batch.

You don't forget where you put your keys, but you forget you have a dog that hasn't been let out since yesterday morning. You have your dealer's number memorized, but you don't remember how to use the phone. You forget the importance of brushing your teeth, showering or even changing your soiled underwear.

You forget that the key to being the first officer on the scene is securing the perimeter and checking for the wounded. You forget what "the fatal funnel" means. You forget that Sherlock Holmes and James Bond are actually fictional characters.

What you don't forget is that the key ingredient to making methamphetamine is common household cold medicines.

Half way through your Police Officer Operations and Procedures final, you remember that you forgot to study. That was the whole reason I cooked up.

Somehow I'd remembered I had to work today.

So here I am, sitting in a chair in front of a sea of TVs inches in front of my face. The cameras are watching the customers. I'm watching the TVs. I'm not really watching the customers. The black casing on each set seems to be expanding and shrinking, in and out, a rhythmic breathing that makes me nauseous.

I couldn't feel my face or the trickling flow of blood from it. I was dumb to how much scratching I'd been doing on the top of my right leg, at the exact point where it met my ass. Now, hours from my last bump, the drug was wearing off and that one spot burned like hell as my jeans heated up between my inflamed skin and the leather chair.

My heartbeat was in my ears.

I should call Tony. He's swing by and drop off a few bumps to get me through the rest of my shift. Just enough. Not too much. It's not like I'm a junkie or anything. But I haven't seen him in months. Still, I remembered his number.

My mind returns to the blood. Maybe it started after I walked passed the registers. Maybe the flow began just as I entered the office. Maybe the little red dots started only where I could see them.

Still, I hadn't done anything to make it stop yet.

The first time I had done any sort of drugs was at David's birthday party. That must have been months ago because I remember it had been snowing then and everything was green now. That's where I met Tony and that's where I got to where I am now.

Six hours into the party and I could barely stand. I've always liked gin, but I've never trusted it. It was a big enough party where you knew almost everyone, but there was still plenty of people to meet. We all knew who Tony was before any of us met him. Somehow, I started talking to him near the keg.

He wasn't very discreet about where he got his money, and that's why David invited him. It was his birthday and he wanted to party. All I know was that I said, "You buy it and I'll try it."

The first bumps were in the bathroom off of the toilet tank. Three guys crammed into a shitty little college party house bathroom with a line of people outside, snorting tiny piles of what looked like crystalized cum. I still don't know why I said I'd do it.

Think of a night of drinking and the hangover that follows. The bad ones. The ones where you're tongue is swollen in the back of your throat and you shit black coal lumps. You're mind has been erased except for the little swishes of flashing memories.

Take that and you're still not close to where meth will get you.

The fern in Tony's apartment. The Rob Zombie CD cover. The one with "More Human Than Human" on it. Taking a bump off it.

Coming down just long enough to know it was time to go back up.

Going to the ATM. The little money I had was going for another gram. Money other college kids were spending on food and flat beer in cramped basement house parties I was forking out to keep the party going. The party that was Tony and I and whatever friends of his he knew were holding.

Sunlight stinging my eyes, washing out all details. Everything becomes two-dimensional, a flat copy over a flat copy. People on the streets were nothing more than walking magazine cut-outs.

Walking forever. Red Converse Chucks. Some blonde named Carla. Her doing a line off my stomach and puking on my dick. Daylight again. Night. Day. It doesn't matter after long enough. All that matters is getting more.

That's what I'm feeling right now. I've locked myself in a room with nothing more than my bleeding nose and my wall of TVs. A voice over the loudspeaker calls for "Nathan to the Paint Department. "

Nathan.That's not my name but I know they mean me. It's our store's code word for Loss Prevention. They need me to go to a certain department because an employee suspects someone of stealing. I'm not going.

What the hell could people steal in the Paint Department?

I lean back in my chair, grabbing the remote control board for the cameras and punch the numbers three and eight. The view on the third TV from the right in the fourth row moves with every wiggle of the joystick. I search around and find no one there.

I return the controls to my desk, never fully turning around in my chair.

Some noise comes from behind me. It sounds like a pair of sneakers whisking across the very top of the carpet. I've been hearing stuff like that all day, so I ignore it.

I look at my shirt again. The dots are getting darker. All of them. I think the bleeding's stopped on it's own, but I wasn't ready to call Tony. I hadn't seen him since our last time together.

No, this round of fun came from my own hands.

Now in my fourth semester of criminal justice classes, I was finally learning the good stuff about being a cop, which after working retail store security for sixth months and my latest pharmaceutical adventure, had me second-guessing my future career choice.

You can make methamphetamine at home and you can buy all of the ingredients right here in the store I was supposed to be watching.

Cold medicine. Anhydrous ammonia. Tubing. Rock salt. Matchbooks. Batteries. We had it all.

Yup, here at Fleet Farm we had everything you need to manufacture your own stimulants or blow up a federal building in Oklahoma City. And if you applied for a store credit card today, you could save up to fifteen percent on all your purchases. Thanks for shopping Fleet Farm.

Instead of going the traditional, and highly caustic route, I opted to invent my own way of isolating the pseudeoephedrine out of the cold medicine tablets.

Last night, right before I turned the key as the last person out of the store, I walked over to the Personal Aids Department and pocketed twelve boxes of Sudafed. I had no idea how much I needed, so I over-stole, cramming the boxes in my messenger bag.

No one checks to see if Loss Prevention is stealing. No one watches the watchers.

At home I mashed up the pills on the kitchen counter with a rolling pin. I took the mess of powder and loaded it into the coffee maker, running water through and getting a twelve-cup batch of pink slop. You could drink just that, but you better have an excuse for the emergency room doctor why you're puking blood.

Instead, I put the carafe into the fridge, light up a cigarette and go watch Family Guy in the living room. I should have been studying, but I figured with twelve hours before the final and a batch that was almost done, I had the time to relax.

Family Guy, King of the Hill and The Simpsons. All reruns, but it was just long enough for my pink liquid to turn into soapy white sludge. I pour it onto a cookie sheet and slide it into the oven, which is set at a mere one hundred and forty degrees. Just enough to dry it out.

After two episodes of That 70s Show, I'm set. I have about an ounce full of already-cut and powdery study fuel. I separate my first line in the pan.

I lean over.

I take a breath.

Exhale.

The powder careens up my right nostril, sending a rush of stimulants and pain to the back of my skull. My throat is clogged with the taste of kiddy aspirin and shit.

I cough.

I gag.

I nearly throw up, but I can't blink.

I am no longer tired whatsoever.

The rush was better than the first time. Better than with that first bump off the toilet tank at David's house. Better than any bump with Tony. And I had a whole plastic bag all to myself.

I sit back down on the couch with my bag in hand. A few more minutes of TV won't hurt. Neither will another line. Fuck, make it two.

Twelve hours later and I'm writing about things I didn't study. The advantages and disadvantages of a two-man squad assignment. Dispatching information. Standard booking procedures. It's all blank, except for the section on methamphetamine manufacturing.

The testing hour ends. And I bump again afterwards. The bag's gone by the time I go to work.

And here I am, staring at my wall of TVs, watching everything and nothing at the same time.

And I hear that noise again. Shoes on carpet. This time it's followed by a cough. I'm positive it wasn't mine. I turn slowly in my chair, wiggling my nose to loosen the crusted blood inside.

The first thing I notice on my desk was the open box of BBs. It was starting to come back.

I had, the whole time I was in my office, forgotten something pretty fucking important.

He sat in the chair a few feet from my desk. He'd been there the whole time I had. This kid, about nine or ten years old, continued to sit silently, slouched in the chair behind me.

Everything was clear, no longer copies over copies.

I had grabbed this kid in the parking lot after stealing a single BB out of the box. On camera, I watched him pop open the milk carton-like container, shake a single copper bead into his hand, look around six times -- three each direction -- and pop it in his shorts pocket.

Now I remember the only reason I didn't let the kid go was because I couldn't understand why he'd take just one stupid BB. That's why he's in my office, staring up at me like a little shit head. That's why I thought I didn't have to pay attention anymore. I met my one-shoplifter-a-day quota.

My only question was whether I called his parents yet. Or worse, the cops to come pick him up.

His feet barely touched the ground and his kicking feet made the whisking noise again. Outside his little, faint cough, he didn't say anything. Until now.

"Mister, what's wrong with your nose?"

Intensive Writing

Today I went back to class. This time around instead of studying journalism, criminal justice and whatever gen eds a university is making me take, it's about writing. Real writing.

The course is a six-week on-line course taught by author Monica Drake on The Cult, Chuck Palahniuk's fansite. Chuck -- my favorite author -- calls Monica his "nemesis" in the introduction to her first book, Clown Girl.

The course compares itself to a cheaper version of a Masters of Fine Arts degree without the neato piece of paper that cost $30,000.

The main reason I finally chose some formal education in fiction writing is because of the title, "Your life. Your fiction." Basically it's learning how to whore your own life out for fiction writing. God, that just sounds so familiar.

The course host says, "There's a story in our lives every day, in every pocket and backpack, in every empty bottle and scrap of paper, and we'll start looking."

Maybe it's dumb to learn how to do it after I've done it. Maybe. Since I'm already embarking on my second novel, using my own experiences to create a more realistic fictionalized world, I figured I'd give it a shot.

So, for the next six weeks I'll be getting class assignments, peer reviews, personalized guidance from Monica and all sorts of other goodies.

Yeah, 'cause I need one more thing to chain me to my computer.