San Fran...

I'm looking forward to seeing this image in person. Maybe not this exact scene, but something like it. And I like a good skyline and dusk scene as much as the next hetero guy, but this is not why I'll be moving to San Francisco by fall. 

I guess it's been too long since I've been excited by anything that has sustained itself for an extended period of time. Don't get me wrong, I love so many aspects of my life right now that the thought of leaving it makes me sick to my stomach. 

Things have seemed to reach a standstill in the Quad-Cities. Stagnant is maybe a better word. I have amazing friends and I always seem to find a way to keep myself interested, but there must be more. Too often I find myself doing the same things, falling into the same ruts. I crave a challenge. I crave adventure. 

So, by my 28th birthday, I will be living in San Francisco with my friend Les. I'll be selling my car and relying on my skates, a bike and public transportation to navigate the 13th most populous city in the country. Thirteen is my lucky number after all.

For the first few months, I might have to survive on money from the sale of my car, but two weeks without a job will drive me insane. I know I'll find something, but newspapers are out. Sadly, the old gray ladies are dying. Online reading — like you're doing now — is, sadly, where it is at. Oh well, I always have unsold copies of A Constant Suicide I can hock on the streets. 

For my creative writing, I couldn't ask for anything better. Taking myself out of my comforts of home, really seeing a city instead of what's in front of my windshield, should do wonders for my creativity. That, and the writing scene is AMAZING! I could very easily be applying to the three schools there with a Creative Writing MFA for fall 2010. Consider that done. 

A writer and a graphic designer from Iowa (which allows gay marriage) move to San Francisco. They both rollerblade. Sure, that doesn't sound gay at all. 

Grad schools...

So last week was the week of rejections. From everywhere.

Iowa said no. So did Colorado, Michigan, Brown and others. I got a story rejected from a literary magazine I really respect. There were some personal rejections too, but since this blog is supposed to be about my literary ventures, we'll stick to those.

The worst of all of them was Colorado — sending me an e-mail on Saturday night that not all of my letters of recommendation arrived, so they couldn't accept my application. On a Saturday night! That's when I get to find out someone couldn't manage to send a letter, even after promising me they would! Let's just say it killed the mood for what could have been a magically adventurous and much-needed night off.

Anyway, this is the week of acceptances. Baltimore wants me, which is great because of their non-traditional program. We could be a good mix together. "You're in" is such a good phrase to hear. (Proceed to scraping your mind out o' the gutter).

I also received a financial aid offer from San Francisco State. I have yet to get a final yes or no from them, but I figure since they went through the trouble of making sure I could afford to go there, there might be some interest in me.

In other news, the Buffalo Carp release party was last night. And, of course, since I had two pieces chosen for it and was a judge in the short fiction contest, I couldn't make it. One very talented writer said of the event, "I'm really proud of the Quad Cities tonight."

Really wish I could have been there. Anyway, but it, support it, love it.

Reading tonight...

Tonight I'm headlining the Out Loud Series at Quad City Arts. It's kind of a thrown-together idea of having less-known (like I'm that well known) people read their work before I get up and spew out some dribble. Normally reserved for poetry, this Out Loud is the first where fiction writers are the center of attention.

Scouring my brain for what to read, I opted to revisit some of my older notebooks to write something special for the occasion. What I chose was to go with was an amusing anecdote from my travels to New Orleans in 2007 with the youth group from SkateChurch. Nothing better than getting some guns pulled on you by a few cops while volunteering with kids.

The point of reading that story is to transition into a chapter from Freeze Tag on the Highway. While the chapter is actually number ten or so, it's the first bit of the book I wrote while inspired to start the project while in New Orleans.

The reading, instead of just some slopped-together short stories in random order, is more about the creative process and how my life inspires my fiction.

Hopefully, it won't blow up in my face. God, I pray they're not serving alcohol. It could get ugly if they do.

Thoughts...

So now that I'm some kind of business reporter, I've got my mind away from the area's collection of broken teeth, mangled flesh and monthly body count that is the crime beat.

Covering a country in a recession is all sorts of messed up. People are trying to "think green" by using less and trying to save money by spending less, but in turn are hurting an economy that was founded on people discarding everything and spending more than we could ever make. Our foolishness is catching up with us at a rapid rate, sending us clamoring for ideas on how to resolve it.

Frankly, I think we're screwed and deserve it. Don't get me wrong, I don't want anyone without a job, especially one they've given their soul and fingerprints to for the last few decades. I love those guys and girls. I was raised among them.

I'm just hoping that whatever comes of these economic predictions — if things are really as bad as people say they are — is that we all become smarter. Maybe with all of this we can see the ramifications of things we thought were easy choices.

Take for example the simple thing of food, something we all often look over as a means to end hunger. Honestly, I hope the recession kills fast food. Since we're all trying to save money (or at least us middle class and poor kids), I hope we all start thinking about where we are putting our money. Instead of jamming the pockets of the corporations that dole out bonuses in the millions and billions to their top people, can we support the companies that support charities with causes close to our ideals?

Do we stop feeding the McMachines, the Big Boxes and the rest of the places that give us sub-par living, as both the consumer and the employee? I have. I've sworn off fast food, vending machines and anything that gives me over-processed crap for eager money. I've finally started shopping, knowing when I'll get hungry. I stash my food and don't buy crap I might think for a second that I'd throw out.

I shop where my friends work, even if I have to go out of my way to go there. I shop the places in my neighborhoods. If someone gives me crap service, they won't see me again.

With limited money to spend as I try to dig myself out of debt — whether in preparation for grad school or the beautiful fact of not owing anyone any money — I'm more conscious of where I plug my bills. If they paid for a Super Bowl ad — chucking out $3 million for 30 seconds — I won't buy their stuff. (Although www.aconstantsuicide.com is a Go Daddy site, a company that has treated me very well in terms of service) If they advertise with our paper (thus paying my paycheck) they've got a better chance of seeing the money back. Sorry Wal-Mart, none for you.

There's tons of places I'd like to take all of this rambling, but I won't...this time.

We're all going to see hard times, in one fashion or another, if we're not there already.

We just need to think more. We need to be more deliberate with what we do.

After all, thinking is a good thing. I'm going to try it out for once.

"Freeze Tag on the Highway"

So, following a hiatus where I worked on my social life, exploring America and about half a dozen short stories, I'm back working on the novel. Since I have an agent in New York currently reading it, I think it's a good idea to have more pages available than what I've sent them.

It's not like I've been sitting on my couch watching movies all the time. I've been getting more active in SkateChurch again, traveling in a van to Texas, a week in Vegas, a trip home, a food column for ONE Magazine, hectic changes in my work and romantic life, becoming an editor at Buffalo Carp, and a whole bunch of other side projects. I've been a busy boy because, for some reason, I don't think there's such a thing as "too busy." Thanks mom.

Sadly, since beginning the latest novel — titled Freeze Tag on the Highway — I'm only about 150 pages into it. I know where I want to go, but since it's written in present tense, I really can't jump around like I did for A Constant Suicide.

There's also the fun task of applying to grad schools. In the end, I applied to about eight (I say "applied" when I still have one more to apply to). Yes, I only applied to ones that didn't require the GRE. The thought of taking a huge standardized test that will help judge if I can get into a Creative Writing program makes no sense. You would think the worse someone did on the test would better their chances. I know I'm wrong.

So, while waiting for either little- or big-letter day from each school come March, I'm on the novel train. There aren't any really big short story ideas burning through my head, so it's about time I get clipping along on that. I want it done before I go to grad school.

Then again, if I don't get into school, I'm going to pack up my crap and move to Portland and become a hermit for a while. Maybe somewhere warmer.

And here's a photo tour of what I've been up to:

Drunk blogging...

Okay, now that I have internet, here's what I wrote for Drunk Blogging Day. Somehow it ended up in a horrible attempt at screenplay format, but it's un-edited. I haven't read it since I wrote it, so enjoy.

INTRO SCENE: A 27-year-old white boy in an “IOWAT” T-shirt and great sweat-shorts sits at a couch with his knee in a brace and ice pack on top. A bottle of beer, pack of Marlboro Ultra Light cigarettes, green Bic lighter and a whole bunch of other crap rest on the same coffee table as his white MacBook. The writer stares intently at the computer, incessantly typing while occasionally stopping to sip his beer or smoke a cigarette.

CAMERA ZOOMS IN ON THE COMPUTER.

BEGIN NARRATIVE:

Today is the day that Ernest Hemmingway and Charles Bukowski would have loved had they written on computers — National Drunk Blogging Day.

In honor of said holiday, I’m spending the evening at home with a six-pack of ice cold Miller Lites and a small amount of painkillers in my stomach. It’s not as that I’m suicidal or want to drift off into some delirium-soaked rant about the faces of Coltrane or something (Movie, anyone?). Nope, it was emergency room trip number three for me this year.

First, it was a broken ankle. Then it was a car accident. Now, it’s a stupid trick I was trying, not paying attention and then slamming my knee full force into the end of a grind box. For those of you playing the home game, take your right knee, find some exposed steel pipe with ragged edge and take a flying leap at it. That’ll get you four stitches and swelling and bruising so bad you’d think the center of your leg was an eggplant.

Then again, thanks to a comp day, I get the luxury of drinking on a Monday night while icing and elevating. My other plans were evacuated after the hospital, so fate stepped in and said, “Hey, have some beers and blather away on the laptop.”

GETTING UP TO ADJUST HIS LEG BRACE, THE WRITER WINCES IN PAIN, REALIZING THE ON-SITE PAINKILLERS ARE WEARING OFF AND THE SWELLING IS IN ITS MOST PAINFUL STAGES

WRITER CRACKS OPEN SECOND BEER AND SLAMS HALF OF IT. HE CHASES IT WITH MORE IBUPROFEN.

Fucking ow! Seriously, I didn’t think it would be this bad. I know I smacked the hell out of it but c’mon this is nuts.

OPENS THIRD BEER

Really all I want to do right now is lay down and watch episodes of “No Reservations” on my computer until I fall asleep. I’m normally not this big of a wuss, but the swelling is the worst part.

The silver lining to my lacerated crowd is that I’m not shy of ideas to write about.

What is all of this about? What is the grand message behind every scar on my body? Why continue doing things when pain, rejection and disfigurement are eminent?

Perserverence. Challenges. Goals.

I’m going to go into work limping — as I have many times before — and I’m going to be made fun of. I’m going to be mocked. I’m going to be asked, “Are you finally going to quit skating?” Every bruise, gash, broken appendage, and that question comes up.

There’s the simple answer: No. No, I’m not.

If I quit everything I wasn’t good at, I’d never really do much. I wouldn’t write. I wouldn’t skate. I wouldn’t get dressed. I wouldn’t speak. I wouldn’t work. I wouldn’t have sex. I fail at a whole lot of things, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have my successes. I’m not special this way. Everyone is built this way.

We garble our words the first time we try to talk. We fall the first time we try to walk. We will most likely run into some inanimate object with our cars at least once before we die. We will most likely fail a test. We will most likely get turned down for a job. Hell, as humans, the only constant thing in our lives is failure. Anytime we try anything for the first time, we don’t do it right. Hopefully after long enough, we get something right. It’s either that or we give up. I’ve seen those guys. They’re the ones drunk all the time, sleeping in cars and waiting for a handout because they’re sick of trying. (Okay, not all of them, but at least a few.)

WRITER GOES ON TANGENT

You know those people in college who drink a certain kind of booze (almost always girls and Jack Daniels), get incredibly hammered and then swear to never drink it again? What’s with that? Isn’t the point of drinking an abundance of alcohol to get drunk? Well, if I drank anything like that, I’d be all over it again. And by “if” I mean “because.”

Is it the booze’s fault? No.

Lesson of the day: if you drink a bottle of Jack Daniels, you will get drunk. So drunk, in fact, that you’ll probably do stupid shit that seems like the shit at the time. My words of advice, do it to it as much as you can within non-lethal means. That’s why they make it. Think of the distillers, they have families to feed, too. (You’re welcome, Joe)

WRITER FINDS TOPIC AGAIN

Am I ever going to go pro at skating? No. Does it make me feel great, keep me from become a fat slob couch muffin and foster creativity? You’re damn right it does. Maybe if I were smart I’d quit so I wouldn’t creak and moan so much, which gets worse every single day I fail to take better care of my body. But, because of skating, I’ve traveled the country, met some of the coolest people in existence, and reconnected with what’s important in life — friends, bullshitting, fun and not being afraid to get hurt.

I’ve heard way too often that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.

WRITER OPENS FOURTH BEER, SMOKES A CIGARETTE AND THINKS FOR A BIT WHILE STRETCHING OUT HIS LEG

If we all dictate our lives by our failures, we’ll end up doing nothing. If we know something is important, if we feel we need it to truly be free, there’s no need to fear rejection, failure or pain because perseverance is the greatest virtue.

You’re going to fail. Admit it. I have. Admit it and move past it. Try, fail and give it another go. Collect people who hate you because the more you do with your life the more people are going to hate you.

Basically, follow the philosophy of a great street wise-man — a.k.a. comedian — Dave Attell: No matter what you do, someone can find a way to call you a dick.

Get bloody. Get dirty. Even if you stay squeaky clean, someone who thinks they’re on Mt. Everest looking down on you will make you feel like crap. You can either prove him wrong, or ignore the ass-face. Either way, do what you want because hopefully that guy will get AIDS and die. Even if he doesn’t, know that his feeble words did nothing but keep you on fire for your passion.

You ever have a Bloody Mary that was nothing more than just mix and vodka? Well, I’ve had one with olive juice, pickle juice, mix, vodka, pickled mushrooms, pickles AND a beef stick. A goddamn beef stick in a drink! God bless Wisconsin! Anyway, let everyone else be that mix and vodka drink, while you strive to be the one with the beef stick. If you get there, or die trying, you’ll be my hero. Guys on the couch never make history. (You’re welcome, Travis.)

THE WRITER PAUSES, SIPS FROM HIS BEER AND WONDERS IF ANY OF THIS IS MAKING ANY SENSE

There’s a reason I framed my first write-up from my editor. There’s a reason my first rejection letter from an agent is on my fridge.

There’s also reasons why I keep writing, despite criticisms, rejections and nay-sayers. There’s a reason I keep skating, despite emergency room trips, pain, bruising and swelling.

There are things I want to do in my life, so I’m working on them. I know I’ll never be perfect — I don’t try to be. I have my slacker days but there are days I work myself raw. I know you’re all the same way.

Pain goes away. Scars remind us of our great adventures. The trials, the errors, the assholes, they all serve their purpose. It’d be better without them, but we deal with them because we’re not going to sit around and be complacent with what others deal for us.

Then again, another great philospher — Dr. Dre — once said, “Fuck ya’ll, all ya’ll, if ya’ll don’t like me, blow me.”

Hells yeah.

WRITER OPENS FIFTH BEER AND STOPS WRITING.

National Drunk Blogging Day...

Tomorrow is National Drunk Blogging Day. The name itself is pretty self-explanatory, so if you need clarification, pick up your keyboard or laptop and beat yourself in the head. It should come to you then.

So, in honor of such a great day, I plan on having myself some spirits tomorrow, getting on the ol' Mac and cranking out something I probably shouldn't.

But, while dispensing my neurological diarrhea, there's so much on my mind lately that I could write about. And, since I'm trying to make this whole writing thing a full-time gig, it's you — the reader — who really matters.

I'm looking for ideas. Sure, this blog is about my book and writing adventures, but is that's all that's in my life? Not one bit.

Let me know what you want to see me write about while sloppily drunk, whether it be the beauty of B-grade horror films or who I'd stalk if I had to stalk someone.

Comment. Give some suggestions. For all I know, I might be able to cover everything.

Travel writing...

I've never done much travel writing because I've always been cooped up, tapping away at home, working my butt off on the weekends and so forth. This year, that wasn't true.

Whether a weekly venture to Iowa City for a writing class, a day trip to Chicago to skate and eat or southern California for a "conference," I've been a lot of places this year for all sorts of reasons.

In February, it was to the Bitter Cold Show Down with 14 friends in a van. In November, it was with 11 friends to the Hoedown in Texas. I wrote about both adventures for www.iowa-connection.com and some for ONE Magazine.

The latest was posted today — a reflection piece on a six-day trip Las Vegas for some skating, rock climbing and good food in the island city. You can read it here.

The Vegas piece was one of my better pieces recently. I can't really tell you why, but I put some more flavor into it than I could writing for the newspaper.

So, as I keep driving vans for 15 hours or jet-setting to the west, I keep looking for adventures, good food and cool people.

There's still Detroit in February and possibly a few places in the middle.

Thanksgiving...

No turkey for me. Again, just as I have since a sophomore in college, it's the delicious Totino's Pizza Rolls. So good. So wrong.

Anyway, besides the usual things I'm thankful for — family, friends, skating, writing, etc. — I'm thankful my story "The Watcher" was picked up and published by Word Riot.

Read it here.

Post some love on there for me.

An assignment...

Here's something pretty dumb I wrote for class at the University of Iowa. We were supposed to write the first two pages of what would be a 600-page autobiography. Considering I have no idea why I would write one or what stage of my life I'd be compelled to write one, this is what I came up with. It was fun to write and it got a few good reactions from the class, so I thought I'd share.

A JACKASS IN THE WRY

One thing I’ve been known to say is, “You know what I’ll never say on my deathbed? ‘I wish I kept a cleaner apartment.’” It was a statement that reflected my ignorance toward the unimportant things in life. It’s not like I was a total slob or anything, but keeping a tidy house was never a priority. Neither was making sure my hair was kempt or if I was wearing the latest clothes. All trivial shit to impress people I didn’t know and might not have liked, as far as I’m concerned.

Did I know what was important? I like to think so otherwise telling my story would be a waste, just as much as you reading it. Then again, I could be wrong. For as much as I’m aware, I could be the biggest anarchistic asshole who’s ever had a go at writing.

So the question is: did I say that as I choked away at my last breaths? I don’t know. I’m not dead yet. Sorry about that. (If you read this during my post-mortem years, add ten points because someone is always keeping score.)

So, yes, as you start reading this, I’m sorry to say it doesn’t have the ending you’ll expect. In fact, I don’t know the ending yet. I hope its something pleasurable, like dying peacefully in my sleep. Never mind what I just wrote. Another thing I’ve been known to say, depending on my mood, was, “I want to die in a headline.” Since I began writing the stories — not the headlines, mind you — I’ve seen the spectacular ways people have come to their demise. Auto-erotic asphyxiation. Acute toxicity due to barbiturates. Blood-alcohol concentration of 0.58. You know, like The Joker used to say, “If you have to go, go with a smile.” Well, we all have to go. Me, this ship hasn’t sank yet, so we’ll leave this ending open for now.

I’m not sure if my life reads as a cautionary tale or as an epic. I’d like it to be both, but more of the latter. Right now, I’ve got a Marlboro burning in the ashtray and an open Corona between it and the MacBook I’m writing on while most of my body is covered in an orange, blue and white plaid bathrobe I bought in college at a thrift store for twenty-five cents. To some, this sounds disgusting. To others — writers, most likely — this sounds like an all-too-familiar comfort they wish they could retreat to while waiting for some flight in some airport or some turd in some bathroom while reading this rubbish.

Then again, with this lifestyle, the headline will most likely read, “Homeless man found dead on Turnpike, body run over repeatedly.” Either the cancer or the craziness got to me first. Whoever came in second was the real winner. There was much less work to do afterwards.

But I really can’t even mention homelessness without interjecting with Dude. He was a 44-year old homeless man I met in 2004 while still a young pup of a newspaper reporter. Actually, I’d been one for about two weeks when I found him. Not really found, because that makes it sound like an accident. I went looking for him. When you’re trying to make a name for yourself in the news game and a homeless man whose legal first name is Dude who makes about $52,000 a year panhandling gets arrested for taking a piss on the local movie theater, you better move your ass to track him down and interview him. I did that.

Well, Dude’s philosophy and outlook on life probably shaped my deathbed apartment statement. Dude — not too clean and apartment-less — was talkative the whole six hours I spent with him drinking behind a gas station in Davenport, Iowa. Then again, my death headline could have read, “Local reporter stabbed to death behind gas station, homeless man charged.” Whatever. It was a hell of a good time and it ran on the front page.

Letter of Recomendation

Here's some ensuing hilarity. When I ask for a letter of recommendation, here's what I get:

"To whom it may concern:

I know the young Krans well.

For a man his size, he eats very few babies and for someone who smokes
as much crack as he does, he steals very little.

They say if you give 1,000 monkeys typewriters and an eternity to bang
on them the beasts will eventually recreate the works of William
Shakespeare.

To recreate Krans; three monkeys, two days.

Good luck and good riddance

Former keeper, XXXX XXXXXXXX"

Awesome. Just awesome.

Grad school time!

Here we go again. Last year I applied to the Iowa Writers' Workshop and got the little envelope in March. This year, hoping for at least one big envelope from at least one school, I'm throwing my net wider other than Iowa City.

Possible places I could be living next spring include Iowa City, Baltimore, Oregon, Colorado, California or Rhode Island.

I applied for the prestigious Wallace Stegner Fellowship at Stanford University, but I'm not holding my breath. That's one of the best programs, although you don't get a degree at the end. They basically pay you $26,000 a year to hang out and write. That'd be way too good to comprehend.

So out I go, fishing for letters of recommendation, application fees, statements of purpose and all the fun she-bang. At least I was smart enough to choose programs that don't involve the GREs. God bless America.

'The Watcher' accepted by Word Riot

Late last week, I got a pretty cool email (and that's the best way I can phrase it).

"Good work. We'd like to use this in a future issue of Word Riot, most likely November's."

It was from Jackie Corley, publisher of Word Riot. It's a quality literary journal that emphasizes experimental and dangerous writing. Their slogan is "Good writing. No remorse."

They've accepted my short story, "The Watcher," a piece about a store security guard coming off a meth binge. Some of you might remember me passing it around for critiques. All of you that added your input, thanks.

It's a sense of accomplishment because it's my first real published piece of short fiction. It feels even better because they rejected one of my earlier works. So, check out "The Watcher" in November or whenever it comes on.

Also, become a fan of theirs on Facebook.

A student again...

Today, a good friend, B.J. Bales, and I became students at the University of Iowa. While we're not technically enrolled here, we're both taking a creative writing class taught by a student of the Iowa Writer's Workshop, Hilary Rand.

It was the last day of classes and I just filled out my application to take non-degree graduate courses on Saturday morning. Three visits to two offices, with two advisor signatures, and I'm in. We'll be meeting every Tuesday night from 7 to 9:30 p.m. So, after writing at the paper all day, I'll drive with B.J. to the U of I campus for our one class.

Getting permission from Rand, she even told me over the phone the class would be rudimentary for me. And that's fine. It'll be good to be in a classroom again. However, unlike my days at WSU, I'll be paying attention to fiction and poetry. We've already been to the Dey House, home of the Writer's Workshop, viewed as the best creative writing program in the country.

I applied last year. I got my rejection letter in March. Hopefully with this class this semester and possibly another in the spring semester and I'll be better prepared. Because if all else fails, it'll be a good chance to—and excuse this cliche—sharpen my pencil.

It'll get me writing, which is kind of the point. Okay, well, it's totally the point. Hopefully I'll have some interesting assignments to post when it's time. Until then, I'm waiting around with B.J. in some coffee shop as the instructor leaves our information for us at the Dey House.

We've already missed the first class last week. Now, we've got to get the first assignment done in 24 hours. Not a big deal when you only have one class.

Then again, I've got a short story I'm finishing, a novel I'm supposed to be working on, volunteering, a full-time job, a girlfriend and skating. It'll all get done. I'm sure of it.

"A little bit more like Bukowski..."

Five days in California. Three skate parks. No serious injuries. One Mike Opalek visit. Two trips to the ocean. One dead seal. Two kids drug out of the water. One short story written in a notebook, hopefully the one to get me into grad school.

All senses stimulated. All ideas good. Mood is much better now. Time to keep writing.

A summer spent undaunted...

Since I don't have a lot to say right now, here's a little photo collage about the summer thus far.

Update

So here I am, sitting outside on my back porch on the chair I stole out of a dumpster. The cicadas are buzzing in the trees, a hypnotizing rhythm that goes well with the Imogen Heap playing on my headphones, but it's not enough to entirely drown out my shouting neighbors of the "Pop Goes the Weasel" from the passing ice cream truck. The frozen pizza is sitting well in my stomach. Ah, the life of a starving artist.

It's been a weird month, so maybe that's why I've not been updating the blog. Sorry about that.

So, here's what's been going on.

- The Young Emerging Writers Workshop is all but done. The writing part is done. Tomorrow, Shawn Eldridge—the illustrious editor of A Constant Suicide—and I will be putting the final touches on the layout for The Atlas, the literary magazine we publish at the end. Everyone should come to the release party Aug. 11.

- Right now a copy of A Constant Suicide and about 100-or so pages are being read by an agent in New York. It's the one the romance novelists from the reading hooked me up with. The query letter I sent the agent was good enough for her to read my work, so that's a plus. So, now I wait.

- I got another rejection letter about a short story called "Archives." I'll send it out somewhere else and send Word Riot something new. No biggie.

- After seven weeks of healing, my ankle felt great. My new Xsjados arrived, so I went skating in the church parking lot. That lead to up Brady Street, skating at a nearby school and down to the skate park. The X-rays the next day said that was a bad choice. So, I sit around and heal. Anyone who knows me knows I'm not good at sitting around.

- Right now, I've passed the 33,000-word mark on the latest novel. While I've been "working" on it for nearly a year, I've been slacking until lately. Now I'm cruising through it. With an agent looking at it, that means that there's a possibility it might sell somewhere. So, I figure I might as well finish it.

Hopefully everything is beautiful with everyone. If you'll excuse me, I've got some writing to do.

A writing exercise...

Here's something to try:

- Get a tattoo on your arm that says, "Dolar hic tibi proderit olim," or "one day this pain will be useful to you."

- Go to work and watch the worst thing imaginable that a parent could do to their child. Watch in graphic, horrific detail. Then write a story for the newspaper.

- Feel dead inside.

- After work, go to the bar and drink large amounts of Scotch in an attempt to feel better. Have drink or two with your friend Ryan.

- While at said bar, write a story in your notebook called "I was a child porn star."

- On Ryan's advice, go to a reading, full of Scotch and smelling like it. Read that story to a bunch of hippies and blue hairs. Make three people cry.

- Have two New York Times Best Selling authors tell you afterwards you are good and need an agent. They'll even offer their help.

- Have a better day than you ever thought possible.

Konichiwa! -- My Moleskine in Tokyo

Another pit stop for the same notebook that hit London was Tokyo.

Marsida from Moleskine posted these. The girl in the center is flipping through my notebook while it's on display at the Tokyo book fair. I think this is it's last stop before it heads back home to me.

It's had some adventures. I think I'm overdue for one myself.

On a side note, the first draft of the latest book should be done by the time my cast comes off. While I'd love to put the stamp of guarantee on there, something might come up. Or I'll make more excuses. Whatever I prefer.

A letter addressed to me...

Dear Brian,

I know you saw a man with one leg Friday. And then you thought something like, “How do you know what you'll miss until it's gone, whether it be a leg, your vision, or someone?”

That same day, you ordered new shoes. You also told your “little sister” you needed some new jeans because the gray ones you were wearing were looking pretty bad.

That was after you took the skin off your left skate so your friend could make a pattern out of them. Well, it wasn't the only pattern.

Then you went skating at SkateChurch as normal on a Friday.

You've been skating a lot, but you haven't been writing that much. You know, that novel you've been working on for almost a year now? Well, you always thought you needed a push. I gave you one, even after all these warnings.

My favorite warning was right before you did that pole stall, a little kid asked you, “Hey, did your head heal?”

And you responded, “Yeah after a few days. I'm a quick healer.”

Less than an hour later, you had your annual spring visit to the emergency room. They cut the leg off your jeans and your skin from your left Valo skate fit really well over your splint.

You broke your left ankle, just like all the signals I've been giving you.

Well, at least you're writing more, just as you should remain for the next six weeks as you sit on the couch in your bright neon green cast.

Enjoy your time off skating and use it wisely. Also enjoy living your life like someone who has taken something for granted for too long.

Love,
Karma.