Story start 08/31/2018

As he watched the house burn in the early morning light, he let out a sigh of relief. The chill from the air hurt his lungs, but he could not have cared less. The deed was done. The bodies that were presently being roasted in that conflagration had paid the ultimate price and bought him a new life. One far away from here. One that would never feel the endless chill of a Soviet winter. One where no one would ever know his real name. 

Thirty-six hours later, he was staring down the barrel of a double barrel shotgun and sweating more from the heat and humidity than from the situation. This would not be the first time that a man filled with envy and rage would threaten to end his life. Nor would it be the last. 

168 hours he had just crossed the border into America. The land of the free, supposedly. A land governed by Lyndon Baines Johnson. An individual who he personally had put into office. This was not where he was supposed to be. This was the last place that he was supposed to be. In his thirty-two years of life, this was the first time that circumstances were working against him and putting him in a place that he felt truly afraid. 

Not because of who he was or what he had done. But those who knew. And those who knew that they could use him again. In the land of the free, this was the place where he had the least amount of liberty. And, unless he could make it from Miami to Canada within the next twelve hours, he was truly and completely trapped. 

Even a lion gets ensnared in a trap that he could not see. 

Kill Your Idols.

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“Be yourself — not your idea of what you think somebody else’s idea of yourself should be.” — Henry David Thoreau

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your inner voice. And most importantly, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.” — Steve Jobs

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In an attempt to start getting back into the habit of reading, I set a goal earlier this year to read 50 books by the end of the year. I am currently sitting at 28 books, which puts me at three books behind schedule. I’ve read everything from the Harry Potter series (the fourth or fifth time reading it) and The Litigators by John Grisham to True Grit by Charles Portis and Start With Why by Simon Sinek. Certain books, like The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Good Omens by Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman, and Little Children by Tom Perrotta have been on my “must read” stack for years. Others, like Furiously Happy by Jenny Lawson and Unfu*k Yourself by Gary John Bishop I tried out on a whim and found myself being moved — even to tears. 

I read The Martian by Andy Weir and immediately re-read it because I loved it so much. I hated Get Your Sh*t Together by Sarah Knight that I not only couldn’t finish it —but I also wrote a scathing review on both Goodreads and Audible. It’s also the only time that I’ve returned a book on Audible. I marked that one as complete, because I’ll finish reading it by the end of the year. Just to be fully done with it.

And, in case you are wondering, I’m currently reading four books at the same time: Crazy Love by Francis Chan, Uncommon Type by Tom Hanks, The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern, and The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2002 edited by Dave Eggers.

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What does this have to do with anything? Well, I firmly believe that, in order to be a good writer, one must also be an avid reader. Reading a large selection of books is just as, if not more so, important as writing on a frequent basis. Yet, in doing so, you start to compare yourself to those who make a living writing. Not just compare, but also become envious of them. Which opens the door to doubting yourself and your skill. 

You start building idols to books that are beautifully written. You raise upon pedestals those who have made it. The self inflicted golden calves begin to cast shadows upon your craft. You begin the transition of “I bet I could write that” to “I’ll never be that good.”

You sacrifice yourself before you even give yourself a chance to improve. Which leads to you snuffing out pieces of work that could potentially overshadow the very pieces of literature that you have begun to idolize.

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So, here I am. I stand before you and I give you full permission to kill your idols. I dare you to become better than they are. I challenge you to become the artist that you once envisioned you could be. 

To quote the cliche: “There is only one you.” There is only one person who can tell the stories that you can. Am I saying that you shouldn’t work to perfect your craft? Of course not! Practice, lots and lots and lots, and lots, of practice is what makes perfect. Study those who have made it. Learn from them. Grow to become LIKE them. But fully acknowledge that you could never be them. Not that that’s a bad thing. You have stories in you that would make them jealous — if only you sat down and wrote them. 

Embrace your failures and grow from them. Learn from the masters, but do not envy them. Burn your idols; but recognize why you had them in the first place. 

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Read. I encourage you to read. Let the words of others set you on the path to creating your own. But never think that you are less because you have not told their stories. Yours will be infinitely more interesting if you just let it be.

The Therapy of Writing.

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I took a leap of faith recently and quit my stable full time job to pursue a career selling insurance. Slight back story: I have become increasing more unhappy with said job within the past few months due to a long commute, lack of proper compensation, and a myriad of other reasons. This opportunity fell into my lap — one that would completely evaporate my commute, pay impressively, and allow me to not only build a book of business that would be all my own; but actually be in a career path that would allow me to truly help people.

The issue is that insurance is a federally regulated industry. Meaning that you have to take a qualification exam in order to even start. And I am terrible at taking tests. Always have been. Always will be. For example, I’ve studied all last week (the week prior was my last week with the day job; so I didn’t exactly have a chance to study during that time) — yet I took the practice test five times and did abysmal each time. The highest score that I got was 58% and the lowest (just now) was 35%. For reference sake, the passing percentage is 70%.

And, of course, the real test is tomorrow morning. To say that I’m stressed is an understatement.

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What does that have to do with writing? With each word that I pound out in this post, I feel the anxiety slip away. With each syllable, consonant, vowel, and even just each letter, I feel the stress melt away. The production of language is something that I truly need to do. I crave it. I’m happiest when I’m the most well written. Each blog post that I produce is me getting my fix.

I know that no matter what else I do throughout the day, this is the one thing that I truly have control over. I manifest script and story.

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I am a writer. I live and breathe words. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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So, do I have great trepidation over tomorrow, I am soothed tonight. The day job, the paycheck, the career, all of these have always been just what I need to do to allow me to write.

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Tomorrow will come and go. I have done all that I can to prepare. But tonight — tonight I write. Each day has enough trouble of its own, so I might as well embrace tonight.

Story Start (as of today)

The thing about Jacob Manslow was that he was, in his opinion at least, a good man. Not great. Not perfect. But definitely a good man. One who didn't exactly live his life to the fullest, but lived it nonetheless.

Jacob knew that he wasn't perfect. In fact, he relished on it. He knew that there was a fine line in being excellent and being mundane and he rode it with all of his might. Any tilt in either direction would mean change and Jacob Manslow feared that above all else.

Change mean facing all the things that he deliberately swept under the rug. Change meant finally facing his wife's criticisms. His children's doubts. His boss' bewilderment as to why he had not been promoted in the twelve years that he'd work for Sanson and Co. Change, in short, meant that he finally had to start living the lone life that he had been given.

Jacob wasn't a bad man. He wasn't great, or perfect, or extraordinary.  He would never, in his opinion, raise to the summits of Everest or spend a night in Antarctica. There was no lofty ambitions of backpacking through Europe or exploring the mysteries of the Amazon or Africa. There would be no soul searching in Tibet for him. Or pilgrimage to the Holy Lands.

Jacob, in short, wanted the most mundane existence in experience. Because anything beyond that would be truth. Anything beyond that would be owning up to his dead father's ideals. Anything beyond that would be breaking through the poor membrane of a shallow existence that he had worked so hard to create to cocoon himself in. 

There was a full life in front of Jacob and he was too fucking scared to embrace it. 

A User's Guide to the End of the World.

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“Inspirational quote.” — a person who is dead who you may have heard of, but probably not. But will pretend to have heard of said person and quote at a party. Or on Facebook.

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Step One: Life is rubbish. This may come as a shock. But, then again, as the world is currently coming to an end, what did you really expect? Sure, you may have your job. Your marriage (or lack thereof). Even your friends and family. But, one glance at any headline (or Facebook status) and it’s pretty evident that life is rubbish. 

So there you have it.

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Step Two: People are rubbish. This is a surprise to no one. Not even you — Mr. Optimistic. You spend more than two seconds interacting with the human race and you realize that people are rubbish. This has nothing to do with the end of the world. It’s just how things are.

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Step Three: The news is officially scary. Not in a “Mr. Peterson ran his car into a drug store because he was asleep at the wheel.” It’s frightening in a “what color is the terrorist watch at” or “how close are we to midnight on the Doomsday clock”. You take one glance at a headline and it’s pretty evident that the news will scare you. And will depress you to new ends.

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Step Four: Comedians are the new newscasters. The newscasters are the new comedians. This is our new reality and really, nothing is going to change that.

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Step Five: All of those depressing novels that you were forced to read in high school are now reality. The government is spying on you. Companies are spying on you. Your neighbors are, in some form or fashion, spying on you. Even if they don’t mean to. Just by living next to you, there’s tabs on you. 

Who can you trust? See Step Number Two.

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Step Six (Six, Six): None of what I’m saying really surprises you. I mean, sure, you’ll say that it does. You’ll say that this is all paranoia. But both you and I know that we only wish it was paranoia. And that things have never been this bad. And you don’t know how worse they can get.

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Step Seven: Vices!! Everyone has them. Even your dear old gran. Just don’t ask her what they are. Awkward…

But pay any attention and you’ll notice that everyone is running after their vices full steam. And, really, can you blame them?

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Step Eight: Everyone is mad. So mad. So angry at each other. And themselves. This is a surefire sign of the end of times. But, really nowadays, is there anything that you can’t not be bad at? Even double negatives?

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Step Nine: I’m bored. Are we still doing this? Were steps 1–8 not enough? Fine. Bird flu. Anti-vaxers. Holocaust and moon landing deniers. 9/11 conspiracy theories. Flat Earthers. The list goes on.

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Step Ten: Really, do we even need a Step Ten. One through nine were bad enough and things aren’t getting any better. 

In Mourning.

“ I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart.” — Romans 9:2

“There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.” — Aeschylus

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.” — Washington Irving

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There’s no beating around the bush about this — today is not an easy day. Today marks the 14th anniversary of my Dad passing away. And, while that may seem like quite a long time; to those who have lost someone, especially someone who you were closed to and loved, fourteen years is nothing. Fourteen years may as well have been yesterday.

Because, as they never tell you in books or movies or anything of the such — grief never truly goes away. There’s no cure for it. It is a permanent scar upon the heart that only you can truly see. Can truly feel.

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The thing about grief is that it is much like it’s blood brother, Depression. It’s not always front and center. Sure, it never goes away, but most days (once enough time has passed), it plays quietly in the background like an ever-present, but ever so soft dirge. Some days, most days really, you don’t notice it. You go about your day as if life is normal. These are the blessed Good Days.

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The Bad Days are an entirely different story. Again, much like it’s blood brother Depression, when grief rears it’s ugly head, it is an unstoppable wave of sorrow and pain. The weight of loss beats you down and threatens to drown you in anguish and heartache. When you start crying uncontrollably over something seemingly simple — a lyric to a song, a line in a movie, a passerby who resembles too much like the person you lost, a smell of something that reminded you of them. Even a good event, such as getting married, giving birth, or a long awaited promotion, can bring about the torrent of remorse — because the one person who you wish you could share this moment with is gone forever.

Bad Days can (and most often do) start from the moment you wake up. You wake up sad (as if there were ever such an ineffective description as this) and no amount of attempted joy will ever bring you up from the true pits of despair. These are the worst of the Bad Days.

One of the worst aspects of Bad Days is that they can compound so quickly. Bad Days turn into Bad Weeks. Even Bad Months. When grief and depression share an unshakable suffocating bond upon your very being. When your heart is in an ever tight vice, slowly crushing you. 

And the worst part about the Bad Days, the grief, and the depression, is that it’s an Invisible Monster. One that is tearing you apart and no one else can see it. No one else can feel it. No one else can truly experience it. 

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Today is a Bad Day for me. I woke up missing my Dad and remembered the date. Today is not going to be an easy day for me in the slightest. But, I’m still going to go on living it. I’m still going to take care of myself as best as I can. And, as much as I have the deep desire to be alone, I know I’m going to go to a bad place mentally and emotionally if I allow myself to push people away. 

So I won’t. I know my Dad would want me to be happy. I know my Dad wouldn’t want me missing him and letting the despair crush me. I know my Dad wouldn’t want me to suffer. So, in honor of him and in despite of myself, I will make a day of today. 

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In closing, I leave you with one more quote. It’s from the last part of the seventh book of the Harry Potter series written by J.K. Rowling. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. The quote was by Dumbledore: “Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all those who live without love.” 

The Catalyst of Focus

There is no such thing as a life without change. Cliche, I know, but true. To piggyback this, chaos, or what we perceive to be chaos, is just another form of change. Sometimes chaos is self-inflicted; but other times it is life forcing you to change. To move on. To move forward when you don't think it's possible. Chaos, in a way, can be a catalyst for new beginnings. If we let it, that is.

Chaos will either destroy you or rebuild you. And the only one to make the call of how that happens is you.

Which leads me to my other point: focus. The difference between a flashlight and a laser is how focused the light is. One of them can provide light and push away a bit of darkness. One of them can cut through stone. The sheer amount of focus you need to...rebuild, if you will, your entire life is comparable to that laser. To change your fate, you must hone in your focus to the point of cutting the chains that hold you back. Without focus, you cannot change. With some focus, you can change but a little. With full focus, with that laser intensity, you can change everything. Cut through the cloth of chaos and mold your fate into something you never thought possible.

Be the beam and break the chains.