Tuesday, June 5, 2018

Far Behind Your Failure At The Cave

Because of a screw up on my part, I've had to drive my wife's car to work. This is a bonus because the car has satellite radio in it, thus multiplying my music choices about a hundredfold. One of my favorite channels on SiriusXM is Lithium, the 90s grunge/alternative rock station. I love that music. It's my personal soundtrack and formative to me, so listening to it has been a treat. And a jog down memory lane.

I've talked about trips down memory lane before. Sometimes they are good. Sometimes they aren't. A song came on yesterday morning that sent me down the tree on Dagobah type of memory lane, remembering my failures. The song was "Far Behind" by Candlebox. In an instant, I was transported to 1994 and it wasn't good.



I don't think I need to go into a long spiel about the importance of music and how one song can often put us in a time and place while evoking very specific emotions and vivid memories of who we were and what we were doing at the time. This song did that and it shook me.

Now, Candlebox wasn't Nirvana, Alice In Chains, Pearl Jam or Stone Temple Pilots, the sort of four pillars of 90s alt rock/Grunge. They were part of the "post Grunge" movement, a sort of second generation of alt rockers kind of mixing Grunge with a more mainstream sound. And I liked it. I'm a guy that writes YA Game of Thrones or GOT Lite, so this was right up my alley. My beloved Foo Fighters are considered part of this movement, by the way, as was Nickelback. Candlebox could be considered a guilty pleasure because they weren't as lauded and respected as Nirvana or STP. When I think of this I think of Austin Kleon quoting Dave Grohl, of my beloved Foos and one of my artistic idols, "I don't believe in guilty pleasures. If you f**king like something, like it." This is so true. (There's a blog in me about music snobs, but that's for another time.) Judge me for my love of Candlebox, the Monkees, Tom Jones and Halsey all you want.

The song dredged up a lot of memories in just under 5 minutes of drive time. And driving is the best/worst time for thinking. I've talked before how that time in my life '94-'96 weren't a good time for me. I still have dark revelations and bad memories of a bad time in my life, perhaps the lowest. These revelations makes me relive and dwell on bad choice after bad choice I was making. Choices that made no sense and make me realize how lucky I am to have wound up where I am. I know why I wound up where I did and it rhymes with Rimberly. But still, I found myself in the dark cave underneath the tree again remembering how I told people I'd be on the New York Times Bestseller list by the time I was 26. I wasn't. I wanted to be a writer, but didn't put any of the work in. I didn't work on my craft. I just screwed around. I was listless. I thought I was better than I was, both as a writer and who I was at the time. I had no reason not to write, yet I didn't. I chose excuses and sloth instead.

I often joke that all my stories, especially the fantasies, take place in the 90s because I want to tap into the anger I have in myself over that period of my life. Looking at my character play lists I create for my multi-POV epics, much of it is music from the 90s. Music that reminds me of those dark times and I rely on that nostalgia to tell the stories I tell. The melancholy of that time period is held at bay because I am in my "story world" and it becomes almost therapeutic situation where I tackle who I was and what I was doing.

The next song was "Bullet with Butterfly Wings" by another of my favorite bands, The Smashing Pumpkins (who have kind of gone off the deep end lately). It didn't move me the way "Far Behind" did and I was left rolling over those old memories around in my head. I worked my way out of that cave, partially by writing this.

So, thanks Candlebox for creating an important piece of art. I listened to your first album while making dinner for my family last night after finishing a draft of this piece. I was feeling better, refreshed. And filled with some good memories of that time in my life and what I've managed to do with my failures.

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Patience You Must Have



After a nearly two month, unintentional writing hiatus, I'm writing again. Good news, right? Kind of. The problem is that I'm stressing about it. Sounds weird, right? Especially from someone that calls himself a writer. It should be the one thing that doesn't stress me out. But it's different this time. I'm trying something new and different that I find very intimidating and time consuming.

About a year ago, I borrowed a book from the library called THE ANATOMY OF STORY by John Truby and thought it had some good insights into storytelling. I've vowed to work on the craft and I think that I get too wrapped up in writing a book when I should be focusing on the story. The book had some interesting ideas on story so recently I decided to buy it and give it a whirl while writing my new project. I'm finding it incredibly frustrating in spots. So frustrating that I've shut it, cast it aside and muttered my personal mantra of "F**k it" before wading back into it to give it a shot again. It's working, but it's taking longer than I was hoping it would.

The frustrating part has to do with the pace that I'm working. It doesn't feel like I'm writing because I'm not writing in the traditional sense. I'm planning. To my mind, that's not writing. It's different. Right? Or am I actually writing, just doing a different kind of writing. I need to reconcile that. It's important to remember that writing a process not a product. Planning is part of the process, so therefore it is writing.

I always plan when I write. I've talked about that before but I never considered it writing. I'm planning for this new untitled project (I mean I have a title but I'm not ready to share it until I check it's viability as a project) using Truby's painstaking and thorough method of planning. It makes you think from the very premise to the execution of the plot. This method is making me ask questions I never thought of in my writing. It has me wondering if this is part of the problem in my fiction. Am I in such a rush to finish that I don't consider every aspect of the story and it lacks the punch I need to get the attention of agents or editors. But it's time consuming and I still feel like I'm not writing.

My hope is that the time I'm taking now is mostly because this is my first time through this process. I'm also hoping that all this planning will increase my output once I start writing the actual book.

For now, I guess I'm going to have to heed the words of two great (actually pretty shitty but that's another blog post) Jedi masters and have some patience.

Sunday, March 25, 2018

And In The Darkness Bind Them

Early Sunday morning I finished writing a book. It is the eighth book I've finished. It's kind of a sad number, but I'm not going to dwell on that because I'm really happy with this book.



I don't put much in the concepts of destiny or fate, but something pointed out to me about today has me a little weirded out. Today is March 25th. So what, right? The 107th anniversary of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire. Palm Sunday to us Catholics. It's also Tolkien Reading Day. I never knew why it was Tolkien Reading Day until I woke up this morning.

I'll confess my knowledge of the Tolkien Legendarium isn't as encyclopedic as some and I was informed that March 25th is the day that (SPOILER ALERT) Frodo completed his quest to destroy the One Ring. Well, he didn't really complete it did he? Gollum bit his finger off and in his ecstasy fell into the Crack of Doom, destroying not only the One Ring but ending Sauron.

LORD OF THE RINGS are a formative part of my life as a writer and person. Without the adventures of a couple of hobbits, I might have become a different writer, heck, a different person. And it shows up in the weirdest places.

When I started GIRL IN THE PICTURE in last May, it started as a creepyish procedural thriller like MYSTIC RIVER or the movie SEVEN. I decided to do some things differently and it did things I wasn't expecting. A manuscript is a living, breathing thing and it grew in ways I wasn't expecting. I also pantsed the book. For the uninitiated, pantsing is writing without a plan. Usually, I am an ardent outliner, but I decided to try something new. Writing a procedural without a plan proved to be difficult, as I discovered when I temporarily shelved the project in August. Things were happening in the story that I didn't expect and it ground me to a halt. Normally this doesn't happen. I expect to deviate from an outline, but it wasn't working for me. It required a plan as the story went from a procedural to a monster story.

I cleverly called it the make out monster because it only showed up when my main character was kissing a girl and it is described as looking both like Sauron's red eye and the Balrog. THE LORD OF THE RINGS allusions then just began to flow (along with Harry Potter, Scooby Doo and Indiana Jones references). The characters even noticed, chiding me for the references as they work their way through the double mystery of the identity of the girl in the picture and how to stop the monster. I won't spoil my own movie, just in case I clean it up enough for you to read it someday, but this brings me back to my original point.

Early Sunday morning I was finishing up the final chapters of GIRL IN THE PICTURE. The scenes are meant to parrot the destruction of the One Ring. I was too bleary eyed and tired to notice the date or the significance of that date. I was wrapping up the destruction of my One Ring analogue on the same day that the same thing was happening in the original book. That made me kind of creeped out but excited.

Maybe I'm reading too much into this. But, maybe, y'know, fate.

Monday, March 19, 2018

The Sunday Paper: In Three Parts

Part I: The News
The Sunday before last, I woke up earlier than usual, especially considering it was Daylight Savings. While my morning chai brewed in the machine, I went out, all Tony Soprano style in my robe and slippers, to get the morning paper. Thankfully, no one was there to whack me and I was able to retrieve my tea from the machine then shuffle over to the kitchen table to read the paper. I repeated the same steps this past weekend, though it was much later. I'm thinking Daylight Savings might have caught up with me.

I still enjoy reading the Sunday paper. Sure, the news is rarely good and our local paper's Sunday edition isn't what it used to be, but there is still something about sitting down with a cup of chai (or coffee if that's your poison) and dissecting it part by part, from the hard news of the day to checking if someone has lamb chops on sale this week. Regretfully, there are no lamb chops on sale this week and the beast that was the Sunday paper once is now a mere pamphlet by comparison. I wonder, though, if that is more my own sense of romance affecting the memory of the experience, as is that case with many of things I reflect back on with only my memories to remember them by. There was a magic to the Sunday paper that just isn't there anymore. I can't determine if that's because of my own memories, my present perspective, the changing way that we consume news or the physical changes to the paper itself.

The Sunday paper wasn't just a report on what happened the day before, but a review and a preview. A look back at the week that was and a look forward to the week that will be. IN a day and age of instant information access, I understand that it might be hard for someone to see the appeal of reading the Sunday paper. I was so struck by the memories, I wrote down what I was thinking.

Part II: The Insterts
Okay, this is the get off my lawn section.

Growing up, I was a paper boy. (For this I am using the masculine with apologies. I know there were paper girls but I was a paper boy.)

It was a largely thankless job where the money didn't match the effort. The adults I trusted took advantage of the cheap, willing labor, nickel and diming us every chance they got like modern day versions of Fagin, relying on us to not only deliver the papers but act as bill collectors on "collecting night." What twelve year old is ready for a career in bill collection? Seriously, we would've made piss poor loan sharks. I was thinking about this as I read the paper. Not the loan shark part. That's all handled by computers now and the paper is now delivered by adults in cars. What got me thinking about my former career was this:


This would've been unacceptable. Like phone call from our Fagin unacceptable.

Three parts. Unassembled. And wrong.

We had to put the paper together. If you were smart, you did the inserts on Saturday because the Saturday paper was the smallest paper. The inserts were the ads and preprinted parts of the paper that you had to put into the Sunday paper. It involved your paper bag, a huge cart and endless prayers to the gods of wind, rain and snow. Then delivered to the front door between the storm door and main door. Locked storm doors or no storm doors were a nightmare. That's not the case anymore. Instead the paper is stuffed into my mailbox in three parts. Meaning I have to shuffle to the mailbox to get the paper. I'm too lazy to complain about it, but it's vexing. I think of all the tips I missed because a storm door didn't close right and a paper blew away. Or a dog got to it. Or it got wet on a porch with no door. At least my paper is dry, I suppose.

Part III: The Sports Section
Growing up, my father had a rule about the Sunday paper: no one was allowed to read it until he was done with it. He didn't like it out of order.

It was such a weird, random thing. If you've ever seen his workbench or any of the garages he's had in his life, you would know that this was the most out of character thing ever. This was frustrating because the only sections I ever read were the ones he didn't: the sports section and the Stars (books and movies, right?). He never relented. He studied the comics like there was going to be a test and endlessly scanned the classifieds for garage sales to peruse. So, I would wait.

I don't read the sports section anymore. I'm not sure why. Is it that, like so many others, I can get any sports related information I want when I want it? As I was writing this, I checked the score of Bournemouth-Tottenham soccer match several times on my phone. Or is it that, like the paper, the sports section isn't what it used to be. I had a whole section of this about box scores, but I've decided to save it for another blog post.

Writing about sports takes a skill that eludes me. In another universe, I am a famous sports pundit pontificating about the underappreciated greatness of LeBron James, Doug Gottlieb's petty and intense dislike of Syracuse University basketball or the sham that is the NCAA. But we aren't in that universe. My deleted sports blog is proof of that elusive skill. Some of the best writing out there right now is sports writing. Deadspin, Bleacher Report, Yahoo Sports and even the Four Letter are doing amazing things these days. But not so much on the local level.

I criticize my local paper a lot. They've fallen into the trend of fishing for clicks rather than good reporting. I was shocked to find out that reporters load stories online almost exactly the way that I load this blog. No editorial oversight. Just write it and put it out. That's dangerous. Then there's SLOW news days.

Slow news days means rolling out the overpaid teacher narrative. It never fails. It gets clicks. Lots and lots of clicks. The basement crowd loves the overpaid teacher narrative. Because, y'know, we do this for the money. Ah, I'm ranting about the job. I'll stop here. If you need me, I'll be double checking the ads to see if someone has lamb chops on sale.

Tuesday, March 6, 2018

A Pocketful of Hope And a Smidge of Talent.

Why write?

The question was first posed to me a few years back. Now that I think about it, it was many years back, when we first started doing the now regretfully discontinued summer writing institute at school. We developed the simple but thoughtful essential question of "Why write?" It is a question I am thinking about this morning. The thought is so important that despite setting a goal of surpassing 70k on GIRL IN THE PICTURE today (I'm presently at 67,776 words), I'm writing this instead. The catalyst for all the thought was another terrific blog post by my friend Brian Fay (If you aren't reading his blog, you are doing it wrong. All of it wrong!) about the occasional (or chronic) feeling of futility in hope and the overwhelming disappointment we feel when what we are hoping for doesn't work out.

I'm going to admit that I was kind of bummed for Brian when I read his post. Brian is a beacon. I find his posts inspiring. We are birds of a feather, in many ways, having many of the same thoughts, struggles feelings and frustrations. I have no idea what the thing he was hoping for was, but I was crushed for him, but I've been there.

If you follow me on social networks (especially Twitter), you know that I am one for throwing myself a good old fashioned pity party. You also know that I am an avid fan of show RICK AND MORTY and on of my favorite things that came from that show is the phrase, "WUBBALUBBADUBDUB!"


It's one of Rick's catch phrases and said in times when Rick is trying to break tension or express that he's having a good time. We came to find out from Rick's best friend Birdperson (it's a batshit crazy show if you aren't familiar with it) that it actually means, "I am in great pain, please help me." I understand Rick, especially in moments when writing let's me down. And I find myself asking that essential question from the writing institute: "Why write?"

Well, it's a simple answer: I write because I can't not write.

I've tried not writing. The summer I met my wife was a tumultuous summer. It was as close to the lowest I've ever been. I decided sometime in the late spring that I wasn't going to write for a while. I was frustrated with writing. With life. With myself. I needed to clear my head. This was a massive mistake. I should've been using writing to get me through what I was going through, working on my craft and getting better at what I was doing. It took months to get back into it and the lack of discipline still impedes me to this day. But in the end, I couldn't not write.

I've been told that rejection is part of the publishing/writing game. And it can be pretty hopeless sometimes. When the rejections pile up, it's almost easy to put on a smiling face, brush it off to the "business of writing" and cry out "WUBBALUBBADUBDUB!" I have to reset myself. Find the hope again.

JK Rowling was told not to quit her day job.

LORD OF THE FLIES was rejected 20 times.

John LeCarre was told he doesn't have a future as a writer.

A WRINKLE IN TIME was passed on 26 times.

Stephen King saw 30 plus rejection slips before CARRIE came out.

Am I any different from them?

No. And I get back on the horse. Like many things in life, things come in waves. Ebbs and flows. Pools and eddies. Of joy and pain. Of hope and disappointment. I refuse to let it break me. In the end, the only things I have is my talent and a pocket full of hope.

It might just be enough.

Wednesday, February 28, 2018

Fury At Flip Flops In February

Tuesday afternoon in Central New York was delightfully glorious. Okay, maybe glorious is too strong a word, but sunny and in the high forties at the end of February is always a bonus. Being so nice out, my kids wanted to play outside, so I pulled a chair out on the porch and let them play while I read. Normally, I'd try to write because I do some of my best work in the fresh air, but today I decided to read instead. At one point my son announced that someone was coming down the street and they were on a hoverboard. I looked up in hopes that it was an actual hoverboard and was disappointed to see that it was a mother, son and dog walking down the street. I was crestfallen that it wasn't a real hoverboard and was about to go back to reading when I noticed something through my squinted eyes that awoke my Hulk-like rage. The mother was wearing flip-flops.

I tweeted about it immediately:


I didn't realize it at the time, but it seems I've expressed this opinion across my many social networks multiple times. Enough for one of my friends to notice and tweet back at me. I was going to launch into a twitter rant, but decided to write about it instead. 

It's not flip-flops that enrage me. I love them. I like wearing them. But I've always been a little off put by them. I used to blanch at the Berkenstocks and Tevas of my salad days. I was slightly more comfortable with slides and only came over to flip-flops-when appropriate-recently. Even now, I will eschew from flip-flops the majority of time. But there are a lot of people that don't and I dub them "flip-flop people." 

It's "flip-flop people" that raise my ire. I know, this goes against my goalie theory of life (I don't want to stand in anyone's way of reaching their goal of enjoyment and happiness) but there is something about flip-flop people that bother me. You know the kind, the denizens of Hobbiton that feel they can wear flip-flops no matter what the conditions? And it's rarely more than a cry of "Look at me! Look at me!" or more to the point "Look at my feet! Look at my feet!" They are never feet you want to look at. Ever.

Look, I get it. I do. Shoes are so hard. They are so much work. Even loafers and slip-ons. 

Plus, people wouldn't get to ask you to tell them the story of the intricate tattoo you had done. 

Or compliment how good your pedicure looks. 

Or listen to you go on and on about you being a beach person (even though you live hundreds of miles from any real beach) or a summer person. 

Or how comfortable they are. 

We get it. We're looking at you. You have our attention. Is that what you wanted?

Sorry, I'm rage writing at this point. 

I'll end with this. If I see you in public and it's below 70 degrees, if you are wearing flip-flops, I am judging you.

Wednesday, February 21, 2018

A Rose By Any Other Name

Safe spaces. Weird and loathed expression that's been in the news and on the Internet a lot lately. The word carries tons of scorn and straight up fury with a certain portion of the population. I'm not going to lie, I didn't entirely disagree with them. However, over the weekend I got to thinking about the expression and decided to write a little about it. So, Sunday, at 10:15, after everyone had settled down to sleep after a busy birthday extravaganza for my son, I sat down to write while sipping a root beer float. As a writer, I realize that I should be sipping a scotch or whiskey or bourbon or absinthe, but my poison is root beet and vanilla ice cream.

I am part of a group text, as many of us are these days. It's a small group of my co-workers. A group that I've become pretty good friends with over the years and the group text is a nice distraction from the minutiae of everyday life,  be it professional or personal. My wife thinks it's funny, calling them my "boyfriends" and that it's nothing but "stupid pictures and dick jokes." The group text began as an extension of our lunches together and has been going on for three years now. Today, one sent this meme out to the group:


One of my friends commented that he'd been "triggered" and needed a "safe space" and that got me thinking. A vigorous conversation followed in relation to the meme among my friends. I abstained, not because of a lack of opinion but I was preoccupied with real life. However, I was thinking about it, letting the comment roll over in my head far more than the meme itself and came to a conclusion after thinking about it for much of the afternoon.

We've ALWAYS had safe spaces.

Really. Think about it. From what I read, safe spaces are places where people can go to talk about their experiences in a place where they fell safe and without judgement. These are places we can relax and not be afraid of who we are and what we say without feeling uncomfortable, anxious or challenged about what we think or believe. Places we can get support, love and walk away feeling a little better about ourselves. Folks, we've always had them-we just called them something else.

The neighborhood bar. Lunch. The lodge. The club. The coffee klatch. Bible study. The book club. Ladies night. Poker night. Bowling. The barbershop. The kitchen table. The rec room. The garage. The parlor. The knitting circle. I think you get the point. But that expression safe space really sets people off, for some reason. So I thought some more about it, focusing on the anger and scorn people had over the expression "safe space."

Many of the institutions listed above are the creation of white, heterosexual men. And before you think it or say it, I know not all of them, but the majority of them are and I noticed that the loudest critics concerning safe spaces are white, heterosexual men. Men that excluded anyone "not like them" when they created these institutions, so people decided to created their own institutions where they could feel comfortable and safe that are now derided and dismissed by the same people that created them in the first place. Men angry that something was being taken from them that wasn't their's in the first place. Hmmm...that sounds familiar, doesn't it?

So, look, if you are one of those people that get triggered by the expression safe space, just think of it as a man cave and move on to the next stupid thing you are going to get angry about that you really shouldn't be angry about. Or maybe you get angry about something you really should be angry about. Like guns. Or a woman's right to choose being taken from her. Or how shitty a show THIS IS US actually is.

Tuesday, February 6, 2018

Earning Turns

This past Saturday morning, I took my kids skiing for the first time. Scratch that, I didn't take my kids skiing but took them for ski lessons. I can't ski anymore. Scratch that, I don't actually know if I can ski anymore, I just know that physically I am unable to ski. A laundry list of wears and tears on my pudgy forty-five year old body have me terrified of strapping seventy-two inches of fiberglass to my feet and doing real damage to the fragile ecosystem that is my body. I was filled with a deep melancholy as I stood at the bottom of the hill watching my two little shadowed blobs "pizza and french fry" (or snowplow as we called it) their way down the "bunny hill," realizing that I was probably never going to feel that again in my life. Then my son, my sweet little boy, looked up having completed a twelve foot stretch of french fries followed by three feet of pizza and called out to me, waving wildly with all the pride in the world that he was doing a scary, dangerous thing without his daddy-and loving it-chased that melancholy away.

The joy both of my kids were feeling was palpable in the car afterwards as they babbled on and on about their runs. Both frantically asking, "Did you see me?" while waiting for me to confirm that I did and asking follow up questions as to why they had done something. My daughter, ever the mother hen, staying with he brother while obviously grasping the activity and reveling in telling me how she skied past the teacher while my son explained to me why he kept falling down. And that joy made me feel better, made me okay with having to give up something I loved so much.

I love skiing. Fell in love with it in 1987, when at the suggestion of my friends, I joined ski club my freshman year of high school. It was formative to me as a person. I was a pretty unexceptional high school student. I hadn't embraced my love of writing and was listless. I was a pisspoor athlete and, at best, an apathetic student. I was too wrapped up in some kind of social checklist that I couldn't possibly attain rather than trying to figure out who I was and what I wanted to be. When I joined ski club, I found something that I just loved. I couldn't articulate it then and I'm not even sure I could now, I just knew there was something appealing about it. There is a version of me, in some parallel universe, that is living in a garage in Kazakhstan, following some endless winter around the world in some attempt to "earn my turns."

However, I exist in this universe, with this version of me, busted up as it is. So all I'm left is the memories. And they are great memories. Memories of glory and shame, humiliation and triumph. I met my first real girlfriend at ski club. I made life long friends skiing. I learned that I could learn how to do things I never thought I could. I realized there was a daring streak in me, willing to move outside my comfort zone. These memories still play in my head as little movies, snippets of what I loved so much and thirty years later they are getting a sequel in my kids. Maybe it's finally time to put words to paper, like I've always wanted to about that time in my life.

As if the fates were paying attention, when I got home that afternoon, one of the stations was playing a marathon of filmmaker Warren Miller's films and it nudged me towards writing even more. So I settled down at our kitchen peninsula and snuck some words in. Much of this was written during this marathon while I should've been painting one of our bathrooms. The words and memories nudged my closer to my "90s ski epic" I've been talking about writing for years.

It's the memories and a series of short online conversations with former fellow 315er and YA/MG author Aaron Starmer that led to the original story idea, called FRESH TRACKS. I want to write a YA story that takes place in the 90s, has a 90s teen comedy vibe to it but follows the rules of an epic fantasy. It might be too ambitious a project (a problem of mine if there ever was one) and it might be unsalable. But I want to write it. It's been back and front burnered multiple times over the last few years as I struggled with what it was and what I wanted it to be. There's a parallel to my life that I'm just realizing and I'm itching to write it. For now, I have to finish GIRL IN THE PICTURE first. I'm not the kind of writer than can work on more than one project at the same time. I realize that if I have any intention of making a career of this, that will have to change but for now, it'll do and I'll have to earn my turns any way I can.

Thursday, February 1, 2018

Writing, Yes. Fame & Fortune, Maybe So.

While cycling through my morning reading of my favorite blogs and online news outlets, I came across a post by my friend Brian Fay and it got me thinking. I spent a good portion of the last few days writing this post, spending an inordinate amount of time starting it, trying to figure out what I wanted to say about his post. I want to talk about writing, but I couldn't exactly figure out what I was trying to say. It's been a while since I've actually written a blog entry about writing. It could be because I'm actually writing and that's always good news. But Brian's post had the wheels turning and I decided to write. And boy did I write.

Now, if there is an approximate to a writing guru in my life, it's Brian. We met at a teacher's writing institute in Cortland, NY. Brian was a facilitator and I was a participant. It was one of the most amazing experiences in my life. It made me a better teacher and a better writer. It was the closest thing to my "dream writing summer" I've ever experienced. Three weeks where I did nothing but write for at least three hours a day. No kids. No wife. No distractions. Just three hours of me, a laptop and a pair of ear buds with Billy Joel in my ear. (Billy Joel was a phase that summer. I can't explain it but Billy Joel-Live at Shea Stadium was played ad naseum for those three weeks.)

We worked, wrote, shared, ate and listened. I had the misfortune of following the SCSD version of Maya Angelou, Viola, during one of our extravaganzas where we shared our work with one another. Viola is a stunning storyteller with a hypnotic voice that still warms my heart almost four years later. It was here that I met and worked with Brian, a ridiculously talented writer that humbled me and an active blogger.

I love reading his posts. They are insightful. They are inspirational. they are soothing. They get me thinking about writing and teaching, sometimes independently, sometimes at the same time. And it was the latest post that got me thinking. Actually, it was one sentence in the post that moved me to write this time:

Let me tell you two things this isn't going to be about: getting published or getting rich.

It stuck in my head for a while and took some time to wrap my brain around so I could synthesize it and write something about it.

If you've read my blog, you know that my aspirations of becoming a published author aren't a secret. Hell, if you've met me in public, it's likely that you know this about me. I've dreamed my whole life about it. From my earliest days of dreaming that someday I'd be the head writer for the Marvel run of G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero to the arrogant boasts of the twenty-one year old me telling everyone in the Wegmans' Grocery Back room that'd I'd be on the New York Times Bestseller list by the time I was twenty-six. Well, I'm now on the precipice of 45, so that obviously didn't happen. I'm not here to lament, as I have in the past, about my failed dream. I'm here responding to Brian's post.

This isn't a rebuttal, because I 100% agree with what he said in his post. You have to "write for you" first and it's absolutely right to say, "Don't even consider anyone else." These are wise words, especially to a neophyte. Hell, they are wise words to any writer. It's the first step and sometimes it's the millionth step. I've been writing forever. Since high school. (Obviously!) Looking back, I wish that I'd been more diligent, both about the craft and hanging on to what I wrote. (If I'd only met Kelly Chandler-Olcott earlier to convince me of the worth of sturdy, old school composition notebooks!) You always write for yourself. But then what? And that becomes the interesting question.

I pursue that question daily. Am I not enough of an audience? Why do I feel compelled to get published?

I don't know. I just know that it's something I want. And maybe that's enough. But it can't be that simple can it?

Is it validation?
Ambition?

Maybe.

Ego?

I can't say for sure. But I know for sure it's something I want.

It's not to be rich, though that'd be nice for sure. I don't think it's to be famous. I think that would be exciting for a week then get old.

Maybe I feel like I both deserve and need to be heard. But that comes back to ego, doesn't it?

Other people manage to write without the compulsion of being compensated or published. Brian does and I think he's a vastly more talented writer than I am. My friends Mark, Sara and Jen are at least my equals, though likely it's my own ego downplaying their writing talents to make myself feel good. My buddy Neil has been vastly more disciplined and equally as talented in his blogging with no intention of trying to become rich or famous (though I say that without certainty...maybe he does). Each of them is, however, satisfied just writing for themselves. But for me, it's not enough I guess. I share this dream with Mike Winchell, an amazingly talented writing and editor well on his way to fulfilling his dream. We went to high school together, though we never met. (Easy to do in a building with 3,000 people in it.) Yet we've become brothers in arms thanks to the internet. I'm rambling a bit and maybe because I don't have a satisfactory answer to why I want so badly to be published. In the end, I guess it just boils down to the fact that I just do...and maybe that's enough of a reason for me. And maybe it's not reason enough for someone else. In the end it doesn't matter the reason, I suppose. All I know is that in the end I write because I simply can't not write.

So as Brian says, "Do the work."

Let's go write.