Crossroads

Do I really want to write anymore? The dust is starting to settle in our new home (oh, hey, did you know we moved? Yeah, that happened), and as I unpack the boxes of books and writing paraphernalia, I wonder if I even want to write anymore. Things have changed a lot since that first creative writing class sophomore year. My writing has grown for sure, but so have the responsibilities in my life. I have a son! He’s amazing. He takes us a ton of time and energy. How am I ever going to fit writing into an already busy schedule? Not to mention I haven’t been feeling all that creative lately either. Kind of like the well has dried up. Do I really want to keep pretending? Am I pretending, or am I just in a funk? Do I just clear it all out? Will I regret it if I do? Are these pages and pages of notes, scenes, and stories worth keeping around even if they just gather dust?

Looking at my half-finished manuscript, though, I feel like I have to keep going. I have already poured so much of my soul into it. Plus, for years I’ve been telling everyone I am going to be a writer. I think back about all the amazing opportunities fate handed to me that I squandered – all the authors, publishers, and actors that I let slip out of my life… I’m ready now, Universe, if you want to send another one of those my way. And then there is my son. I want to show him that dreams can come true. Even crazy pipe dreams. You just have to work at it (a little bit harder than I have been working).

I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet, it seems. But I need to get back to the happy place I found in writing. That part of me has atrophied over the past few years. Perhaps this is the perfect time to be at this particular crossroad. Time to hit the restart button. Version 2.0 (ha, more like 8.0, but whatever) is 98% loaded. Please do not turn off your device…

Grit

When I was studying to be a teacher, we learned a lot about lesson plans and how to create a great learning environment, but we also spent a good deal of time studying psychology. One of the things that stuck out to me was the idea of grit. Grit is an individual’s capacity to persevere when things get tough. It is an innate quality that, research suggests, is more indicative of a student’s success or failure than intelligence or other traditional indicators.

I have no grit. Or at least very little. Where some people would bear down and keep at a project or task until it is done, I get distracted at the slightest impediment or provocation. This wasn’t a problem in school because I was intelligent enough and enjoyed learning enough to stick with it. Even now, if it is something I am interested in, I can usually focus enough to complete whatever it is I am doing.

Revisions are not interesting. Revisions are not fun. To an extent, any writing past the first draft (sometimes just the outline of an idea) is a chore. It can be too much for a gritless person like me.

This is not good. This is why I have notebooks and folders full of ideas but never get around to actually writing. This is why my novel has been gathering dust, waiting for revisions, while I flit from one project to the next. This is why I might never become the published author I aspire to be.

Might never. What is it G.I. Joe says? “Now you know, and knowing is half the battle.” Something like that. I know I have no grit. I know I will always find something else to keep me away from the keyboard (except in those brilliant, manic moments of inspiration). Knowing that, how do I change it?

I haven’t figured it out yet, but I will keep trying. With posts like this and a little more self-discipline, maybe I can find my way back to the keyboard and all the stories waiting to be told. 

Write what you know

Write what you know. I heard that all the time when I started writing. I even said it a few times when I taught writing.

I have been thinking about this phrase a lot recently. What does it really mean? Does it mean I should only write stories about white females? I hope not. Looking through my works in progress, almost none of my characters are female. Some aren’t even human.

Does it mean I should limit myself to American themes and styles? Maybe. Or maybe I should just be a little more considerate when writing characters from a different background than my own. I have written several pieces in an imitation of Japanese style. To me, my Japanese inspired stories are a tribute to a culture and style that I find fascinating. Something I wanted to try and capture. To others, those pieces might seem like appropriation. That was not my intention at all, but because I am a white American is that just how the world will see it? I want to say these pieces are harmless, but I am not Japanese. I do not claim to be an expert on Japanese literature or culture, but I do my research and try to recognize the places my ignorance or bias show through. Is that enough?

In high school, I wrote a story about a young man in West Texas who cross-dressed. He was the star of the football team but liked to paint his nails and wear prom gowns. His secret came out, and in the end, he committed suicide. I had just finished reading The Last Picture Show by Larry McMurtry, and I was inspired by the tragic young protagonist. I was also learning about homosexuality and other alternative lifestyle choices from a new group of friends. And, like many teenagers, I was struggling with depression. This story brought all of these pieces of my life together. Looking back, I think I poured more of my soul into that story than anything else I have written since. I was young. I didn’t know how to write without exposing myself completely.

They published it in the Lit Mag that semester. I was so proud of myself. I had been writing since I was little, but this was the first time my work had been approved by my peers. I decided then that I wanted to be a writer.

My first writing workshop in college, I volunteered to go first. I made some edits to this story. After all, it had been a few years. I had grown. I understood more about writing and myself. But it was still the same story.

I got ripped apart by one of my classmates. He was gay. He was my friend. And he had a point. My character was a hodgepodge of all the things straight high schoolers believe about homosexuality. Just because the character liked to wear dresses, it didn’t mean he was gay. I didn’t understand my character or the world he was supposed to represent. I didn’t know what I was writing.

I still don’t believe that write what you know means you should only write about people like yourself. That would make for a lot of really boring stories. However, there are certain things you can’t write about unless you experience them or really do your research. If I were to rewrite that story today, I would make sure I knew as much as I could about the thoughts, emotions, and experiences of young gay men. It wouldn’t be first-hand information, but I could still know enough to write about it with authority.

Because I do believe there is something that we all know well enough to write. We all know how to be human. We just might have to dig a little deeper to know about a human that is different from us. But isn’t that what writing is all about? Helping us see the world through different eyes. Understand someone else’s story. I know what love feels like. I know about pain, fear, confusion, hope, and joy. My experience might be slightly different than the situation my characters find themselves in, but in the end, I am just a human writing about being human.

So write what you know, but don’t be afraid if you don’t know it yet. You can’t wait for someone else to tell your stories for you. Just do your research. And don’t stop writing.

Coincidence

“There’s no such thing as coincidence.” I think it was Sherlock Holmes that said that, but I could be wrong. Regardless, I like mysteries, crime shows, and the like, and most of them an idea like this one at one point or another. To be fair, when you are talking about murder, there might not be such a thing as coincidence. But in real life, I feel like coincidences are everywhere!

You just read a book and next thing you know it comes up in casual conversation with a friend. A news article mentions an economic theory you were just studying. Little moments like this that make you feel like everything is connected. For the paranoid sort, maybe it is proof you are in the Matrix. For the rest of us, it is just those little things that make us go “huh, what a small world.” I love these moments. They can be so bizarre and random yet so poignant at the same time. For me, they often touch on unspoken fears or feelings that I haven’t been able to fully articulate yet. They can be the moments that make me think about the larger things at work that my tiny human brain can’t comprehend. Sometimes they are just funny or interesting. The point is they happen all the time.

But when they happen in literature… For some reason, while I am all for coincidences in my real life, I get irked when they happen in literature or other media. It seems lazy or contrived. I find myself disenchanted or worse, angry at the writer.

Why? Why am I so willing to accept coincidence in my real life but not in my fiction? Not that there is an easy answer, but I think part of it is how Americans are taught to appreciate stories. Everything is so linear for us. We don’t like cliff hangers or loopholes. We like neat, tight, cause and effect plots. The random monkey wrench of fate is too much for us. To some extent we will accept coincidence in our stories, how else would anything ever happen, but when the plot hinges on such a coincidence, we feel cheated. This might have something to do with our cultural need to control destiny. I have never encountered a culture so obsessed with the idea of freedom and free will. But that is a blog for another occasion.

Other cultures don’t seem to have this same hang-up. I have talked before about how Japanese literature could sometimes drive me nuts with this sort of thing. It seems others aren’t as bothered by coincidence or the strange workings of fate. Many of the stories I have read or watched from other cultures are filled with these coincidences. Hell, even Shakespeare has more people in the right (or wrong) place at the right (or wrong) time than I would ever accept from a contemporary American story. No one seems to mind.

Is it just me?  

Nonfiction

When we talk about reading, it seems we almost always mean fiction. At least, I do. I talk about all the books I have or all the ones I have read – almost all fiction. This seems to be the default genre when people talk about reading, writing, or anything to do with books.

Sometimes, I think we forget that there is a whole lot more out there when it comes to the written word. I know I am totally guilty of passing over biographies, essays, journalism, and other nonfiction without a second thought. The thing is, though, when I do pick up a well-written piece of nonfiction, it acts on my soul the same way that a novel or short story does. So why don’t I see it as an equal?

Partly, I think it is training. The nonfiction I read in school was abysmal. Textbooks are not written to be enjoyed. Their writers probably don’t even enjoy them. Other than that, it was Newsweek for Kids or similar magazines. History, Math, and Science classes didn’t emphasize reading for pleasure. It was more just get the information and get on with it. Not to say my teachers didn’t want to share a killer biography about their favorite mathematician or a page-turner about some important historical event, but with so much to cram into our distracted brains, there wasn’t much time for extra reading.

That was one aspect of the Common Core Curriculum that intrigued me when I was studying for my Masters in Education. Common Core encouraged critical reading in subjects other than English. The program had a whole host of problems, to be sure, but that one stuck with me.

Now that I am an adult and get to pick what I read, I am still drawn to fiction. However, I have come to appreciate a well-written piece of nonfiction. The key word there is well-written. Just like a bad novel, a bad historical account can be downright painful to read. But a well-written piece of nonfiction – be it a cookbook, academic thesis, travel adventure, whatever – has the potential to be just as life changing as any classic literary work. These gems can be hard to find, but so is a good novel, if you think about it.

I guess what I am trying to say is that we shouldn’t think of nonfiction as a dirty word. It isn’t inherently dry or boring. It isn’t aiming to suck the fun out of reading. It’s not all written like a textbook. It just depends on the individual book. So maybe next time you visit your local library or bookstore, wander through the nonfiction section. See if anything catches your eye. You might be surprised.

Back to School

The kids in my local school district went back to school today. And while I am content to be out of the classroom for a little while, I can't help but be excited for them. Especially since I caught up with one of their English teachers at the library recently and had a great conversation about reading.

Have you ever thought about how much you actually read in a day? Signs, news, social media? We actually read an incredible amount every day. We just don't always realize it. Or, we don't really count it as reading.

When I was teaching, I always had kids tell me they hated reading. But that wasn't true. They just hadn't found what they enjoyed reading yet. Novels aren't for everyone. Sadly, over the years reading in school has become very limited. English class will expose you to fiction (short and long), poetry, and some drama. You might read some non-fiction in other classes, but text books weren't written with reading enjoyment in mind. Electives might give a few more reading options, especially if you study something journalism related. But for the most part, reading in school offers kids a very narrow selection of all the wonderful types of writing out there.

So when kids told me they hated reading, I knew that wasn't the whole truth. They just hadn't found the things they liked to read.

When I talked to the local English teacher, she had come to the same conclusion. And I think it is a conclusion that a lot of teachers are making. Reading isn't just novels. It isn't just textbooks. Reading can be blogs, magazines, instructional manuals. It can be pretty much anything really. It might take a little creativity on the teacher's part, but every child can become a reader. We just have to help them find what it is they like to read and then let at it.

To all the students starting school today, I hope this year you find what you like to read. To all the teachers, I hope you can find a way to support every students' reading choices. It might take some flexibility, but it will be worth it in the end. Reading opens up doors to education, employment, and a better life. It doesn't matter if it is Moby Dick or Popular Mechanics.

Literary Diversity

I have always been a voracious reader. However, I only recently realized I was not a very diverse reader.

Growing up, my mom was an avid reader. She would take my sister and me to the library almost as much as she went herself. We would go home with our canvas bags full of as many books as they would let us check out at one time (on all three of our accounts). It was a lot of books.

As we got older and graduated to chapter books, the sacks got slightly lighter.

My sister decided reading wasn’t really for her. She wouldn’t rediscover her passion for it until she was swept up in the Harry Potter series in high school.

I continued to read but found myself in kind of a literary gray area. The books for my age group were too easy. I have several librarian friends now, but as a kid, I was on my own to figure out what I like to read. I wasn’t very successful. Instead, when I wasn’t reading for school, I turned to the books my mom was reading.

She liked murder mysteries. Now, I am not hating on genre fiction. I enjoyed her books.  But the thing with genre fiction is it isn’t very diverse. Scan the shelves of any genre fiction section, and you will notice that most of the authors are pretty similar.

And what I was getting from school wasn’t much better. We read a lot of what would be considered classics, but even the contemporary stuff was pretty White European. Sure, senior year there was a splash of Russian and African literature, but for the most part, the books I read growing up were white, white, white.

I specifically remember disliking Crime and Punishment. Something about it was off. Also, I couldn’t pronounce all the names, and I got a lot of the characters confused. It would be several more years before I could really understand why, though.

College wasn’t much better. Despite being a lit major, assigned reading was still almost entirely written by white European authors. I did sign up for a Native American Lit class, but it was canceled before semester started and I ended up in Contemporary Irish Lit instead. I graduated with  B.A. in English and Creative Writing, but still no reading diversity.

In the end, it took moving half way across the world to open up my reading horizons. When I moved to Japan, one of the first things I did was start reading their literature. I read classics like The Tale of Genji and The Pillow Book. I also fell in love with some of their contemporary writers. Kafka on the Shore has become one of my all-time favorite books, though I can’t say I love all of Murakami’s works. But it wasn’t just Japanese Literature. I would haunt the foreign language section of my local used book store grabbing any title that piqued my interest. I read a surprising amount of Spanish Literature while I was in Japan. Apparently, Gabriel Garcia Marquez is quite popular in the Land of the Rising Sun.

The more I read from other cultures, the more I realized how much our writing style and preference is based on culture. At first, the Spanish and Japanese books frustrated me. Their stories didn’t follow the rules I was used to – the rules I had been taught, the rules I tried to apply to my own writing. Their stories meandered, fell off, picked back up, and sometimes just ended. I still get angry when I think of the ending of Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart.

But over time, I came to appreciate the differences. I came to realize that, depending on the values and history of your culture, there can be many ways to tell the same story. The goal of every author is the same, but how they get there is shaped by the writing styles of their culture.

Sadly, now that I am back in the U.S. my reading diversity has shrunk slightly. My job writing English lessons online has cluttered my desk with more White European classics than I had on my bookshelf in Japan. However, I am still trying to make time to read things from other cultures. Crime and Punishment has moved from a dusty bookshelf to the bottom of my to read pile, just under my new translation of The Tale of Genji.

Reading is important, but diverse reading might be even more so. For me, foreign literature gave me a way to understand the nuances of a culture that wasn’t my own. It also caused me to examine what the stories I grew up reading said about the values of my White European culture. As a writer, it has opened my eyes to a whole new world of literary elements and styles. Stories don’t have to follow the rules I spent most of my life learning. Personally, I like it better if they do, but not every story has to be told the same way. A frightening and thrilling idea for any writer. Or reader.

Re-reading

I used to believe in only reading a book once. Not because it wasn't good and I didn't enjoy it, but because there was just so much to read, I didn't have time to read the same things over again. Turns out I was wrong.

I just finished re-reading The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde for my literary lesson job. The first time I read it was about a year ago in Japan (beggars can't be choosers when you are dependant on the foreign language section of your local second-hand shop). I didn't love it then. I still don't love it now. But rereading it, exposed a depth and nuance I missed the first go round.

I had the same experience re-reading Murakami's Norwegian Wood. The story still pissed me off a great deal. It rekindled my anger at the Japanese mental health system. But the second time through also gave me deeper insight into the characters and the real heart of the story.

Interesting. As I have re-read book after book, I have realized my fondness for the material doesn't always change (in some cases it even gets worse), but my appreciation and understanding of the artistry increases. The first time through, it is all about the surface story. The second time, I am able to dive in and find the deeper truth.

I have started re-reading books that aren't part of my job. Books that I read just for me.  Books I enjoyed. Stories I cherished. I wonder if I will find the same undercurrent waiting for me? I hope so.

Classics

Recently, I took a job writing English Lit lessons for an online company. Kind of like Cliff’s Notes, but online.

For the most part, it has been an enjoyable experience. It has given me an excuse to revisit some of my favorite authors and titles, exploring them with new eyes and insight. It has pushed me to read books I always meant to read and never got around to like Life of Pi. It has convinced me that maybe I was a little too quick to dismiss authors like Hemingway and Dostoyevsky back in high school. Thinking critically and exploring Shakespeare has led to a deeper appreciation of his works than I ever got in my Shakespeare classes in college. A lot of it probably has to do with my growth as a reader, thinker, and educator, but I’m having fun looking at these texts in a more serious light.

However, not every text I have worked on has been enjoyable. Slogging through Moby Dick was the closest thing to torture I have ever experienced. I hated that book. And guess what, I wasn’t the only one. When it was published, everyone hated it too!

And this is my issue with classics.

There are many classics out there that deserve that title. I am thoroughly convinced Shakespeare was a genius. His works are like beautiful onions. Once you get past the language barrier, you are rewarded with layer upon layer of intricate meaning. They are timeless and universal stories of the human condition.

Melville also smashed tons of literary elements into his epic. More than plot or character development, in my opinion. I struggled to find the story for the forest of allusions, information dumps, and foreshadowing.

I also felt the subject hadn’t aged well. Something common in “classics.” I struggled with nautical terms, understanding the world of the story, and why I was wasting my time trying to summarize and analyze an industry and a world that would make no sense to a Millennial anyway. Or whatever generation we are in now. The truth is, there are plenty of other, more approachable, books that explore the same themes. Why make it harder on students? Or on myself?

I feel books like Moby Dick have become more of a status symbol than anything else. People who have read them are literary snobs or English professors. It’s like the top notch cosplayers or the comic book nerds who look down on newbies at conventions.

Just because a book is old does not mean it is good. A lot of “classics” seem to be hanging on just because the generation before and the generation before decided they were worth keeping around. Maybe they spoke to those generations, but that doesn’t mean they can speak to this one.

Literature can be a really stuffy place!

Talk

“Can we just talk about this,” Danielle cried, running after Peter.  “Please?”

“There is nothing to talk about.  You gave me your side of it.  I have nothing to add.”

“Peter!”  She reached for his arm, but he pulled it away.  With a burst of speed, she moved in front of him.  He stopped.  “Talk to me,” she said.

He glared at her and tried to turn, but she grabbed his wrists and refused to let go.  He growled.  “I don’t want to talk about it.  I am angry and have nothing to say.”

“You always have lots to say.”

His cheeks burned and his lip curled in anger.  “You’re right.  I have lots to say.  A few choice names for you, my dear.  Nothing you want to hear.  But then do you ever?”

It was her turn to take the blow.  She released his wrists and scowled into his blue eyes.  “I listen.”

“You just don’t follow.  Or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation.  I told you she couldn’t be trusted.  Now the whole world knows.”

“Peter, they were going to find out eventually.  I mean, look at you.”

“But not like this.  I wanted to be the one to tell them.  They deserve to hear it from me.”

“Maybe they won’t believe her.  She is notorious for spreading rumors.”

“But they will.  It is too obvious to deny once someone has pointed it out.”

“Peter, I am so sorry.” 

He waved away her apology.  His face was sad, his shoulders stooped.  He was broken.  “I guess the best thing to do is just come clean,” he sighed.

Danielle nodded.

“But you are coming with me.  We will tell them together.”

Danielle bit her lower lip, but she didn’t dare say no.  Instead, she slipped her arm through Peter’s and steered him back toward the house.

“I can’t believe I am going to tell my parents I like Justin Bieber,” he whispered as they walked.  

Tired

“Hello,” Dante mumbled into the cell phone.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Jenny chirped.

“Sleeping.”

“It’s like noon! Get up!”

“Did you need something?”

“Come to the mall with me. I got a job interview. I need something business casual,” Jenny said.

“Do you even know what business casual means?”

“No, that’s why I need you.”

“You might already have something, though.”

“Dante, get up. I will be at your door in thirty minutes.”

“I’m tired,” Dante said, trying not to sound too whiny.

“You are always tired,” Jenny said drawing out the words accusingly.

“This is real tired,” Dante said.

Dead air.

“Look, there are several types of tired. Like fatigue. That is just a little tired and can be fixed with coffee or something. Exhaustion is like extreme fatigue and means you need a nap or something. Then there is the type of tired you get when you’re sick.”

“You’re sick?”

“No. I’m a different tired, but it’s similar. It’s the tired where you’ve slept enough and are healthy, but you still can’t seem to find the energy to get out of bed.”

“Maybe you’ve slept too much. Get up. Going to the mall with me will wake you right up.”

“Maybe I was wrong; maybe it’s the kind of tired where I just don’t want to go to the mall with you.”

“Dante…”

“Business casual is like slacks or nice skirt and a blouse. Think Mad Men. Bye, Jenny.”

Beep. With a sign, Dante put the phone back on his dresser and rolled over. Just a few more hours. 

Throwing a Party

Jill touched up the cheese platter where Matt had stolen a piece of smoked gouda and thrown off the symmetry.  She rearranged the pieces, trying to create an attractive design with yellow, beige, and cream.  It wasn’t working.  Frustrated, she abandoned the table and went to wash her hands.

The cheese was starting to sweat.  The apples were turning bronze even though she had tossed them in the appropriate amount of pineapple juice.  If the guests didn’t get here soon, the whole party would be ruined. 

She could feel the tears welling in the corners of her eyes.  Delicately she wiped them away with the tip of her manicured nail.  There wasn’t time to touch up her makeup, everyone was already late.

The clock on the oven glared – 7:30.  The invitations had said 7.

There was movement in the dining room.  Matt was at the cheese again.

“Get away from there.  You’ll ruin it,” she shrieked.

“But I’m hungry,” Matt said.

“There is more in the kitchen.  Just cut it up.”

“Isn’t that what this is for though?”

“That’s for the part.  It has to look perfect for when everyone gets here.”  She was choking back tears.  They found a way past and slid down her cheeks.

Matt returned the cheese to the plate and wrapped her in a hug. 

“No one’s coming,” she sobbed.

“They’re just late.”

“Everything is ruined.  The food looks disgusting and no one is coming.”

“Stop,” Matt said, taking her chin in his hand and wiping away tears.  “They’ll come.  And the food looks great.  Here, try some cheese.”

She tried to protest, but he ignored her.  He picked a big piece of sharp cheddar from the center of the plate and a club cracker.  Smiling, he fed them to her.

While she was chewing, the doorbell rang.  

Sitting under a tree

The rain fell softly. An early spring drizzle slightly stronger than mist, but only just.

From beneath the branches of the pine tree near the coy pond, Kana was dry. Years of pruning and training had turned the needles into a carpet so thick the cat could walk on it. She sat with her back against the dark, scratchy trunk. The smell of rain and wet earth swirled around her like the most expensive incense.

In the pond, the coy bobbed and sucked at the drops of rain disturbing the surface. Their shining sides coiled and rolled together like a knot of orange, black, white, and gold dragons.

Kana closed her eyes, collecting each detail of the scene in her mind. Soon she would have to leave her father’s house for her husband’s. She would have to leave these familiar gardens. The buildings. The faces.

She couldn’t deny that part of her was excited for the adventure. Still, she wondered if she would ever be able to sit under the pine tree in the early morning rain like this again.

Sit

“Please sit down, Emily,” Bryan said, motioning to the black chair in front of his glass and steel desk.  “We have much to discuss.”

Emily did as she was told, folding her hands in her lap to hide their tremors.

“You’ve only been with us a few months,” Bryan said, fixing her with his dark blue eyes.  “But we’ve been watching you carefully.”

Emily tried not to fidget.  Bryan’s face gave away nothing.  She started to think back over the week.  What had she done wrong?  The reports had been on time.  She had even washed all the dishes in the break room sink.

“We want to offer you the job as manager,” Bryan said, derailing her mental checklist of possible offenses.

“What,” she stammered.

“You’d make a great manager.  You’re kind, approachable, and people could learn a lot from that work ethic you’ve got.”

“But I didn’t know Pete was retiring.”

“Well, you see Emily, Pete’s performance has been a little off recently.  We’re firing him.  Or rather you are.  As the new manager.”

The Book Collector

A bell tinkled as he opened the door.

Weird, this wasn’t a shop. More like a warehouse. Or a museum

But as he scanned the piles of books – mountains of books, whole cities with skyscrapers made of leather bound volumes – perhaps the bell was necessary.

“Collector,” he called. “Are you here?”

There was a rustling sound, like an avalanche of dry, brittle paper, and half of a spectacled face peeked out from behind one of the geological formations. 

“What do you want?” the Collector snapped, his voice as dry and brittle as the paper, cracking like the spine of an ancient book.

“I’m looking for a book,” he called back.

There was some grumbling and then the whole face appeared, followed by the shoulders, the arms. The Collector pushed himself up from somewhere (a desk perhaps? Or a throne of books?) and shuffled toward him.

Everything about the collector seemed old. His hands were thin, wrinkled, and covered with dark spots and paper cuts. His hair was stringy grey, though that could have been from the dust. His cheeks were hollow and his nose sharp as a hawk’s beak. The only thing about his that wasn’t old, dry, or dusty, were his eyes. His eyes were the green of fresh spring grass, the kind that calls to you to take off your shoes and run about on it.

“Yes, lad, what can I do for you?” the Collector asked.

“I’m looking for a book,” he repeated.

“What kind of book?”

“Something about pirates.”

“I have lots of books about pirates,” the Collector said.

“May I look at one?”

“Of course.”

But the Collector didn’t move, only watched the lad with his spring green eyes.

They stood awkwardly.

The lad nudged at the closest tower of books with his toe. It wobbled, threatening to topple.

The Collector reached out to steady it.

“Um, where are the books on pirates then?” he asked.

The Collector shrugged. “Somewhere in here.”

“You mean, you don’t have a system?”

“Not really.”

“Well, can you tell me about pirates then? You’ve read the books, right?”

“No. I’m just the Collector. You’re the reader.”

“But I only want a book on pirates.”

“And there are plenty. History, stories, fact and fiction. Why, you could be a real pirate expert with all the information I have here.”

“Where is here?” the lad demanded, his voice rising.

The Collector smiled, spreading his skeletal arms out in an arc that took in the whole room. “Why, right here lad.”

“You should have a system! How can I find the information I want if you don’t have a system?”

“Like I said, I’m just the Collector. I’ve collected everything you’ve ever thought. Anything you’ve ever learned. All your experiences. Every moment of your existence. It’s all in the pages of these books. But using it is up to you.”

“You need a system!”

“Well, when can you start?”

“No, I…” the lad stuttered. “I just need a book on pirates.”

“You’re free to have a look around,” the Collector said, disappearing back into the jungle of volumes. “They’re your books after all.”

The lad sat down heavily on a pile of books. He pulled the first one to him and opened it. 

Dream

“Come on, tell me.”

“No,” Kelly said, shaking her head for emphasis. 

“Just tell me.  I’ve told you all of my embarrassing dreams,” Caleb whined.

Kelly blushed as parts of the dream came rushing over her.  The parts where Caleb had been thrusting himself deep inside her.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.  “Now drop it, please.”

Caleb was the closest thing she had to a brother.  They had grown up next door to each other.  They had played X-men together in her tree house.  She could honestly say, without a doubt, she had never seen Caleb that way.  At least until last night when she had a sex dream about him.

Caleb pouted beside her as they rode the bus to the track meet. 

Kelly was painfully aware of the muscles in his exposed arm.  Of how short her shorts were under her warm up pants.  God, did she actually feel that way about Caleb?  Or was it just her mind filling her dreams with familiar faces?

“Just forget I said anything,” she said, trying hard not to stare at his lap.

“Really!  You tell me you had a sex dream then won’t tell me who it was with. Come on, Kelly.”

“Fine, fine.  It was Michael Phelps,” she blurted, hoping he would believe her.

Caleb’s face turned bright red as he struggled not to laugh.  “Like the swimmer guy?  With the super long arms?”

“Yes, jackass, the swimmer guy.”

Caleb wasn’t even trying to control his mirth.  “I bet he’s good at holding his breath,” he choked between laughing.

“This is why I didn’t tell you.”

Kelly wondered what he would say if he knew the truth.  She would never know, but she smiled a little as she remembered how good dream Caleb was at holding his breath.

On Writing

I have been away from my keyboard a long time. Well, that's not completely true. But social media doesn't really count. I have managed to scape up enough energy for my writing jobs, but I have not written for myself in what seems like forever.

I remember in junior high and high school, I couldn't wait to write. I had journals squirreled away everywhere. My school notebooks were filled with snippets of whatever came to mind when I really should have been taking chemistry notes. One car ride I even ended up writing on my legs because there was no paper. 

What happened?

Once I got to college, it seemed like the river of words started to dry up. Now there is barely a trickle. 

Maybe it is just because I am out of practice. I have found that once I start writing for myself on a daily basis, it gets easier and easier. The words and ideas start to flow. But it is hard to make time these days. 

Between my two jobs, I spend a lot of time writing, but it isn't the kind of writing that unclogs the creative pipes. It is the kind that pays the bills, and in a way it is rewarding, but the stories aren't mine.

I don't know. I'm starting to wonder if I will ever get around to telling my stories. 

Understanding Dogs

One of my puppies is hurting. I don’t know why.

Understanding dogs is a lot like writing. You are trying to figure out what they are thinking and feeling, but really you have not a clue. You can try and put yourself in their shoes like you do when you are writing through a character’s eyes, but, in the end, you are left with your own projections rather than actual information. The dog and the character are still a mystery.

So you touch here, rub there, and generally feel your way around until you get a reaction. It is frustrating. And leaves your heart in your throat with worry. That is also like writing.

Trying to put the unexplainable in words. Trying to give voice to the voiceless. Authors and pet owners have been struggling with this for millennia. With varying degrees of success.

I am not having much success today. 

Kidnapping

Amy struggled to breathe.  There was a hand clasped over her mouth and another wrapped tight around her waist.  She was being carried toward a big black SUV parked next to the curb.  She kicked and tried to wiggle free, but the arm around her waist only held her tighter. 

She really needed to breathe.  Her heart was racing and tears streamed down her face.  She tried to scream against the hand, but only a muffled sound came out.

“Shhh,” the man hissed in her ear. 

The door to the SUV swung open and the man threw her inside where another man grabbed her and covered her mouth again.  Her whole body was shaking. 

The SUV peeled away from the curb.  She was buckled in between the two men.  They both wore ski masks.  The driver did not have anything on his face, but he wouldn’t’ look at her so she didn’t know what he looked like.  She was sobbing now.

The man who had carried her to the car growled at her to shut up, but the other man smoothed her hair and talked gently to her.

“Amy, I need you to stop crying.”

She wiped her eyes and tried to stop crying until all that was left were the gasps and shudders left over from a hard cry.  “How do you know my name,” she asked between gasps.

“Amy we are not going to hurt you.  We are friends.”

“You are not my friends.  Mommy said strangers are dangerous.”

“Amy, we are not strangers.”

“Then who are you.  Take off your mask and let me see.”

The angry man chuckled.  “Smart kid.”

“Amy,” the nicer man said taking her hand.  “We are not strangers.  We are friends of your father.  We are taking you to him.”

“But I don’t want to see Daddy.  I want mommy.”

“You can go back to your mommy.  Your daddy just wants to see you for a little bit.  He has a surprise for you.”

Amy bit her lip.  She hadn’t seen Daddy in two years.  Mommy had said they would never see him again.  Amy had almost started to believe that was true.

“I want to go home.  Tell Daddy I didn’t want to see him.”

“But he’s your daddy.  Every little girl loves their daddy.”

“Well, I don’t.  Please turn around and take me home.”

“Can’t do that, little girl,” the mean man said.  “Your daddy wants to see you, whether you want to see him or not.”

Amy forced herself not to cry.  Mommy wouldn’t cry.  She had never cried in front of Daddy.  Even when he hit her.  She would just bite her lip and glare at him. Amy glared at the back of the driver’s head.

For two years they had been happy.  She was going to a new school, she had new friends, and Mommy had a new job.  Mommy helped her with her homework and they ordered pizza and watched movies every Friday.  Mommy smiled now, and Amy wasn’t afraid of the dark.

But now it was all changing as quickly as it had two years ago when they snuck out of Daddy’s house at three a.m.  She could not stop the tears now.  She wiped them away with an angry hand as she remembered that night, dark and cold.  Mommy hadn’t turned on the car, just kind of let it roll back down the driveway.  She had been bundled up in the front seat.  It was her first time up front.  Mommy had been quiet.  When they were all the way out in the street, Mommy turned on the car.  They had driven all night and most of the next day to Aunt Beth’s house.  Then they took a very long bus ride all the way to Arizona.

“Are you taking me back to Virginia?”

“No.  Your Daddy is here.  He’s come a long way to find you.”

The SUV was slowing down.  Looking out the window, Amy realized they were in a parking lot.  There was only one other car there.  The SUV stopped and the nicer man opened his door.  “Come on,” he said gently pulling her out after him.

A man got out of the other car.  In the dark, it was hard to make out his face, but Amy remembered his shape outlined against her nightlight.  She shivered.

“Hello, Amy,” Daddy said.  “I’ve missed you.”

Amy was too frightened to reply.  She wanted her Mommy.

Daddy put a large hand on her shoulder and squeezed.  “Did you miss me, honey?”

Amy thought about running, but his hand tightened on her shoulder.

“Amy, I asked you a question.  Did you miss me?”

She nodded, it was all she could manage.

“Good.  Now let’s go home.”

“Please, I want to see my Mommy.”

Daddy ignored her and helped her get into the car.  As he buckled her in, his hand trailed across her chest.  She shivered again.  He kissed her on the forehead like he used to.

“You are mine now,” he said.  He closed the door and the car beeped as he locked it.  He turned back to the kidnappers.

Blue

The walls were the same blue as the sky.  Danielle assumed this was to give one the feeling of not being in this room.  However, it failed.  As she lay on her back, her feet in the stirrups, and a cold sensation between her legs, Danielle was absolutely certain she could not pretend she was anywhere else.

Her hands rested on her stomach, left one balled under the right.  She pulled them into the soft flab of her abdomen, willing herself to think of anything else.  She closed her eyes.  But even in the dark, there was no denying it.

It all started innocent enough.  Boy meets girl.  They fall madly in love and live happily ever after.  Only ‘ever after’ had not been so terribly long.  Three years to be exact.  Then the fairy tale crumbled around them.  Work got in the way, then friends.  Finally, it was like sleeping next to a stranger every night.  They had clung to the charade.  Forcing, willing, things to be like they were.  They had even tried counseling.  But one look at the therapist and Danielle knew they were doomed.  They decided to end it amicably.  He was carrying out the last box of their life together when she had suggested wine. Just a glass.  Then just one more.  Soon two bottles were slipping out of an overfull trashcan and she was slipping out of her panties.

The sex had always been amazing.  The many nights she sat awake dissecting their marriage, it was the one thing she kept coming back to.  The one thing they seemed to have in common.  The night he moved out put all the rest to shame.  And when she woke, he was gone.  It seemed the perfect end.

Until three weeks later and she was late. 

Danielle could hear the doctor’s tennis shoes speak on the tile outside her door.  There was a short, quick knock and he entered, followed by a nurse in bright pink scrubs.  Danielle’s legs twitched, trying to cover up her nakedness, but the stirrups held her in place, exposing her most intimate parts to the sky blue walls.