Carry On

Carry On

*This is the short story that made me fall in love with writing. I had taken an Honors Creative Writing class at my local community college. One of the requirements of the class was to submit three original poems and a short prose to a contest that the school held every year. To my great surprise, my submission for prose won. I still have a copy of the book it was published in sitting on one of my bookshelves.*

A day, like any other day, especially for Dan. Stumbling off the bus, Dan grasped the railing of the bus door with his left hand, and clutched his glasses with his sore right hand to make sure they didn’t slip off and break for the second time this week. Turning around, the bus driver caught a glance of him. Dan was a man in his early thirties, skin black as coal. He wore gloves to hide his fingers, which he was ashamed of because they were yellow from years of smoking. He didn’t smoke for social reasons. He smoked for its calming effect. The bus driver scowled at Dan and said “Are you drunk or what boy? Sober up.” With that the creaky door shut tight and the bus rambled off, blowing heavy exhaust in its trail. Dan looked on while fumbling with the zipper of his jacket. “Asshole!” he yelled at the retreating bus. Pausing from the matter of his coat, Dan gave the middle finger with his free right hand. Dan wasn’t drunk. He was autistic, and with his degree of autism came with it a lack of balance and coordination.

On his right hand a large bandage was covering the lower part of Daniel’s thumb where it met the palm. A month prior he had cut himself on the meat slicer at the deli that he worked at. A good portion of skin went into the freshly sliced meat. The scream he let out startled the deli’s patrons. A couple children began to cry out of fear. Dan wasn’t allowed to leave until he finished his shift. As he made his way to the hospital with his hand wrapped in a bloodied towel, he wondered what happened to his missing skin. Now, on his right hand is a keep scar. It still caused Dan pain. And it was most likely that it would for quite some time.

Inching his way home Dan gave up on trying to zip his jacket. As he cursed it for not cooperating with him and for apparently being a part of the massive conspiracy that seemed to dwell in his life, a bit of drizzle landed on his glasses. He looked up and noticed the collection of clouds that gathered overhead. “Oh fuck” he said while wrapping his arms around himself and picking up his pace. Just another grievance to add to the list.

“Tck, God I hate this face,” Dan said to his self as he saw his reflection in a store window. “Only two more blocks to go, then I’ll be fine” he thought. He had forgotten to take his Zoloft that morning and now felt his depression setting in, one of the most debilitating symptoms of autism. He needed it to function with some degree of normalcy; degree being the key word. The med’s negative side affect was that it made Dan an emotional zombie. But Dan felt he rather not feel anything than feel the sinking depression that was beginning to tighten its hold on him at that very moment.

“Only a little ways to go. I’ll make it” Dan said to himself. His shoulders hung low as if his jacket was made of lead. Dan’s eyes looked on as the world around him seemed to move without him; A world with no pity or patience for the likes of him. Perhaps someday understanding would come, but not today. He was in reach of his apartment. He saw his stoop, the one that badly needed re-cementing. “I’m not going to give you the satisfaction,” he said as he approached his apartment door. After fumbling with his keys and tending to the lock he looked back with a facial expression most curious. “I will not give.” As quickly as he said that, he retreated inside and the door shut tight.


Revealing the Art

Revealing the Art

One thing I’ve learned from my experiences so far is that writing just doesn’t “happen”. The whole romantic idea of sitting down at a keyboard, or your preferred writing medium, and just flowing with words isn’t real. If anything, you’re at the mercy of the literary spirits. Sorry. Your mental bubble is undoubtedly burst. How will you ever go on in life?

The famous artist Michelangelo once said in regards to one of his sculptures, “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” Writing I would have to say is quite similar. The work can’t be forced into the world, but rather the artist must quiet their minds and listen for the voices of their characters to make themselves known. Sometimes they will speak louder than avalanches, facilitating a torrent of words to paper. Other times they will be shy, silent as the grave. In these instances, you almost feel like a medium at a séance pleading for your characters to do something as simple as issue the smallest of whispers. Once this is done, it’ll become easier to coax the others into existence.

If you poke and prod beyond their liking, they’ll rebel and leave you in unnerving silence. Even worse, you might get the equivalent of writer’s diarrhea, where to your horror you’ll find what resembles utter, unequivocal crap.

So far, not only do we then find the process less romantic than we originally idealized, as well as more time consuming and tedious, but it also can be extremely nerve racking. Once the words have finally been divinely revealed, you’ll undoubtedly have a moment of clarity akin to when Dr. Frankenstein first looked on his monster with horror, repulsed by his ungodly work. A story is never ready to serve without a little mending. No matter how awesome of a writer you think you are, it’ll take a number of re-reads and editing until the words are arranged in a fashion that isn’t gibberish.

Years ago I was introduced to a wonderful poem by Anne Bradstreet. Her poem speaks about the relationship of an author with their book, and the feelings they have towards it. Because I feel it would be a disservice to “hack” the poem into a sample size, I present it to you in its entirety.

The Author to Her Book

By Anne Bradstreet (1678)

Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain,

Who after birth did’st by my side remain,

Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true

Who thee abroad, expos’d to publick view;

Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge,

Where errors were not lessened (all may judge)

At thy return my blushing was not small,

My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,

I cast thee by as one unfit for light,

Thy visage was so irksome in my sight;

Yet being mine own, at length affection would

They blemishes amend, if so I could:

I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw,

And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.

I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,

Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet;

In better dress to trim thee was my mind,

But nought save home-spun cloth, i’ th’ house I find.

In this array, ‘mongst vulgars mayst thou roam

In critics hands, beware thou dost not come;

And take thy way where yet thou art not known,

If for they father askt, say, thou hadst none:

And for thy mother, she alas is poor,

Which caus’d her thus to send thee out of door.

Bradstreet’s poem speaks about her work, in this case either a book of poems or stories, given to her friends for review. In perhaps their poor judgement, or themselves being too kind in their critique, forwarded her work for outside criticisms, unknownst to Mrs. Bradstreet from what the poem implies. Upon its return with criticism, she was greatly embarrassed. Instead of trashing her book, having spent a great deal of energy on it already, she takes a little more to fix its flaws to the best of her abilities, though she herself admits she’s ill equipped in her writing tools to fashion it just the way she would like it. Never before have I read a creative description of a writer and their work that both was entertaining and true at the same time.

What should be taken out of all my ramblings is that writing is a labor of love. Often times there is no other reward than the satisfaction you get on making something that at least one other person may enjoy. Like any craft, it takes times to hone, hammering away at the dull blade of a novice until it becomes the sharp sword of one with experience. The process itself isn’t all roses and butterflies, but often times harsh reality. It’ll test you and make you question whether or not you’ve chosen to pursue the right endeavor. The finished product may also create more doubt, making you want to throw it out the window, sell your typewriter, make origami of your writing paper, and take a 9 to 5 job.

But in the end, when all the doubt is exhausted and the stars align, you’ll find yourself face to face with what you’ve been striving for; this child that was hidden in the paper and the ink, the writer’s blocks and the long sleepless nights, the doubt and self-loathing, and hopefully what you’ll see will make it all worth it.

The Lonesome Journey

The Lonesome Journey

*This was one of the poems I wrote and submitted to the same competition that my short story had won, yet regretfully not my poems. I haven’t given much hand to them in a while, though I want to pick it up again soon.*

Do you seek a world apart,

A peaceful land aside

Where your wandering heart

And long-lost hopes reside?

Down the perilous path,

Past the fallow tree,

Beyond all human wraith,

In the mountain’s lee;

There lies the tranquil vale

Where I shall endure my life,

Away from this godless gale

And this woeful world of strife.

Take my hand and follow me;

Let us make our leave.

Travelers on this road are we.

That, you must conceive.

Beyond all mortal sake,

Away from needless blame;

The Journey is difficult to take

And life is just the same.

I think they call that Irony

I think they call that Irony

*This is the second webcomic panel I did as a sequel to the first. I had the third in the works but never completed it. I think it’s about time I did. As a side note, chess is one of my favorite games, so that’s why I chose it as the focus of the comic until I decided on a better overall idea. As anotehr side note, I suck at the game. I might be able to get better if I could actually find someone that would PLAY WITH ME!



For Love and Karaoke

For Love and Karaoke

*This was actually a creative writing essay I did for my English Classical Backgrounds class. It’s to mirror in a way Plato’s “Symposium,” which deals with a group of friends talking about love. The assignment called for actually having a conversation with others, but due to my “smart” phone deciding to reset itself, I lost all my audio recordings. After a few hours of pity and YouTube binge watching, I decided to recreate the whole evening in my own fashion. I rather like what I came up with.*

At 8:45 PM it was still too early for the Saturday night crowd, but there still was a handful of people in bar. Not enough though to begin karaoke. The woman operating the songs computer sat readying the request slips and pens. Victoria, Scott, and myself already had our selections filled out in our hands. A generic top 100 song played in the background over the sound system.

“So what are we doing again?” asked Victoria as she double checked her song entry, making sure it was the one she wanted to lead with. She idly tucked some of her long black hair behind her left ear, as she often did.

“I need to ask you guys some questions about love for school,” I answered. “Ever read Plato’s ‘Symposium?’ It’s something like that. But except being in someone’s home, we’re in a bar. What better place for love?”

Victoria giggled at this. “Right?” she said with a merry tone. Satisfied with her song selection, she placed the small slip of paper back down on the bar’s counter.

“How should we start?” asked Scott, Victoria’s fiancé. Both of them made a fine couple. Both wore glasses, and both on this evening wore red shirts. The level of cuteness almost made me gag.

I raised my Tennessee honey whiskey and Coke and said, “I think in honor of the Greek’s of old, we should first offer libations to the gods.”

“Which one?” said Scott.

“Why, Dionysus of course. The god of merriment and drunken debauchery.”

“Here, here,” said Victoria.

Glasses raised, we clinked our glasses together. I always order a whiskey and Coke, loving the sweetness as it hits my tongue and then pours down my throat. I rarely deviate from it.

“Alright,” I said once we all took swigs from our drinks. “First question: How and where do you see the concept of love being represented in our culture?”

Scott began first at this. “We really only see ‘love’ in the media. You know, like movies, television, news, tabloids. They really don’t have much to say in the way of positive love, but really who’s shaking up with who, who just recently split up, and then right away they are with some other woman.”

“So it’s very hypocritical is what you’re saying.”

“Exactly. All we are shown is that relationships are dime-a-dozen; that they are more like passing flings than staying for the long haul.”

“Yeah, I totally agree,” said Victoria as she twirled her straw around in her vodka-cranberry. “I really don’t see any sort of values except that love isn’t long lasting. It’s something short term.”

“But where do you see such things?” I said.

“Just like Scott said. We really only see examples of love in the media on tv, internet, the news when they are covering the latest senator or president that is cheating on their spouse for some office ‘bimbo’ that doesn’t even look like she knows how to work a computer.” Victoria took a long sip of her drink. “They probably got hired because of their looks I bet.”

“And what types of love do you see represented in our culture?” I then asked.

“Well, liked I said, it’s all about how love is something that becomes replaceable.” Her hair over her left ear becoming loose, Victoria brushed it back into place.

“I can see that,” I said. “Our whole culture is pretty much the same when it comes to everything else. That washing machine is broken? Not really worth fixing it, so might as well get a new one. It would cost about the same anyway. The television busted? Use that extended warranty to get yourself a replacement. If you get it fixed it only means it would break down again.”

“No one is really interested in the long haul anymore,” said Scott leaning in closer. “Love takes hard work, but everyone just expects it to be rainbows and butterflies from the start. Guess what, it’s not. So people tend to go leave once the going gets tough. Life’s tough, man! Love is a part of life!”

The woman sitting at the karaoke’s song que stood up, making sure her blue dress didn’t show more that her supple knees. Expertly she balanced herself on her black, extremely high-heeled shoes as she grabbed one of the cordless microphones. She always sang the first song of the night, a sort of signal that she was ready to take our requests. I grabbed our slips and left them on her small table as she began to croon along to the words of Adele’s “Skyfall.” As I sat back down to my seat at the bar, I took up the conversation again.

“So you’re saying that people don’t have the attention span to stay with someone long term nowadays?”

Scott shook his head. “I was in a relationship with my high school sweetheart for three years, and then she decided that she just didn’t want to be with me anymore. Still, that was three years, and through high school.”

“Ah, gotcha,” I said. “I guess that really is a part of how you don’t know someone until you’ve spent enough time with them; Their personality, their ticks; and it also gives both people enough time to see if there’s any staying power, or whether one or both people will realize that they’ve slowly changed, and just aren’t compatible anymore.”

Scott looked at me unsure. “Well, yeah. I guess that could be so.”

Before either one of us could continue on the topic, the karaoke maiden called out, “Nick, you’re up hon.” She motioned me over with the microphone that she just had been using.

I took to the mic, and soon was belting out my rendition of Selena Gomez’s “Like a Love Song.” I sucked. But I had fun sucking. My friends, along with a few kind bar folk, gave me a polite round of golf clap applause.

“Good job,” said Victoria cheerily.

I shrugged. Victoria’s name was soon announced, and she took to the mic herself. “King of Anything” by Sara Bareilles issued over the loud speakers, in Victoria’s voice. Of course she definitely sang better than me.

“So Scott,” I said while still showing attention to Victoria’s performance. “What ideas or notions do you think are typically associate with love in our culture?”

He looked away from Victoria and considered the question. “I have to definitely say the whole ‘white picket fence, little house, and small family’ image comes to mind.”

“That’s a throwback to the 50’s and 60’s, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t mean that people still don’t spout that when they tell their kids about it how things use to be and still should be. It really goes with how America tries to doubletalk its way around being loose with its morals. We tend to say one thing, and yet do another.”

“Like, “Do as I say, not as I do.’”


I nodded at those. “My stepdad said that on a few occasions.”

Victoria came traipsing back to the counter. “I think it’s your turn, babe.”

“Scott, come on up honey,” called the karaoke woman.

Scott took to the mic. Keeping with our theme, he went into his rendition of Toby Keith’s “Whiskey Girl.” Scott always killed his songs.

“How about you girl?” I asked Victoria. “What ideas or notions do you think are typically associated with love?”

She frowned at this in contemplation. “I think everyone hopes for their ‘happily ever after,” she said while showing the Disney themed tattoos that were visible on her arms. “It never happens like that, but I like the idea. To find that someone you’ll be so happy with that you’ll never want another.”

“That ties in with the notion of ‘finding your soulmate,’” I offered. “It’s a very nice thought, but in a world of 7 billion some people, is it really that feasible to happen? To find that missing piece in the crowds and the confusion of everything?”

Victoria shrugged. “I dunno. Doesn’t make it any less of a nice thought.”

I mulled this over, listening to the rest of Scott’s voice blaring over the loudspeakers. By now, the bar’s regular Saturday night crowd had mostly filtered in through the double doors. Regulars came up, filling out their request slips, and then flittered about the bar either playing pool or nursing their drinks until their song came up. After Scott had finished, excepting more applause than both Victoria and I had collectively gotten, he sat back down as the next person took up the microphone. Out drinks were soon replenished by our Elvira wannabe bartender.

Whether or not the crowd had observed the theme we had created with our song choices, or because the universe wanted it to continue, the karaoke woman took to the microphone again after the random bar person. This time, she sang a sultry version of “Same Old Love.”

Further encouraged, I asked my two friends, “How does your experience of love align or contrast with the way it is represented in our culture?”

Scott, also equally covered in Disney tattoos, with the rose from “Beauty and the Beast” on his left thigh, grabbed his fiancé from behind and held her tight to his chest. They each went back and forth, saying that they had both found each other in a time in their lives where they weren’t looking for love. Each one of them were in a relationship prior that they should have left sooner, finding that their partner was either verbally or emotionally abusive. Once they realized that it was beyond saving, it just happened to fall into place for them; both of them having been friends for years after all. They made sure to acknowledge that they still had their share of arguments and disagreements, but they were both in it for the long run, so it was okay. It was part of what love was, though not part of what was discussed of love publically.

“And do you two think our culture demonstrates a negative or a positive take on the concept of love?” I asked.

“Um, I’m not sure what that ultimately means,” said Scott.

I took the lead then, saying “I really don’t think our culture says anything in the way, negatively or positively. It’s like everyone is an unbiased newscaster when it comes to it. ‘Just the facts’ and the like. I guess it just ties back into how we are so wishy-washy in whole. We tend to say one thing, and then do another. Never making up our minds. Eggs are good; eggs are bad; egg whites are good, but the yolk is bad. Just so… wishy-washy, you know?”

“Ah,” exclaimed Scott.

A couple in their early to mid-thirties was next up to the karaoke microphones. The guy, sporting his Padres ball cap with pride, bounced back and forth from foot to foot, as he readied himself for his song. When the Backstreet Boys’ “Larger than Life” started, the pair went full out.

“Love is so impersonal if you really think about it,” said Scott. “In the media that is. There’s so much crap on television about dating shows, and reality dating, people displaying their dysfunctional relationships for everyone. Love really gets shown as being a dime a dozen.”

“Oh I know,” chimed in Victoria. In the background, the karaoke couple were exclaiming, “Your love’s affecting our reaaaaaaality.” “There’s so much crap out there in the public eye about relationship scandals that it makes it sound like it’s a normal occurrence. That it’s to be expected. I don’t like that!” She sipped at her vodka-cranberry. “You know me, I’m part Aztec, and crazy. If a man were to do that to me, I’d cut his balls off.” She demonstrated with her fingers making a snipping motion. “Like that.”

“For me,” I said, “I also notice all of the legal issues that gay couples still are fighting for marriage equality. Yeah, we have the right to marry now, which is a great leap forward. But to see all of these angry people taking to Twitter, Facebook, the news, about how marriage is something reserved between a man and a woman, and they wouldn’t acknowledge these types of marriages. And if they are in a position to assist in marriages, they won’t lift a finger for it. How hurtful is it being told by another human being that your rights and beliefs don’t Stevener, so much so that they shun you like in an Amish culture? Where is the love in that?”

Victoria and Scott looked at me and nodded. “It sucks man,” said Scott.

We nursed our drinks as the couple enthusiastically finished their boy band song. They did a good job I thought. Next up was one of the bar’s regulars. He grabbed the microphone, him in his simple jeans and button up bowling shirt. As he threw his head back, quite bald in his later age, he began to sing,  “Can anybody… fiiiiiind meeeee… somebodyyyyyy… toooooooo loooooooove…” I never heard Queen so butchered before in my life.

“Anyway,” I said turning away from the frightfulness of the performance. “Next question: How do you think our culture defines love?”

“What is this?” asked Beatrice, our Elvira look-alike bartender. She picked up the printed paper I had set out on the bar outlining the essay requirements and questions. She quickly looked it over, then placed it down saying, “I’m being really nosey aren’t I?”

“It’s homework,” I said. “I have to ask people questions about love, and what better place than in a bar?” I chuckled.

“She should answer!” said Victoria gleefully. She patted her hands together, pleased with her idea. “Ask her Nick. She’ll have a great answer I’m sure!”

I picked up the paper and repeated the question for the bartender. She seemed surprised for a second, but then shrugged it off like any well trained woman who deals with drunken horn-balls on a nightly basis could.

“I for one thing think love is something that eventually runs out. Like yeah, we fall in love, but do I think that we stay in love? No way. It all eventually fades. So you might as well have fun with it does, right?”

“Do you think our culture defines love like that?” I inquired further.

“Oh yeah, of course. Does it look like any of these people we see are staying together forever? Heck no!” She gave me a playful nudge with the back of her hand. “They’re hooking up with the next person given the first chance.”

Beatrice gave me a cheeky grin, then continued on down the bar to fulfill another waiting patron’s drink order.

“What about you Victoria?” I asked.

“For me, I see culture saying that love is something that we all eventually get into. That someday you’re going to get married, have kids, get that little white picket fence. It’s just expected.” Victoria rolled her eyes. “Now, give me my dog and my books, and I’m good!” She looked over at Scott and winked at him.

Her fiancé shook his head and smiled. “I think I’d love a cigarette. I’ll be right back.” He kissed her on the forehead and went out back.

“I definitely can see that,” I continued with Victoria. “Love is a concept that has become an expected eventuality. Holy even. Religion regard marriage with reverence, with a sense of the solemnity. The Catholic religion holds marriage as a sacrament. I can also understand that some people would get upset if others are trying to get married outside of their religious beliefs, but the whole trying to press it down on other people, it’s very inconsiderate. To force your beliefs on someone just because you don’t personally hold them. That’s another Stevener however.”

As I tried to get back to topic, my name was called again for my next selection. “Sweet Transvestite” from the Rocky Horror Picture Show was my best song, so I made sure it was always a karaoke selection. True, not really in the theme of “love,” but I loved to sing it. After I did a rendition worthy of Tim Curry, I walked back to the bar. Sitting in my seat and greeting me with a round of applause and a killer smile was Steven. His smile could kill baby seals with its cuteness.

“Great job mister,” he said still smiling.

“Steven!” I said surprised. I threw my arms around him and hugged him tight. “I was getting worried that you weren’t coming!”

“Ha-ha. Yeah sorry about that. Took me a little longer to get ready.” He winked.

After Scott came back from his smoke break, the four of us proceeded to take the time to listen to the increasingly ever drunk bar goers who took to the microphone. I’d never seen a more hilarious version of Prince’s “Purple Rain” until that night. A drink and a half later, I explained to Steven my school assignment.

“So does that mean you’re going to ask me now?” he said.

“Of course.” I smiled cheekily. “So, starting with you, what does our culture get right or wrong about our concept of love?”

“Love can be definitely a beautiful thing,” said Steven while nodding. “Love motivates people to become better, to do things that normally we would be too hesitant to do, or too full of pride to do it.”

“So you’re saying love is very powerful?” I offered.

“Oh very much so. Beautiful and powerful. I’ve seen enough of movies that claim the whole ‘love conquers all.’ And I’ve have to agree. The same could go for the opposite side of things. Someone hurt by love can do very harmful things. Kill, steal, hurt, etc.”

“It’s nothing to be taken for granted,” interjected Victoria. “It’s capable of anything.”

“Look at Homer’s ‘Iliad,’” I said. “The story says that the war was started because of Helen of Troy. One nation wanted to keep her; One nation wanted to get her back. Even though the war took ten years, Paris (the prince who took Helen) wouldn’t give her up. Even with the enemy at their gates, and then eventually destroying their city. And the Greeks wouldn’t leave until they destroyed Troy and took Helen back, even after their heavy losses and being away from their home and family. That’s the power of love.”

“Even though we value relationships very little these days, that type of stuff can happen all in the name of love,” said Scott.

I added, “Though we don’t believe in it, it’s still there.” I took a drink and moved on with my questions. “Alright, what about this. I’ve been thinking about this one. Does love only mean romantic love? Can’t we love our job, or the things we do, and find value in them?”

“Of course,” said Steven. “I mean there’s other things more important out there than just love, like our family and finding purpose. But yeah, we can definitely find the worth in loving the things that we do as well. We don’t have to find fulfillment just from the love of another. It would seem just very limiting.”

“What I would have to say is that love is all encompassing,” offered Scott. “It’s a large spectrum that we can find almost anything in. I love Victoria, I love our dog, I love our family, I love my video games… they’re all things that make me happy, you know? So no, it doesn’t have to be just romantic love. Just as long as the things you love make you happy, I think they can be worthwhile.”

I smiled at this, though I probably was also encouraged by my libations. “I love that! Worthwhile! If we can find happiness in that love, it’s worthwhile. Man I wish everyone thought like that. Then we wouldn’t have the name of love associated with the crap that’s on tv.”

“Oh I agree,” said Steven. “But you know why no one will share that? Because it sounds pretty gay outloud.”

I gave Steven a playful jab in the shoulder, and then perhaps encouraged by my buzzed nature, embraced him from behind in a tight hug, which to my glee he returned with a backwards hug. I didn’t care if we were surrounded by drunk straight people in a bar on karaoke night; it was nice.

By the time we all finished our drinks, it was already 12:30 in the morning. I had work six and a half hours later, so we all agreed it was time to go. We settled our tabs, bid Beatrice farewell, and after a last minute restroom break, we all headed out to the parking lot.

“Oh right,” I said once the four of us had neared Scott’s car. “I have one more question I need to ask.” I turned to my friends, a little tipsy I’ll admit. “Do you think love is any easy, or hard thing?”

“Fuck, of course hard,” said Scott. “I live with her after all,” pointing his thumb at Victoria, who sharply punched him in the ass. “Ow! You see what I mean?”

“Again,” said Steven, “it would really depend. It’s both. At one point it’s easy to fall in love, but then it’s hard to keep that love. Or it’s hard to find that love, but once you do, you find that it’s easy to be with them and to love them.”

“I think that’s what the whole evening has really been about,” I said. “’It depends.’ Love is both great, yet unimportant. Weak, yet powerful. Important, yet furthest from our minds. And now easy, while at the same time hard. Sort of fits our hypocritical view as Americans.”

“You can’t categorize love into a neat little box.” Steven mimed the shape of a box, almost like in Madonna’s “Vogue” style. “It’s just too… unpredictable I guess, to just say it’s one thing and not another.”

“Like water. It’s one second a liquid that moves freely, a solid that is hard and unyielding, vapor that appears to be there yet not, and then soft and gentle snowflakes.” I smiled at myself. “I think we got to heart of love.”

Steven pouted at me. “What did I just say about the box?!”

The four of us laughed in the dark parking lot, only surrounded by cars and the night. Steven said his goodbyes to us, and gave me a kiss on the cheek before he went his way to his car. I got into the backseat of Scott’s car as he drove the three of us back to their place where my own car was waiting. As we passed by the lightly lit retreating buildings, I looked over my notes and my voice recordings, remembering the night where we discussed love in a bar with karaoke.





Habits and routines aren’t made over night. Nor are they destroyed any faster, despite what people will have you think.

Up until rather recently I’d been working two jobs: Full time as a concierge and manager, as well as a part time martial arts instructor. I had been fortunate to do both for a good couple years, and I really loved teaching.

Change eventually happens, and I had decided I wanted to further my writing beyond what simply writing could afford me. What should I do? Go back to school, the voice in my head responded.

I had never really attended what would be considered a “traditional” college, always going through the two community colleges that were relatively in driving distance. Since I had gotten my Associate’s in Psychology, it had been years when I actually took my last class. Not because I felt I was finished with schooling; Too busy, too poor, too everything.

Though I had a buffer of years, a ghostly voice that seemed to reside in the back of my mind kept calling to me. They persisted, and when things in my life seemed stable, I had finally decided to take the plunge. Financially, I was okay to cover my apartment while I relied on financial aid for my classes. Work wise, I was into a grove that I felt I could manage around. Socially, well I’ve never been super social unless someone pulled me out of my comfort zone kicking and screaming, so what more harm could it cause?

For the record, I really do enjoy the company of people, no matter how much I might radiate an opposite vibe. I tend to wear “resting-bitch-face” while I’m either deep in thought or trying to nonchalantly be aware of my surroundings. Stemming all the way back when I was the miserable fat boy who did nothing but play Pokemon and video games, I don’t actively seek friendships or company. I’ve had my ego smashed and mangled enough times by others thank you very much. Some hurts never fully heal, only scab over to leave a deep reminder.

Back to the present. My first quarter of school went very well. All A’s and such. The Filipino blood in me rejoiced, as well as the shunned fat kid. It wasn’t until right before the start of my second quarter was to start that the routine I built for myself over the last couple of years began to crack.

Around the same time things were falling into place for me, other certain issues in my life began to take root. The certain things that we often care about yet take for granted in our lives; Health and relationships. My health wasn’t super for some time, but I managed to keep it in harmony. My relationship already had its share of baggage too. But again, it was manageable. Eventually though, everything has a breaking point. And when they broke, I broke.

Relationship imploded on the pressure. Mentally I was done. Soon after, my physical health began to sour. My life began to change away from what I was use to. When you begin to see your life before you fall like sand from an hour glass, the immediate reaction is to grasp before it’s all gone. I had to salvage something.

In my schooling, despite everything, I managed to keep my grades to 4.0. Keep that. My concierge job was steady and paid well. That stays too. My apartment was a little too big for just me, but I had things I wasn’t ready to part with, as well as a cat that likes his personal space. I could manage the cost myself still. That could stay.

Regretfully, along with some other things, my martial arts job had to slip through my hands. My sleep was averaging four hours a night. My stress levels were perpetuating my health issues. Still, it was tough to say goodbye.

I miss the people I worked with, that I trained with. I miss my students. I miss my teacher. Change is sometimes necessary, but it doesn’t make it easier. Some nights, I find myself dreaming that I’m still at the school, teaching alongside all too familiar faces.

Life right now is… different. But I’m managing; A day by day process. Some days are good, some days are bad. Before, I had a well-worn path where I knew largely what I was doing or where I was going. Now, it’s a more like finding a path among tall grown weeds. It’s unsteady and unsure, and will take time before my steps will trod another clear path. My feet still look for the places where it knew to step, only finding debris.

Never take for granted the sameness of your day to day, because eventually it will change. And that familiarity will be gone, replaced by unsureness. Find the things in your life that will keep you anchored against the flood of moving water, like deep rocks in a fast moving stream. If you choose the things that look appealing but with little root, you might find yourself swept in the torrent of change. Plan for change, but enjoy while the sameness lasts.

On a final note, if you want to give the biggest “f-u” to someone, try the old Chinese saying among enemies: “I hope your life is interesting.”

How to Text Hoard like the Professionals

How to Text Hoard like the Professionals

Here’s the scenario. You’ve started writing on that short story or novel, and you’ve completed a great deal of work. You keep on writing along until “BAM!” You’ve hit a dead end. You sit there for a few minutes, or maybe hours, staring at what you have and eventually realize that either the story is not recoverable from where it’s gone. Or, perhaps you’ve just lost interest in the story itself and don’t feel like forcing your way through it.

What now?

Some would be satisfied with trudging through just to complete it. But in my opinion forced work makes weak work. You have to be invested in it.

And I am definitely not saying to send off your hard work on a raft in the middle of a lake and set it ablaze like a Viking funeral. For you dramatic types, I know that’s how you feel sometimes.

When you’ve amassed some good work, simply put it away for safe keeping. If you’ve created a dynamic character or weaved a plot so cool that it kills you to bury it, it’s a crime to bury that six feet under. Time to become a Text Hoarder!

“Text Hoarding” as I call it is when you take work that you’ve either put in lots of time but just can’t see around getting it done, or simple ideas and scribbling that have nothing to do with what you’re currently working on but just can’t bear to let them go, and just file them away. You know, like rainy day savings. Later, it allows you to repurpose that creativity that you put so much of yourself into. We’ve all caught ourselves holding on to something, be it an item or part of something else, and saying we were going to get some good use out of it later. Recycling doesn’t have to be for paper and plastic anymore. And there’s no harm in it, as long as you don’t reuse the same text multiple times that is.

Now, don’t me wrong. I’m not asking you to do anything like collecting newspapers dating back from the early 60’s and walling yourself up with them like you see on the T.V. In today’s era of computers and digital word processors, we don’t have to worry about paper clogging up every little free space we have. All of our work can fit on a tiny USB flash drive. And as technology gets more advanced, memory sizes and its costs go down. So keeping all of that unfinished text doesn’t have to take any physical room. It’s all “1’s” and “0’s.”

I myself have a folder on my laptop with half-a-dozen unfinished short stories or just word documents of random inspiration I couldn’t let go to waste. I even have a black leather bound journal that I carry around with me just in case I get a great idea or overhear a snippet of conversation that I simply must write down at that moment. I can’t always trust my short-term memory on ideas, so best to get them down A.S.A.P. I’ve used a couple of those writings so far, so in my opinion it’s already paying dividends.

So really, hoarding can be a good thing. It may be a month, a year, or a few years till you get the chance to give a second life to that work, but it will be there waiting for you in its creative cryogenic slumber.

We all hate to waste something so good (like a piece of pie). So put it in that fridge called memory till you are ready for it another day. And as I always say, a story untold is a waste and a shame.