Night... clubbin'...

I've spent most of the summer in ways that I cannot account for. There has been lots of work at my job, exceptional amounts of work at home (giving my creative space the overhaul I mentioned a while back). I got rid of a lot of clutter in my room, house, etc. Oh, and I've been playing an MMORPG for those times I can't think. I burned myself pretty hard. This summer has been like the burn ward for me... not a lot of movement, just recovery.

I've written some stories, done some revisions, sent a piece or two out... but I can't think during the summer. I have a supremely difficult time having meaningful, focused "brain sessions" due to the oppressive heat, obnoxious humidity, painful sunlight, and miserable allergens. It has been... lame.

I hold a small, decorative but simple package in my heart. Inside is the thought that I will, someday soon, return to a climate I can live in. These moldy, air-conditioned caves are beyond intolerable. But, you know, that's just me being bitter. I've been sick because of it, and possibly because of the stress caused by it. Self-perpetuating problems. Hm.

I have a pretty challenging semester ahead of me... although I anticipate that it will be a more clear-cut level of activity when compared to last semester, which was a storm of things to do falling all around me like rain drops. I'll be spending some significant time studying Faulkner, which will be excellent, I'm sure.

I've also had some freelance video work recently, which is always nice in terms of extra cash. We're going to Quebec in September and early October (for my birthday), so being able to afford that, and being able to get a little out of debt would be nice. Getting out of debt is very much a forefront desire in my mind right now, at least out from under debt not related to school and/or the house.

I applied for a few writing opportunities this year and nothing panned out... internships, etc. That happens sometimes. Possibly, if I were more prolific they would pan out. Perhaps if I were a better writer they'd have taken me. Oh, but I'm a fine writer... just have been disillusioned recently. Last time I read to an audience I was was met with a... tepid response. I'm finding brain space, though, out of necessity. When I don't write much, the stories start brimming over in my head. That's the tough thing about writing, or being open to it... after a while you can't not write.

Once you feed that dragon, it comes home and lives with you. It takes up a lot of space, changes how you do things. "I'd change this around, but the FRIGGIN DRAGON IS IN THE WAY." "I'd move to a smaller place, but WHERE WILL I PUT THIS DAMNED DRAGON?"

I've been overhauling my website, too. I decided to go with a content management system this time around instead of just building it with straight HTML and/or a Dreamweaver template. The process of learning content management systems for this site and another project I'm working on (a new literary journal... online... ooh ahh, more about that another time) has helped me update my web knowledge. I was tragically behind with very little understanding of PHP or CSS. I'd say I know a bit more now. Maybe I'll buy a book. Maybe an eBook. E-BOOK.

That is all... for now.

ULTIMATELUVKRUSH28.COM at Annalemma.net

My short fiction piece "ULTIMATELUVKRUSH28.COM" is the web feature this week at Annalemma Magazine (annalemma.net). I found out it would be up there a few weeks back, but was holding off announcing it until it was actually up. But, it's actually up now. So, go read it! Go! What are you waiting for? Oh, a link? Head over to annalemma.net

Or, click here to go directly to the story where it will be archived.

Thanks to Chris and everyone at Annalemma for continuously publishing great web features, and for considering my work good enough to appear up there. Also thanks to Andy Luce/Visual Armory for the sweet graphic work.

And thanks to you, blog reader, for being awesome and reading my blog.

More Missing Months

So, I didn't post in March. I have my reasons, of course. I turned around today and realized that freaking April is nearly half over too, so I wanted to pop in and make a quick post.

This semester has been trying to say the least. I've probably said that already before, so bla bla bla. It might be less than meaningless. I have been through some lows this spring that I have not known in some time. It has affected my writing, sadly. I haven't been at a loss for subject matter, ultimately, just lack of time to sit down and bang away. I've pecked a bit, which works, but I ache for more productivity, less bummitude where only dark unfocused things come from. I'll have time and brainspace soon, maybe.

It's a good time for gadgets. I like the iPad, but recognize that it doesn't seem to have massive appeal....... Yet. Apple has a way of making life appear bleak without their flagship product. Never count them out.

I've been playing my bass regularly and revamping my rig, which has been fun spare-time (ha!) material. The bass has always been one of my favorites, and is probably the one I'm best at, if that means anything. So far, have an old Ampeg half-cab that my brother-in-law gave me, and am grabbing an amp head soon (used). Next, I'm selling a less used synth for a new bass. I was debating which one to go for, but ultimately, the classic Fender standard Jazz is the best option. It's got the sound, the flexibility, etc. Good stuff. It'll be great for recording or just playing.

Still waiting for final details on new pub, still waiting for feedback/responses on two solicited subs, and just sorta waiting in general right now. Waiting. I get some if my best ideas while I'm waiting.

Pity.

I needed coffee.  The lines in the book were blurring, and I couldn't get but half of the sentences into my brain in any meaningful way.

The small latte cart in the library is a sort of obscene luxury.  It made the library feel perverted, like a phone booth in a graveyard, like a dumpster in a nursery, like a cellphone tower in a church steeple.  I only bought there out of necessity, having timed my reading down to 1.15 minutes per page, leaving myself just enough time to slam the book closed and run into the classroom before the door closed.

I picked my standard Soy Vanilla Latte, a treat I rarely indulged in anymore since the stomach problems became overwhelming.  While the barista cashier steamed away at the Soy Milk, I stared at the allergen information on the backs of the colorful little packages of snacks.  I sorted them into two categories:  a.) Dairy/Wheat/Verboten, b.) Bland but acceptable.  Selecting a cruel mixture of unsalted mixed nuts, shaved coconut, and dried raisins, I stood by the counter with my credit card balanced on the pages of my book, taking in the scent of the old pages mixed with the over-roasted beans.

She set the cardboard cup down with its "ooh"-ing mouth sighing steam into 72 degree air.  

"$5.82," she said, tapping the touchscreen of the register.

I held out my card, but didn't look up, and she took it without looking over.  

"Now," she mentioned, "my machine has been having connection problems all day, so let me try this."  She swiped the card through the reader, and an ominous window popped up.  "Still acting up," she said.  "There should be a sign over there warning people about it."  She craned her neck around the edge of her register to look at the front of the coffee cart where no sign sat except the one with the prices of different cafe concoctions.  "I guess they didn't put it up."

She stared at my coffee, the small trail mix, and then back up at me.  I closed my book.

"Do you have any other form of payment?"

I stared at my card, still held in her right hand.  

"No," I said.  My pocket cash was gone from last night's trip to the next nearest major metro for a big game.

"Well, there's supposed to be a sign."  

I nodded.  I shrugged.  I wasn't sure what else to do.  

"Well, you can have the coffee, but I can't give you this," she said, lifting the package of fruit and nuts off of the counter and placing it out of reach.  I watched it float away.

"Alright," I said, "thanks.  If the machine begins working again, will you please let me know?  I'd like to pay for these," I said, indicating the coffee and the now distant trail mix.  

She nodded, and I turned to go back to my seat, flopping the book back open on my lap.

Coffee will do, that's all I really needed anyway.  She was nice to let me have it.  Who drinks soy milk if they don't have to?  

I sipped the coffee, letting the subtle vegetation flavor in the foam rest on the broad part of my tongue, a ritual I usually engaged in with lattes to check that it was truly made without dairy.  I guessed that's where I could taste the milk sugars.  There were none.

I read a passage in which the character was considering raping a woman, probably not seriously.  I scanned the lines, flicking my eyes over his scattered thoughts.  His logic was flawed, but so was the situation, so it was hard to hold him in any low regard, or in any high regard.  

The cashier leaned in over my shoulder, and I looked up at her over my glasses.  She held out the trail mix, and I regarded it.

"One of the students over there wanted to buy this for you," she said, a faint smile on her face.  

"Oh," I said.  I leaned out to peer beyond the cashier.  She glanced over her shoulder and back quickly.  

"They wanted it to be anonymous," she said.

"Oh," I said.  I bit my lower lip.  "Thanks," I said, "that's really nice."    

She nodded, smiling openly now.

Someone had done a good deed, and she had gotten to be a part of it.

I slid the package onto the small wooden table on which my coffee sat and stared at it.  It had filberts in it.  My father is allergic to filberts.  I wondered how many filberts were in it.  Probably only a few.  I couldn't see any through the tree-shaped window on the bag.  It was a tropical mix, apparently.  It was manufactured in a plant that also processed dairy, wheat, tree nuts, and soy.  

I felt my blush rise, my face going horribly red the way it always does when I get that pressure down to the tip of my nose, or when I'm drinking.  

I wondered if the student who bought it realized I was a student, too.  A Junior getting a late start in a formal education.  I wondered if they thought I was one of the public visitors to the school's library, doing research, or just using the computers to check my email.  I wondered if they thought I was one of the homeless men who sometimes visited the library to read the news online.  

I straightened my collar, and brushed some of the cat fur off of the cuff of my sweater.  There was so much of it, now that I was looking.  I wondered if they thought my card was declined.  I wondered if they were sitting over there at their table feeling good about themselves, feeling like they did someone a favor.  If they were, I knew they would carry that goodness in their pocket for the rest of the night, and finger it under their pillow as they drifted off to sleep, a satisfied smile on their lips.

I opened the bag and ate a raisin.  Shame swelled in my chest.  I had wanted to pay.  I was waiting to pay.  I had the ability.  I wasn't needy, I didn't ask for this charity.  I didn't want it.  

I had walked into the library with a sweater I bought in an English Sports shop in Bermuda, the same place that outfitted gentlemen with cricket whites.  I wore a pair of designer jeans, my favorite leather sneakers, and a brand new snap-brimmed hat.  I was on top of things, all about my business.  I had known I was classy and smart.  

Now my pride was limping, nursing a blow to the upper thigh.  

I wondered if they were praising themselves right now for being a good citizen.  I wondered if they were picturing me eating handful after handful, the first food I had eaten in 3 days, my stomach greedily lurching at nutrition.    

I thought about setting the bag of fruit and nuts on the table and leaving, but instead I took a bite of shredded coconut, ate an almond, a date piece, a chunk of papaya.  Soon all that remained in the bag was the single filbert I had been warned about.  I pulled it from the small tear I had made in the bag, and stared at it.  

Filberts are ugly.  They're hard, and they have no moisture in them.  They crumble into dust in your mouth, and they smell like that Belgian chocolate that always gives me a headache.

I placed the filbert on my molars, and bit down, feeling it shatter.

I pictured them watching me crunching the nut I typically avoid, though I've never had an adverse reaction to it.  I pictured them staring across the room at me, one pair of anonymous eyes keeping vigilant watch over their ward, placing their hand over their mouth, and smiling as I brought each bite to my mouth.  I pictured them lifting their eyes up to the heavens and blinking reverently, thinking of that piteous fellow who had his heart set on trail mix.

There, but for the grace of God, go I.      

43 seconds left and only 31 shots on goal.

I've realized recently that my home workspace (office/studio/whatever it might be called) has not really been conducive to inspiration of any manner.  It needs an overhaul.  Either that, or I do.  My brain has not been able to be so focused as I'd like it to... or it has, and there has just been so much to focus on that I'm mistaking a general inability with a specific, recent collection of too-much-to-do. 

I've been given an other opportunity to have my fiction published.  I'm not saying where just yet (not until the details are completely firmed up), but it is a fairly young journal, definitely aesthetically pleasing, and recently gaining notoriety and recognition.  Anyway, my work will be a web feature as they are currently between themed print editions.  I'll share a link here and on my site when the time arrives. 

I think you'll enjoy the piece. 

Nota Bene PDF available for download.

The 2009 edition of Nota Bene (in which I have two pieces) is available for download.

You can acquire it here.

Thanks for everyone who has contacted me with supportive messages.  You guys are upstanding, notable persons.

For the record.

I got my 2009 Nota Bene (the Anthology I'm in) yesterday in the mail.  It looks nice.

As soon as they post the anthology online (they usually do in PDF form) I'll add a link to the site, and probably add the pieces up there on the site too, since they're out anyway.

In the meantime, check your local Community College library for the business.

Everything else is going well.  I'm playing sports again (bizarre ones... it seems I'm attracted to unusual sports), going to a few concerts, and figuring out what I want to do for my 30th Birthday.  Maybe Bermuda?  Maybe Tokyo?  Maybe I can barely afford either and should be saving my money for grad school?

Refined and cultured... but not, like, in the "monocles and walking sticks" way.

I've been of the opinion for quite sometime that one should only define themselves as a writer if, in fact, they write... and regularly. This does not excuse my lack of a November and December 2009 posts, but I must confess I found myself overwhelmed with the end-of-the-semester flurry of exams, term papers, projects, fiction revisions, work, preparing for vacation, and other lifestyle changes (we got a dog, for instance).

Anyway, I'll just assume I'm forgiven. Onward then.

A friend and fellow writer asked me, recently, how my previous semester went, in terms of fiction critiques/workshopping, etc., and in summarizing it for him, I was struck by a few thoughts that I should probably share.

First, everyone who has workshopped fiction or had their fiction workshopped has likely realized that you cannot please everyone (and, in some cases, anyone). I was thinking about how one person might assert that a particular story speaks deeply about some social situation, while another person reading the same story might think of it as being hackneyed. How does one respond to polar criticism?

They think of it as opposing breezes. A breeze is nice, sure, and it may cool you or warm you temporarily, but breezes are only trickles of air. Breezes don't fill your sails. The winds, though, can catch those wide canvasses and can take you magnificent places... and no one man makes the wind. Also, if they wind isn't heading where you want, you can draw those sails back in and weather the storm... or just see where the winds take them, knowing that it is not necessarily the end of the journey.

There comes a point at which a writer must detach themselves from the academic umbilical cord and set out on their own journey toward realizing their fiction, honing it, and refining their skills. Ultimately, each writer must steer their own ship and find their own winds. The basic skills remain the sturdy foundations (and sometimes they require a return and re-examination), and there is certainly a constant learning process and growing process, but the journey is individual. I know mine has borne no resemblance to any other I've heard of.

Now, here's a broad, sweeping statement about art.

My opinion has always trended toward "technique" being the defining line between "art" and "expressed creative energy." This is why I don't typically appreciate Jackson Pollock work.

So, applying this model to writing, learning to create impressions deliberately, to alter moods with skill, to frame and craft everything as a function of your hand guiding the material rather than some external force influencing the ebb and flow of the fiction, or no force at all directing the lay of the words... these are the factors of the writing craft that will, at some point, bring a writer's skills into a new place, or into a new realm of refinement.

I've found a few books (oh no reading!!) specifically about the craft of writing that have been really useful in pointing toward the ultimate move toward deliberate creation.

...

Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft (Burroway, Stuckey-French, Stuckey-French)

This particular text has exceptional notes about sculpting fiction into something more refined, and makes a number of important points on the brick-and-mortar of the craft as well. Lovely in the book is the inclusion of specific examples from a number of stalwarts of Fiction. Though it is a "text book" in the traditional sense, I would say that it is well worth a read by any writer/author aspiring to be published.

...

Making Shapely Fiction (Stern)

This text is a fantastic tool for writers at varied points along their journey. I keep it around as a reference text, for that is how it approaches the craft of fiction, at least in one section - it takes common fiction terminologies and defines them in such a way that the definitions simultaneously provide direct information to the uninitiated while lending inspiration to the already informed. There are exercises which are useful as well, a general treatise on the process of writing, and considerations of common snags that writers have experienced. Again, a good reference for beginners or for seasoned scribes looking for a "back to basics" type of inspiration.

...

Hooked: Write Fiction That Grabs Readers at Page One & Never Lets Them Go (Edgerton)

Though I must confess that I have never read this book from cover to cover, I have personally picked up a number of good tips from it on beginnings, which, in terms of getting published, are so very damned important. Is it an essential text for everyone? Not necessarily, but if you have trouble building front-end hammers, you may find something of use here.

...

Of course, there are so many texts out there that proclaim they are an essential reference for the aspiring writer, but one might be wise to carefully select the texts to which they pay heed... even these ones I've listed can be overbearing to the writer who has yet to develop a personal direction. Read lightly, in other words, and love those tips that you find that sing to your spirit.

Remember, also, that the best education comes from simply doing the thing... write, submit, share, participate. Don't forget to read books by other authors, and read broadly (get out of your "genre"), and consider what you've read, and don't feel compelled to like every novel, short story, or poem you come across.

Also, there is so much more.

A quick link.

Another press release regarding Nota Bene, this one from my former school, mainly talking about the publication related to my work in it. I'm dodging saying "this one is about me" because I'm all modest and whatnot.

http://valenciacc.edu/news/news_detail.cfm?ArticleID=285

Learning to be quiet...

I'm learning to be quiet right now. It's harder than it sounds...

We are living in an increasingly techno-centric society, and are finding our attention divided into smaller, and smaller portions, with smaller and smaller amounts of time to devote to each portion. Workplaces are expecting higher and higher output while providing fewer and fewer opportunities for advancement, and raises.

Humanity is moving toward the brink of a system-wide nervous breakdown.

What are you doing to counteract it?

I'm learning to be quiet right now. It's harder than it sounds...

Especially when my cellphone keeps going off, and my computer is beeping at me, and the TV screens are telling me what to buy and watch and listen to and live for, and the radio is blaring at me. Our incredibly high concentration of communication is creating people who are unable to communicate, and we are, in essence, backsliding into the dark ages again.

What are you doing to counteract it?

I'm learning to be quiet right now. It's harder than it sounds...

"Multitasking" is one of the most egregiously terrible myths that has been perpetuated on society, and it is high time that people were aware that it is, in fact, impossible to multi-task. We simply rob from the quality of execution of one task with our poor, half-hearted efforts toward another. We're reducing our over all quality while doing more simultaneously. The entirety of the quality of work is reduced further as this myth continues to be spread as a buzzword throughout society, the job market, and the home life.

What are you doing to counteract it?

I'm learning to be quiet right now. It's harder than it sounds...

It involves taking the time to not have pressing tasks forcing one into slathering one's effort thinly across too large a canvas. It requires a devotion to being the best of what you are. It assumes a faith that you can thrive in the silence, and that your small inner voice, quieted by being daily shouted down by the adrenaline and energy drinks coursing through your veins, will learn to speak again.

What are you going to do about it?

I'm learning to be quiet right now. It's harder than it sounds.

The Link to the Press Release

Here's the Press Release for the 2009 edition of the Nota Bene Anthology:

http://www.ptk.org/news/pr/8906

There it is. I'm still jazzed.

Publishingsings

My first internationally published pieces are coming out before the end of the year. I just found out a week or so ago. They haven't officially announced it yet, so I'll not say where, but it is an academic journal that receives submissions from many places across the world and mainly ends up in College Libraries, and the like. Sure, it isn't a professional journal, but as a student still in my undergrad, that's an absolutely peachy opportunity as far as I'm concerned. Two of my pieces will be featured in there: "The Boxer" and "Uncle Benny," for which I was also given an award and scholarship.

Other than being published in my local/school literary magazine (Mosaic), and my journalistic stuff which has appeared in mainly local outlets, this is my first publication. I am excited. Ever since winning that award last year I have been waiting for an opportunity like this.

Here's to my work finding a larger audience so more people can be warped by my point of view. I'm laughing at this point. I'm laughing!

Tomorrow is my birthday... number 29. I'm still young, I suppose. I still feel young, I guess... or anyway I still feel green.

I'm applying to a few literary seminars/workshops in the near future, so keep your fingers crossed (or other superstitious signals of good wishes) for me if you read this.

Rollins has been excellent so far. I've got my first actual workshop on student work this evening... and I volunteered to be in the first batch. Here's hopin' for some good notes from my classmates!

For the love of reading.

Today marks the final day of "Reading Rainbow," a delightful show about reading books hosted by LeVar Burton.

A report on NPR this morning described how children's television programmers have fundamentally re-written the book on educational television shows related to reading. The new focus is simple - the mechanics: phonics, letters, etc.

My question is, what about the JOY of reading? We're ready to teach kids all about how to read, but not WHY to read. Is the point not enticing a future generation with one of the great human art forms, one of the necessities of life, one of the things that gives power to the people?

In an age when we are already seeing declines in recreational reading, business reading, and are seeing corresponding educational difficulties... why would we volunteer to neglect to demonstrate to children that reading is exciting? Have people already forgotten that movable type printing made it possible to communicate with each other in times of difficulty, and that reading was reserved before ONLY for the upper classes? It seems we are heading in that direction once again!

Of course, there must be some sort of response to this shameful course of action. Everyone who can, volunteer to read to children in some place - the local book store, daycare center, library, or community center. If no one shows a kid that reading is exciting, the chances of them discovering it on their own... are not so good.

I recall the community centers and libraries of my youth in New England. There were films, books, excitement... a place where a child would genuinely enjoy their time around books, and in books. We learned to love the written word not for the power it gave us, but for the places it took us. We had, always, a secret world at our fingertips... a secret power to travel wherever the words and our minds could take us. It is a joy we have NEVER forgotten, and whey I, personally, sit down to read today, I travel through those brambles to the mindscape within every single time.

We must help the next generation see the joy of stories.

The Writing Class

The Writing Class. Those with disposable time which we fill with recording our thoughts, creating witty anecdotes, etc. You'd know if you were a member.

Well, I started at Rollins. It seems like it will be an intellectually challenging environment. I am a little concerned that there is no devoted literary magazine published on campus, but I have some ideas about that. (Edit: Actually, there is!! Specs Journal, it's called. I'm totally gonna go volunteer).

Every once in a while, as I sit in one of those hot Florida classrooms, I think to myself "this is not New York," and get a little twinge of regret, but those might be getting smaller. It's just time to focus and learn as much as I can again... get to business, and bear in mind where I am going. Everything on the school front moves that direction.

Of course, there is a fundamental issue with the full-time work, full-time school scenario... and it isn't that I'll be too busy to do anything socially (I am terribly unsociable, or asocial if you will). I am concerned that as I delve further into English that my job, which juts out in another direction, will become less satisfying to me on a weekly basis. I suppose that's all up to me, ultimately.

My birthday is next month. I'll be 29. No laments there, I just need to keep working. I hate inspirational quotes, and typically think people who regurgitate "ancient parables" and "snippets of wisdom" sound like jackasses (with a very few exceptions), but it has been said that most people quit their efforts just before they break. I have no idea how long it will be before I experience any sort of break, or if I will experience some sort of break, but I am going to keep working like it is just over the next hill.

A few days in to classes and I'm filled with inspiration, hope, and... a little bit of fire.

As they say at Rollins, "Fiat Lux."

Indeed.

Where you're headed?

I have been meeting some phenomenal fiction critique-givers this semester. It's almost like they have an instant sense for what a piece needs to bump it up to another level... an instinct. So much good advice.

Each of them is, or has been at one time, a total moron when it comes to their own work.

I don't mean that in a derogatory sense. I mean that it is nearly impossible to apply the same cunning instinct that is normally applied to the critiquing process to one's own work... at first. I've seen it over and over again, especially with myself. I might spend a whole afternoon with my editing pencil out, crafting and reworking, only to have a massive restructuring suggested by my classmates... and find myself actually agreeing that it is the best course of action. Granted, I can't say that every workshop I've ever been in offered the same level of useful advice, nor would I say that I take every bit of advice offered in the most serious light... but the point is that I'm getting critique that I find useful from my classmates, and they seem to pull it out of thin air. And, I find that I am offering the same useful level of critique to them, possibly aiding them in shaping these pieces.

That's the power of a good workshop group.

I think that's the whole point of workshopping your pieces... not necessarily just to get advice on a specific piece, but to get closer to having that instant sense on your own work... to step away from it, look at it objectively, and be able to see the things you see in someone else's work... better organization, specific phrasing, the points you're making and how they might be more effective... these little details.

I'm not sure if other workshoppers would agree with me on this, but I feel very strongly that this is one of the most useful things I'm getting out of the process. I really am examining my own work differently now, taking it apart more, building it back up differently. Maybe it's coming out less awkwardly in the first place, too? Still, have to be careful to not be too careful when I'm there with the pen and the pad. Can't gum up those works... it has to come out after all.

I'm excited to move forward with the next few years of school. There is truly so much left to learn... but more importantly so much still to refine.

Hens that are French.

I don't know when it happened exactly, but I realized recently that I no longer believe in the power of cinema where the participation in its creation is concerned.

Hear me out.

First, I should say that this has not always been the case for me.

Second, I feel it is fair to note that I don't think this is a permanent state for my opinions.

In all the time I spent learning how to edit a film, I never considered that the screenwriters themselves were clumsy story tellers, or that screenwriting was a less-than-optimal format for story telling. All the evidence was there, of course, but my appreciation for the facts of the situation has come much later when I could appreciate the craft a bit better.

How can I take a film edit seriously when the storyteller themselves is unsure of the way to approach the storytelling? I'm essentially attempting to arrange a visual collage of an inexpert tale... essentially inventing story where none exists, smoothing the cracks, making the writer better than the writer, perhaps, is.

As I transition in another direction in my life, moving more toward storytelling, I am acutely aware of the fact that I will need to minimize the amount of time I spend mucking about in other peoples' stories.

Everything with New York fell apart. I've recounted the story so many times at this point that I don't really feel like completely unfolding all of the details here (imagine Bunny from Ed Wood describing his trip to Mexico... "Oh, that.").

The pertinent facts: It was expensive (many 10's of thousands of dollars), it was mostly unsubsidized (we're not in a financial bracket that necessitates much aid by way of Federally subsidized loans), the jobs were thin on the ground, the opportunity to take care of our property here in Florida was not there, and there were a bunch of other issues and things that could have become issues. So, anyway... we're here still and will be for the next few years.

I try not to have too many mantras, but one I definitely say... "one must buy with credit what one cannot afford with value." When I say I couldn't afford it, I realize I could have borrowed all of the money to make it happen. That's not affording it, though. I'm aware of the challenges in the publishing industry currently.

I'm all set up to continue my education here in town. I think things will work out nicely at the school I'll be at. There is a good program there, and I met the head of the program. We got along nicely, and he seems very dedicated to making his department a very unique and high quality place to learn.

What more could you ask for?

Of course, we had so many things aimed in the direction of New York, so there are some concerns... like we sold the wife's car, and were in the process of selling mine. The result? I'm giving her mine (which was the newer one) and figuring out alternative means of transportation. So far, Bicycle, and possibly scooter to supplement. We can get by with one vehicle. We have before. And getting by with essentially "1.5" is feasible.

I'm using this opportunity to fulfill a dream I've had for years... getting a Vespa. I considered a vintage one at first, then a used modern 2-stroke version, then a knock-off (identical copy) 2-stroke from Genuine Scooters (Stella)... and finally settled on an S150 modern 4-stroke. This is sensible for me, the price is right, and its cheaper than another car.

Kudos to blogs like Scooter in the Sticks for reassuring me that daily commuting is possible no matter where you live and what conditions you might be confronted with.

Making the best of things... and why not?

Rhodia, Psychologist.

I was thinking this morning, while driving to work, of a particularly embarrassing moment for me from my youth. We all have many such moments, I'm certain. This particular one was sports-related.

Anyway, I was wondering if seeing a psychologist would help lessen the impact of that embarrassment, that humiliation that still stings decades later. Isn't that what they do? Then again, I considered that my own coping mechanism, my writing, has probably saved me so much money on psycho-analysis. So in that sense, IT IS PAYING FOR ITSELF, HA HA HA. Papa tax-man would probably not appreciate my deducting Rhodia notebooks and fountain pen ink as "medical expenses" on my 1040 this coming year, though.

Finding different work is always such a gigantic pain in the neck. Sustaining one's self is the primary drain on that sustenance. We truly are locked in a never-ending cycle of self-preservation when we are the "working class."

Sloth Dynamics.

This morning I stopped off at my favorite breakfast fast-food joint for a bite since we were out of powerbars (not a good substitute, I know, but I went for it anyway). I ordered my food and the young man behind the counter went about placing the order and preparing parts of it within his sphere of influence. He asked me how my day was, and I said "Well, I'm awake and nearly to work, so I suppose successful so far." He smiled.

I looked down next to the counter sat a small, leather or leatherette bound book of similar size and shape to a bible, but with the Marine Corps logo stamped on it in gold. The lad came back with my food, and I asked, "Did you join up?"

"Yes sir," he said, "October."

"Congratulations," I said.

He must have known I was never in any branch of the service. I'm not tall enough, not steely enough. I don't have "the look" in me. My military contracting barely counts for anything except that I know what it is like to frustrate the Generals of the 9th Army, and how tough it can be to talk sense to a Navy man.

Two days ago the plans for the next few years of my life unfolded in front of me.

Let me explain a bit, since I've been so "not open" in my chronicles of seeking further education. Since I was nearing the end of my time at my current school in Florida, I decided, in the Fall, to busy myself with a head-start on my future education plans. I'm a fairly dedicated student, and am focused on achieving and learning each subject I set out to become educated in, and I have been successful in this particular leg of my education in doing that. Most people would probably say I'm being modest in assessing things thusly - I've had a number of academic distinctions, have served as an officer in an academic honors organization, and have maintained a perfect GPA for the past 3 part-time years of school.

Regardless, my targets for further education in my chosen field (big surprise, English) were some of our nations best schools. I applied to Cornell, Columbia, Oberlin, Brown, and Yale. Yale was certainly my main target, and it was not because of my distaste for the other schools... certainly Oberlin, Brown, and Columbia all had HIGHLY regarded English programs, perhaps more highly regarded in many circles than Yale's (especially Columbia's), but Yale had writers I wanted to learn from, and an enticing environment to study in. The fact that it was one of the "three" (Harvard and Princeton being the other two, neither of which is accepting transfer students this year for various reasons, Princeton because they never do, and Harvard because they find themselves without the space) did not dissuade me in any way.

I was fairly hopeful about my chances, having received a number of good recommendations from people I respect, and crafting my essays in a very specific manner. In the end, I was called in for an interview. In the program I applied to, only about 1 in 5 people were called in for an interview - the rest were essentially rejected. So, I flew up to New Haven to interview, and it went well, I thought. Of course, you know where this is going from my "I thought" comment. They eventually said no. About 1 in 3 of the interviewees were accepted and I was not one of them.

Meanwhile, throughout this process, I received rejections from Cornell, Oberlin, Brown, and acceptances to the local schools I applied to (University of Tampa, University of Central Florida) and some other schools I thought looked interesting (The New School in New York, and their Riggio Writing Fellowship), but most interestingly was a rather quick and enthusiastic acceptance to Columbia.

Granted, some people argue that the program I got into is fundamentally different than the one people get into as Freshmen, but I'm after educational quality, not status. Though I may be the product of prep schools, I'm clearly not "that" anymore. I am and will remain a property owner. I've got more to worry about than I did at 19, though I so infrequently am relieved of that worry anymore. It fuels me to some degree, I suppose. Regardless, I'm heading to New York. We shall all clasp hands in glory by and by.

Our trip to the keys was impressive. We camped, we drove, we kayaked, ate fantastic pizza at the No Name Pub, visited Hemingway's house and his aloof descendants of his cats, saw a former Navy ship that was headed to the bottom about 6 miles offshore to become a reef soon (it has now been scuttled, coincidentally, the USS General Dwight Vandenburg, I believe was its name). There are so many more details and pictures, but I'll let those be elsewhere for the time being.

I didn't post in May. I did, though, graduate from a school in May. There's also a story behind that.

Yes, I am writing. I'm working on the book again. Shh, that's a secret.

Fortunes.

I just had the fortune of hearing an interesting talk about a prominent media figure, and the talk focused on how he knew no other way than to inexhaustibly seek opportunities.

What a phenomenal lesson to take to heart, I think. I'm not really afraid of having nothing because I've had it before. I'm hopeful, but I'm not really afraid because when you have nothing you also have nothing to lose, and what power there is in that.

The wife and I are going camping in the Florida Keys in a few weeks to celebrate a milestone birthday, and my graduation from my current school (which will take place a few days before). I've spoken of all my intimidation about the ins and outs of whos and whats, etc. on into infinity, but I can feel myself becoming the arrow again.

I become the arrow sometimes. The arrow points in one direction, flies straight, and hits a target. I last became the arrow when we were attempting to buy a house. Before that when I was looking for work that wasn't waiting tables at Denny's, an experience I should have included in my college application in retrospect. I became the arrow before that when planning my move to Florida, and maybe only once before when I was attempting to get my grades up high enough to get an insurance discount for my folks when I was getting my driver's license.

When I am the arrow I am high strung, and ready to be released, from where I will swiftly fly.

We'll know my target soon enough.

Let's talk about the weather?

The chance of precipitation today is 10%. It feels higher, and I have my raincoat behind me because it feels higher and I distrust meteorologists DEEPLY because I recently found out they don't actually study meteors to discover the secrets of the weather.

The answer is not in the stars, it seems... well, at least not to this question.

I was thinking recently about opening a store. Not seriously, just the theory behind it. Who wouldn't enjoy connecting people with the things that fascinate them, right?

My store would sell:
- Raincoats (nice ones) and other Jackets (A-2 Leather jackets, for instance, and a full line of Helly Hansen products)
- Fountain Pens and nice stationary/journals/notebooks/inks
- Interesting small-brand Sunglasses
- Watches
- Literary Magazines
- Classy hats in a number of price ranges
- A rotating stock of unique electronic gadgetry
- A variety of pocket knives/multi-tools
- Sweaters and Scarves
- Imported Tea
- Aluminum drinking vessels (a wide variety)
- Small luggage items
- A limited stock (and I mean LIMITED) of used DVDs and records

Then, I would sell the store to someone else so I could be uninvolved in operating this store (I'm far too busy to be operating a boutique at the moment), and would begin shopping there. Perfect.

Mostly I want those items in a boutique because I can't seem to locate the items consistently locally.

Amazon.com will have to suffice in the meantime, I guess.

Am I writing currently? Yes. One of my pieces is currently on "second round" consideration at a literary journal, also. I'm crossing my fingers, friends.