For as long as I can remember, I was warned the Democrat candidate for president is the Antichrist. The earliest I remember hearing this is when Michael Dukakis won that label during his campaign against George HW Bush. Four years later, Bill Clinton was the new Antichrist, a claim I heard over and over for the next eight years. Through studying history, I’ve learned this phenomenon isn’t exclusive to my lifetime. John F Kennedy was also a target of Antichrist conspiracies. The same accusation was later levied against Al Gore then John Kerry.
By 2008, things changed. Discussions about the Antichrist running for president were no longer restrained to gossip in church hallways - it spread on the internet. Meme culture and Photoshop transformed Barack Obama into more than a rumored Antichrist into a visual representation of the satanic beast. Evangelical ministers were preaching warnings of Obama’s Antichristishness and posting videos of their sermons to YouTube. The unholy nature of Barack was a topic of conversation everywhere on social media, chat rooms, and message boards. Someone even published a book about it.
Internet amplified the religious fear mongering. It plagued Hillary Clinton and Joe Biden. You can even buy yard signs that say “Biden & his crime family are the Antichrist.” It’s now being applied to Kamala Harris – most recently demonstrated by David Rem at Trump’s Madison Square Garden rally last weekend.
It’s not true. None of it is. Sure some of these people have done things that conflict with Christ’s teachings or defy evangelical morals, but these people were not and are not THE Antichrist. So why did this happen? Why has the name Antichrist been bestowed upon every Democrat presidential candidate of modern times? Simple. One word: control.
This employment of fear has been ingrained in evangelical culture for longer than I’ve been alive. My dad told me stories of apocalyptic preaching and doomsday prophesies at revival services from his youth. I grew up with the threat of hell looming over me every time I dared question Sunday school lessons or denominational doctrine. I was raised in a constant state of terror, instilled with a belief dancing, uttering a curse word, watching an R rated movie, or a single sip of alcohol would topple me into a downward descent into eternal condemnation. This fear was used to control my behavior, programming me to dress a certain way, to talk like they talk, act according to expectations. Cloneliness is next to Godliness, right?
Fear arouses our fight or flight responses. It’s supposed to be a survival instinct, compelling us to act in times of danger so we might live to fight or flight another day. Do you know what happens when your formative years are spent in a in a constant state of agitated fear? Your psyche gets stuck in constant readiness to flee or do battle, your amygdala hyperactive in waiting for peril. Paranoia consumes you. Every criticism feels like a personal attack. You see boogie men around every corner. Any diversity of thought is a threat. Suddenly it makes sense any politician who doesn’t align with your moral compass becomes the antichrist and voting for them would be a one way ticket to the bowels of hell.
This perpetual horror isn’t healthy. It’s not good for our souls. It’s not good for our mental health. It’s not good for our spiritual communities, our workplaces, or our government offices. Fear is, as Frank Herbert wrote in Dune, the mind-killer and the little-death that brings total obliteration.
This year’s election feels different than times past. It seems as if everyone is scared – not just evangelicals. Liberals believe Donald Trump is a wannabe dictator intent on overthrowing the US government so he can rule like his friends Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping, Kim Jong Un, and Mohammed bin Salman. Conservatives believe Kamala Harris is a demon and the Antichrist hellbent on sacrificing newborns, forcing children to get gender reassignment surgeries at school, replacing white people with illegal immigrants, and murdering Christians en masse.
The anxiety is palpable. Everywhere I go, I hear people expressing their fears about next week’s results. These worries range from understandable to absurd yet it seems everyone is afraid of something.
I still believe in a God who is love and that perfect love drives out fear. Yet I must admit I’m a little scared. Try as I might to do as the Bible teaches and cast my worries at the feet of my savior, I can’t escape the stressful and unanswerable questions of what will happen once all the votes are counted.
To clarify: I’m not afraid of history repeating itself. Records have shown humanity (collectively speaking) is not adept at learning from our mistakes. Dooming ourselves to failure is practically inevitable so this doesn’t scare me.
I am not worried a second Trump term will bring about the end of America. Empires rise and empires fall. If it doesn’t happen now, it will eventually.
I’m not worried Trump will blame a potential loss on cheating or fraud. He did it four years ago and he’s already laying the groundwork to do it again. Why be scared of something that is guaranteed to transpire? Likewise, I expect a repeat of the January 6th attacks if Trump loses. I know this so I’m not afraid.
Trump has said he’s going to use the full force of law enforcement to target his rivals and critics. Since I’ve often criticized Trump, that means I could be arrested and imprisoned as a dissident if he wins but even that doesn’t scare me. I know that if Trump is elected, he will follow the plans of Project 2025, a document that marginalizes people I love and threatens their safety and yet that isn’t the source of my alarm.
I don’t fear my religion being imperiled if Harris wins because I know she has no plans to threaten it. Even if she did, I know God’s got my back. I have faith no weapon formed against me will prosper.
Only one thing scares me and it has been gnawing at me ever since the MSG rally this weekend.
I listened to the vile remarks of various speakers. Their words filled with hatred, racism, misogyny, and homophobia. When people say “Trump country” this is the kind of environment accompanying such claim. If Trump wins, I am terrified of what it says about my Christian siblings, my friends, and my biological family. Why? Because if Trump wins, it will be the evangelical vote that carries him to victory.
If Trump wins it means evangelicals love their golden calf more than their savior. If Trump wins it means Christians who supported and continue to support him believe his dishonesty, bigotry, jingoism, criminal convictions, fraudulent activity, and predatory behaviors are copacetic. If Trump wins it means the Christian moral standards are meaningless. If Trump wins it means the ends justify the results – that Christians are perfectly accepting of sin for a season as long as they are able to maintain their grasp on the reins of power.
In the Bible, Amos prophesied to the Israelites during an era similar to what the American church faces now: wealth and prosperity flourished, yet morality was fading fast. The poor were being exploited, the courts were corrupt, government leaders were evil, injustice was widespread, and vulnerable communities were oppressed.
Amos was the prophet of social justice. He condemned dishonest business practices, unfair wages, religious hypocrisy, and unethical treatment of others. He encouraged people to care for the less fortunate members of society and he demanded opposition to injustice, oppression, and exploitation of all forms. It is Amos who said “Let justice roll like a river, righteousness like a never failing stream.”
Jesus preached similar commands, most famously when he divulged the greatest commandment: to love God and love others. Jesus also commended those who fed and clothed the needy, provided hospitality to strangers, cared for the sick, and visited those in prison. He said “whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me.” He condemned anyone who withheld service and support for those in need or imprisoned.
Elsewhere, the Bible instructs its readers to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly. It repeatedly instructs care for orphans, widows, and refugees. A thoughtful and diligent analysis of biblical teachings would reveal aid for underprivileged and marginalized people to be a primary focus of Christian faith. It would show an impetus to place the needs of the least of these above your own.
A Trumpian victory would demonstrate a modern church who places their own needs above the weak and needy. It would spotlight a church which perpetuates the cycles of injustice, exploitation, corruption, and oppression. It would expose a religious lust for power defiant of God’s commands. It would be an evangelical middle finger held high in the face of people Jesus commanded us to love.
This terrifies me.
As we wrap up the election season, I have an important question for my fellow Christians: who benefits from your vote? I’m not talking about the candidates, it’s obvious the person you vote for benefits if they’re the winner. Rather, who benefits from electing that person? If the people who benefit from your vote are people who look like you or people who share your beliefs, you’re misunderstanding the call of Christ to care for the least of these.
For me, I’m done believing the Democrat candidates are the Antichrist. I’m done falling for the cheap lies and fear mongering of those who are scared of losing power. If I take my faith seriously (which I do) I will follow the self-sacrificial call of Jesus and cast a vote that benefits those who have been persecuted and marginalized.
This is the path of Amos. Damn the man.
11.01.2024
9.19.2024
Wanderlust and the Source
Bedtime is sacred in our house. Not because it’s the routine shutting off all the lights and closing our eyes to sleep. Annie and I value it because these are the precious few minutes we can chat and connect free of interruptions from kids who don’t appreciate their bedtime as much as we do.
In these final waking hours of our day we share the best and worst parts of everything happening before we got home. We air the stresses we cannot share with anyone else. We comfort each other as lovers and encourage each other as teammates. We create to-do lists and bucket lists. We set reminders on our phones so we might recall those things our ADHD is prone to forget. We mutually doom scroll social media side by side, occasionally holding our phone to the side with instructions, “Hey check this out.” We ponder the benefits and challenges of various ideas. We talk religion, sex, and politics. We discuss plans for both the immediate and distant future. And, most importantly, we dream together.
This is the key ingredient for the magic binding us together. When we think of what life will be like five years ahead or fifty years from now, we envision our hypothetical future lives as a cohesive unit. These are shared aspirations, not individual exploits. We have had this ingrained in our relationship as long as we’ve known each other. On our second date, we talked about places we’ve always longed to visit. She said she wanted to go to Scotland to see her ancestral homelands. Two of my bucket list destinations (Paisley Abbey and Loch Ness) happen to be in Scotland. We laughed and smiled at the idea of going there together and fulfilling our dreams at the same time.
Annie and I both have an insatiable wanderlust. We feel the tug of the journey on our hearts. Places exotic to historic, from pristine wilderness to ancient ruins, waterfalls and temples, castles and farmers markets. We want nothing more for our lives to go, and see, and do. We yearn to wander foreign lands and disappear for a while.
Earlier this week, I told my therapist how I believe the best education we can receive is found outside our own culture. As much as I would enjoy a trip to Disneyland to hang out at Galaxy’s Edge, I would rather visit the original Tatooine Star Wars set in Tunisia. Given the choice between a week at Universal Studios or traveling to India during Holi, I would choose the later. Annie would do the same. The selection of culture over capitalism is an easy one.
Unfortunately, Annie and I grew up believing travel was for other people. Both our families were poor and the expense of overseas excursions was too daunting - an unobtainable wish left to wither on the vines of our dying hopes. This wanderlust ached in our bones and called our spirits yet we felt confined to weekend roadtrips and local attractions. We wanted to see the world but doubted we would ever be globetrotters.
All it takes is one little break to shatter the exoskeleton of false beliefs. Two and a half years ago, a new job sent me to Tampa Bay for three weeks of training. Annie and our two youngest girls flew out to visit a weekend while I was there so we could partake in a family Florida adventure. It was the nudge we needed to shed the idea we weren’t meant to travel. How could we hold on to such a concept while doing the thing we thought we’d never be able to do. A few months later we went to Waikiki to celebrate birthdays of mine and Steven’s. Then a month later we were on a cruise boat to Alaska for our belated honeymoon. Since then we’ve made a return trip to Hawaii along with little jaunts to Cheyenne, Boise, Portland, Cranbrook BC, and multiple trips to Tacoma/Seattle/Everett.
We’re not ready to quit. Between now and the end of the year, our feet will tread ground in Mexico, Costa Rica, and Columbia adding three stamps to our passports. Not long after, I’ll be headed to Phoenix with one of my best friends for a DJ gig. Next year, Annie and I have plans to take the family yurt camping for a week and we’ve already booked a vacation to the Bahamas.
Over the last few years, we’ve suddenly began living a live we never imagined would be possible for either of us. We’re finally able to sate that insatiable wanderlust. Our journey begun, we’re only getting started.
After explaining all of this to my therapist, he shared with me a quote from Carl Jung:
According to my therapist, this is what I’m experiencing. After turning forty, I began to truly discover who I was and define my priorities. Now forty-five, I’m finally able to be the person God created me to be. Everything before this was just research. He thinks it’s awesome to watch me discover myself, to see joy unfold in real time. He’s had a front row seat to witness anxiety and depression melt away as I become the real me.
So here we are, Annie and I are world travelers, dreaming of distant shores. But I think I’ve always been one even before I was one. My wanderlust had to come from somewhere.
I was never a good student. I was lucky to get a B in anything. Through most of my academic career, I barely held on with a C average. In sixth and seventh grade, my report cards were filled with Cs and Ds. I got my first A in eighth grade - not just a basic A - but perfect scores throughout. I ended this class with 100%, an A+.
Annie and I chilled last night, enjoying our bedtime routine. I brought this up with her: my discussion at therapy, how excited we are about upcoming travel plans, and other places we want to go (side note: she’s been looking at cheap airline rates to various European locales). Then I posed the question about my school days. After a string of barely passing grades, in which class did I get my first A? She responded without hesitation.
“Geography.”
Correct answer. I struggled in traditional education until the geography class mandated for all junior high students of my generation in the Marysville school district. For the first time in my life I didn’t just succeed, I thrived.
Perhaps I missed my calling as a tour guide or a travel agent. Maybe that is my life in an alternate universe. In this dimension though, I had to wait until my 40s to figure out I was always meant to be this person. Looking back though, I should have known all along. I should have realized this fact about my personality when I was a teenager. I grokked geography because deep down my soul hungered to be there. Every map, every capital city, every monument we studied was a potential destination. I was meant to fly, or drive, or float to anywhere other than here. Or teleport if such technology ever becomes viable.
In these final waking hours of our day we share the best and worst parts of everything happening before we got home. We air the stresses we cannot share with anyone else. We comfort each other as lovers and encourage each other as teammates. We create to-do lists and bucket lists. We set reminders on our phones so we might recall those things our ADHD is prone to forget. We mutually doom scroll social media side by side, occasionally holding our phone to the side with instructions, “Hey check this out.” We ponder the benefits and challenges of various ideas. We talk religion, sex, and politics. We discuss plans for both the immediate and distant future. And, most importantly, we dream together.
This is the key ingredient for the magic binding us together. When we think of what life will be like five years ahead or fifty years from now, we envision our hypothetical future lives as a cohesive unit. These are shared aspirations, not individual exploits. We have had this ingrained in our relationship as long as we’ve known each other. On our second date, we talked about places we’ve always longed to visit. She said she wanted to go to Scotland to see her ancestral homelands. Two of my bucket list destinations (Paisley Abbey and Loch Ness) happen to be in Scotland. We laughed and smiled at the idea of going there together and fulfilling our dreams at the same time.
Annie and I both have an insatiable wanderlust. We feel the tug of the journey on our hearts. Places exotic to historic, from pristine wilderness to ancient ruins, waterfalls and temples, castles and farmers markets. We want nothing more for our lives to go, and see, and do. We yearn to wander foreign lands and disappear for a while.
Real, actual, legitimate picture of us.
Unfortunately, Annie and I grew up believing travel was for other people. Both our families were poor and the expense of overseas excursions was too daunting - an unobtainable wish left to wither on the vines of our dying hopes. This wanderlust ached in our bones and called our spirits yet we felt confined to weekend roadtrips and local attractions. We wanted to see the world but doubted we would ever be globetrotters.
All it takes is one little break to shatter the exoskeleton of false beliefs. Two and a half years ago, a new job sent me to Tampa Bay for three weeks of training. Annie and our two youngest girls flew out to visit a weekend while I was there so we could partake in a family Florida adventure. It was the nudge we needed to shed the idea we weren’t meant to travel. How could we hold on to such a concept while doing the thing we thought we’d never be able to do. A few months later we went to Waikiki to celebrate birthdays of mine and Steven’s. Then a month later we were on a cruise boat to Alaska for our belated honeymoon. Since then we’ve made a return trip to Hawaii along with little jaunts to Cheyenne, Boise, Portland, Cranbrook BC, and multiple trips to Tacoma/Seattle/Everett.
We’re not ready to quit. Between now and the end of the year, our feet will tread ground in Mexico, Costa Rica, and Columbia adding three stamps to our passports. Not long after, I’ll be headed to Phoenix with one of my best friends for a DJ gig. Next year, Annie and I have plans to take the family yurt camping for a week and we’ve already booked a vacation to the Bahamas.
Over the last few years, we’ve suddenly began living a live we never imagined would be possible for either of us. We’re finally able to sate that insatiable wanderlust. Our journey begun, we’re only getting started.
After explaining all of this to my therapist, he shared with me a quote from Carl Jung:
So here we are, Annie and I are world travelers, dreaming of distant shores. But I think I’ve always been one even before I was one. My wanderlust had to come from somewhere.
I was never a good student. I was lucky to get a B in anything. Through most of my academic career, I barely held on with a C average. In sixth and seventh grade, my report cards were filled with Cs and Ds. I got my first A in eighth grade - not just a basic A - but perfect scores throughout. I ended this class with 100%, an A+.
Annie and I chilled last night, enjoying our bedtime routine. I brought this up with her: my discussion at therapy, how excited we are about upcoming travel plans, and other places we want to go (side note: she’s been looking at cheap airline rates to various European locales). Then I posed the question about my school days. After a string of barely passing grades, in which class did I get my first A? She responded without hesitation.
“Geography.”
Correct answer. I struggled in traditional education until the geography class mandated for all junior high students of my generation in the Marysville school district. For the first time in my life I didn’t just succeed, I thrived.
Perhaps I missed my calling as a tour guide or a travel agent. Maybe that is my life in an alternate universe. In this dimension though, I had to wait until my 40s to figure out I was always meant to be this person. Looking back though, I should have known all along. I should have realized this fact about my personality when I was a teenager. I grokked geography because deep down my soul hungered to be there. Every map, every capital city, every monument we studied was a potential destination. I was meant to fly, or drive, or float to anywhere other than here. Or teleport if such technology ever becomes viable.
9.08.2024
When Inspiration Strikes
What does it take to be a writer? Some would advise writing a thousand words every day. The logic is sound. Composing words at such a rate would allow an author to compose a new novel every three months. Other suggestions include setting a schedule, regular time slots each (or every other) day dedicated to your craft. A few authors are lucky enough to consider writing their main source of income and they treat it like a day job with built in weekends and vacation. My recommendation? Define what it takes on your own.
I say this because I am not a normal writer. The odds of becoming a writer were never in my favor. Let me explain.
As a kid, I loved to read and was able to consume books well above my grade level. However, I had (have?) a learning disability making reading a slow process. I must read and reread paragraphs and pages for the sake of comprehension. My brain often rearranges word order or insert nonexistent vocabulary changing the meaning of texts on the first read. My ADHD imagination frequently distracts me from the subject matter before me, either predicting what will happen next, question what I would do in similar circumstances, or drift entirely into unrelated universes. Despite my challenges, I’ve always craved a good story; it’s been a lifelong pursuit since childhood.
Reading is an essential skill for authors. Readers are better writers because they are influenced by the syntax and cadence of other authors. If you read my work, you might see my influences from the masters of horror: Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Anne Rice. You could recognize the blend of fantasy and mythology I’ve learned from JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, and Max Brooks. A little deeper and you’ll discover how my skills were shaped by the poetic approach of Jackie Hill Perry, Sho Baraka, and Jason Petty (AKA Propaganda) and the inspirational works of Rob Bell, Carlos Whitaker, Rachel Held Evans, and Donald Miller.
The reading prerequisite of becoming an author is in my wheelhouse, even if it takes me much longer to read a single book than most people. However, I’d argue the content of the books I consume stick with me longer than most audiences. I can still explain plot point by plot point my favorite book from fourth grade and the novel I loved most when I was 21. My brain is disordered but it’s also Pandora’s box for trivial things.
Ask my elementary and junior high teachers if I had the potential of becoming an author, most of them would laugh at you. They might tell you I had the imagination to tell stories but lacked the attention span to actually write a book. Worse, every single one of my former testers would tell you how much I hated writing. You would hear testimony of how I actively avoided writing at all costs, even skipping homework if it required too much pencil to paper labor. They would show you examples of my horrendous penmanship, bad enough to make the sloppiest handwriting appear legible in comparison. Maybe if you’re lucky, you would meet the lone teacher who discovered I could accomplish more completing assignments and tests orally than if I had to write it all on printed worksheets.
In addition to my learning disability and my diagnosed ADHD, I was also functioning (I use that term loosely) with undiagnosed autism. By default, I interacted with my peers and saw the world differently than neurotypical kids. Without an official diagnosis, I had zero supports to navigate my environment as an autistic individual. I had to figure out how to learn on my own terms because what schools were doing for me wasn’t working.
Imagine if you will: a neurodivergent nerd with learning disabilities, from an impoverished home life, who hated writing and was a slow reader, churned through a failing education system, and frequently the target of emotional and physical bullying. That child has more potential of becoming a comedian than an author. The odds were stacked against me. But look at me now.
Wait. I still do not like my odds. I am a parent with a full time job who moonlights as a DJ, is a licensed minister, enjoys taking my wife out on dates, and lives on a farm. Where do I find the time to write? No clue. There isn’t an adequate answer for that question. It’s a thing I do without understanding how I do it. Like I said, I am not a normal writer.
My autism and ADHD do not allow for boredom, turning hobbies into obsessions and often leading down rabbit holes. My slow reading rate takes me a month to complete a book a speed reader could burn through in a couple hours. My obligations chew through time like The Very Hungry Caterpillar eating its way to the end of its story. I don’t have the freedom to set aside a few daily hours for writing or research. I don’t have the time, patience, or energy to scribble down one thousand words every day. I can only write when inspiration strikes. I’m sure other writers also work in similar spurt patterns and yet I still feel abnormal. I’m not sure how common my revolving periods of calm and flurry is inside the writing world.
My first book, ‘Kingdom of Odd’ took a little over two years to progress from the composition of the outline to completion of the first draft, and another year to slog through three revisions after feedback from beta readers. During that time, my now eleven year old was compelled to invent her own story idea for an early reader book called ‘A Unicorn Wish.’ She created the characters and setting then I helped her create an outline. Sometime while writing ‘Kingdom of Odd’ my ADHD got eager and thought of a few (several) other ideas for future books including a Christmas themed ghost story, a science fiction tale about superpowers in a global pandemic, and a picture book about love and global cultures. Those thoughts were jotted down in my phone’s notes app and I continued to focus on Kingdom of Odd. By focus, I mean I got distracted again. Inspiration struck and my autism said “Now or never buddy.” I opened a new Word document and I frantically typed a full first chapter for ‘Only for a Day’ (the superhero/pandemic one) based on the brief outline I had stored in my phone a few weeks earlier.
Nothing to worry about though. I dove back into completing ‘Kingdom of Odd,’ provided copies to some beta readers then awaited their responses. With feedback pending, I fleshed out the outline of ‘Only for a Day’ and picked up composing story where the first chapter ended. This should be the path normal authors follow: write a book, finish a book, start the next book. But I’m not a normal writer. Because I also used this time to write a complete outline for ‘The 12 Ghosts of Christmas’ including character profiles for each of the twelve ghosts. My brain also invented a few more (several) book ideas: alien invasions, dystopian futures, alternate dimensions, revenge, time travel, ghosts, and a lot more.
It’s OK though, I was focused on ‘Only for a Day.’ Then the notes and recommendations for ‘Kingdom of Odd’ were delivered and I went through rounds of edits and revisions. In January of this year, I started querying the completed manuscript to agents and returned to writing the first draft of ‘Do Dragons Sleep?’ I know what you’re thinking, that’s not ‘Only for a Day.’ Correct. But I had the idea, I created an outline and had to start the new project or else my mind would revolt. So now I’m querying a young adult medieval fantasy novel, and juggling two rough drafts, one a modern science fiction for adults, the second a young adult coming of age story with Norse influences.
Sweet. I can bounce back and forth, right? Then my wife threw me a curve ball. She thought of a horror story and wants me to help her write it. We spent a couple nights compiling an outline and character profiles. I wrote the first chapter. Now I have three works in progress. Annie wasn’t done though: she also had a plan for a children’s book. She wrote the first draft then I proposed some revisions. We got feedback from friends and family, I rewrote the tale and she set out to complete all the artwork. Once she finished the pictures, I began formatting ‘Polly was a Wog.’ So four WIPs.
Then a couple weeks ago, I was listening to a discussion on a podcast about the fear of death. Naturally this spawned an idea for another book so I added it to my notes app. However my special blend of autism and ADHD couldn’t leave a small spark alone. A day later, my mental processes stoked the embers into a consuming fire leaving me no choice than to write an intro and first scene of ‘Thanatophobia,’ a home invasion horror story and my fifth WIP.
Here’s where I stand. One book in the query trenches, three books in progress (one without an outline), and one book written but unformatted. I still have horses to feed, kids two raise, a wife to love and cherish, two more DJ gigs scheduled, a two week vacation booked with foreign travel, occasional visits to an open mic night, blog posts to publish, and weekly therapy. I haven’t even mentioned my recent foray into spoken word poetry. How do I do it all? I really, truly do not know.
I say this because I am not a normal writer. The odds of becoming a writer were never in my favor. Let me explain.
Photo courtesy of Gratisography
As a kid, I loved to read and was able to consume books well above my grade level. However, I had (have?) a learning disability making reading a slow process. I must read and reread paragraphs and pages for the sake of comprehension. My brain often rearranges word order or insert nonexistent vocabulary changing the meaning of texts on the first read. My ADHD imagination frequently distracts me from the subject matter before me, either predicting what will happen next, question what I would do in similar circumstances, or drift entirely into unrelated universes. Despite my challenges, I’ve always craved a good story; it’s been a lifelong pursuit since childhood.
Reading is an essential skill for authors. Readers are better writers because they are influenced by the syntax and cadence of other authors. If you read my work, you might see my influences from the masters of horror: Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Anne Rice. You could recognize the blend of fantasy and mythology I’ve learned from JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, and Max Brooks. A little deeper and you’ll discover how my skills were shaped by the poetic approach of Jackie Hill Perry, Sho Baraka, and Jason Petty (AKA Propaganda) and the inspirational works of Rob Bell, Carlos Whitaker, Rachel Held Evans, and Donald Miller.
The reading prerequisite of becoming an author is in my wheelhouse, even if it takes me much longer to read a single book than most people. However, I’d argue the content of the books I consume stick with me longer than most audiences. I can still explain plot point by plot point my favorite book from fourth grade and the novel I loved most when I was 21. My brain is disordered but it’s also Pandora’s box for trivial things.
Ask my elementary and junior high teachers if I had the potential of becoming an author, most of them would laugh at you. They might tell you I had the imagination to tell stories but lacked the attention span to actually write a book. Worse, every single one of my former testers would tell you how much I hated writing. You would hear testimony of how I actively avoided writing at all costs, even skipping homework if it required too much pencil to paper labor. They would show you examples of my horrendous penmanship, bad enough to make the sloppiest handwriting appear legible in comparison. Maybe if you’re lucky, you would meet the lone teacher who discovered I could accomplish more completing assignments and tests orally than if I had to write it all on printed worksheets.
In addition to my learning disability and my diagnosed ADHD, I was also functioning (I use that term loosely) with undiagnosed autism. By default, I interacted with my peers and saw the world differently than neurotypical kids. Without an official diagnosis, I had zero supports to navigate my environment as an autistic individual. I had to figure out how to learn on my own terms because what schools were doing for me wasn’t working.
Imagine if you will: a neurodivergent nerd with learning disabilities, from an impoverished home life, who hated writing and was a slow reader, churned through a failing education system, and frequently the target of emotional and physical bullying. That child has more potential of becoming a comedian than an author. The odds were stacked against me. But look at me now.
My autism and ADHD do not allow for boredom, turning hobbies into obsessions and often leading down rabbit holes. My slow reading rate takes me a month to complete a book a speed reader could burn through in a couple hours. My obligations chew through time like The Very Hungry Caterpillar eating its way to the end of its story. I don’t have the freedom to set aside a few daily hours for writing or research. I don’t have the time, patience, or energy to scribble down one thousand words every day. I can only write when inspiration strikes. I’m sure other writers also work in similar spurt patterns and yet I still feel abnormal. I’m not sure how common my revolving periods of calm and flurry is inside the writing world.
My first book, ‘Kingdom of Odd’ took a little over two years to progress from the composition of the outline to completion of the first draft, and another year to slog through three revisions after feedback from beta readers. During that time, my now eleven year old was compelled to invent her own story idea for an early reader book called ‘A Unicorn Wish.’ She created the characters and setting then I helped her create an outline. Sometime while writing ‘Kingdom of Odd’ my ADHD got eager and thought of a few (several) other ideas for future books including a Christmas themed ghost story, a science fiction tale about superpowers in a global pandemic, and a picture book about love and global cultures. Those thoughts were jotted down in my phone’s notes app and I continued to focus on Kingdom of Odd. By focus, I mean I got distracted again. Inspiration struck and my autism said “Now or never buddy.” I opened a new Word document and I frantically typed a full first chapter for ‘Only for a Day’ (the superhero/pandemic one) based on the brief outline I had stored in my phone a few weeks earlier.
Nothing to worry about though. I dove back into completing ‘Kingdom of Odd,’ provided copies to some beta readers then awaited their responses. With feedback pending, I fleshed out the outline of ‘Only for a Day’ and picked up composing story where the first chapter ended. This should be the path normal authors follow: write a book, finish a book, start the next book. But I’m not a normal writer. Because I also used this time to write a complete outline for ‘The 12 Ghosts of Christmas’ including character profiles for each of the twelve ghosts. My brain also invented a few more (several) book ideas: alien invasions, dystopian futures, alternate dimensions, revenge, time travel, ghosts, and a lot more.
It’s OK though, I was focused on ‘Only for a Day.’ Then the notes and recommendations for ‘Kingdom of Odd’ were delivered and I went through rounds of edits and revisions. In January of this year, I started querying the completed manuscript to agents and returned to writing the first draft of ‘Do Dragons Sleep?’ I know what you’re thinking, that’s not ‘Only for a Day.’ Correct. But I had the idea, I created an outline and had to start the new project or else my mind would revolt. So now I’m querying a young adult medieval fantasy novel, and juggling two rough drafts, one a modern science fiction for adults, the second a young adult coming of age story with Norse influences.
Sweet. I can bounce back and forth, right? Then my wife threw me a curve ball. She thought of a horror story and wants me to help her write it. We spent a couple nights compiling an outline and character profiles. I wrote the first chapter. Now I have three works in progress. Annie wasn’t done though: she also had a plan for a children’s book. She wrote the first draft then I proposed some revisions. We got feedback from friends and family, I rewrote the tale and she set out to complete all the artwork. Once she finished the pictures, I began formatting ‘Polly was a Wog.’ So four WIPs.
Then a couple weeks ago, I was listening to a discussion on a podcast about the fear of death. Naturally this spawned an idea for another book so I added it to my notes app. However my special blend of autism and ADHD couldn’t leave a small spark alone. A day later, my mental processes stoked the embers into a consuming fire leaving me no choice than to write an intro and first scene of ‘Thanatophobia,’ a home invasion horror story and my fifth WIP.
Here’s where I stand. One book in the query trenches, three books in progress (one without an outline), and one book written but unformatted. I still have horses to feed, kids two raise, a wife to love and cherish, two more DJ gigs scheduled, a two week vacation booked with foreign travel, occasional visits to an open mic night, blog posts to publish, and weekly therapy. I haven’t even mentioned my recent foray into spoken word poetry. How do I do it all? I really, truly do not know.
8.22.2024
Grounding
Something interesting happened at San Diego Comic-Con. The cast of Fantastic Four: First Steps graced the stage as a part of Marvel’s big presentation. That’s normal though. Nothing spectacular in what Marvel doing what they have been doing for more than a decade. The most intriguing moment is what transpired while they were on stage. During the F4 segment, actor Pedro Pascal had a moment of panic and reached out to touch the arm of co-star Vanessa Kirby. Understanding what was happening, she took hold of him and the two continued hand in hand.
To the inexperienced eye, this might seem like an innocent gesture, perhaps even romantic. After all, they do portray a married couple in Fantastic Four. It wouldn’t be the first time an onscreen couple developed a real life relationship. However, those of us who battle anxiety, depression, PTSD, and/or autism witnessed something familiar. We recognized the change in Pascal’s demeanor. We watched as one moment he was smiling and totally fine then a second later he most definitely was not fine. His look of panic has also flashed in our eyes. Sometimes for obvious reasons but often without cause. As we’ve struggled with mental health, we have faced occasions where our amygdala short circuited and triggered our fight or flight instincts. One second we’re OK then the next we need something to bring us back to earth.
Pedro Pascal has been open about his mental health struggles. He’s admitted anxiety being a part of his psyche since he was a child. In press interviews and red carpet events, you’ll often see him with his left hand over his chest, a coping mechanism he’s learned to keep himself centered. In extreme moments of panic, he needs to hold someone else. Not inappropriate touching condemned by HR offices everywhere, but a steady and platonic grasp - like holding the hand of a colleague. Vanessa Kirby understood the assignment and allowed Pascal to ground himself through her.
Unfortunately, the trollish side of the internet is mocking the situation. Some are claiming Pascal’s experiences with anxiety are fantastical inventions of his imagination. Others are saying it’s a sign of weakness. Meanwhile, I’m over in my corner of the universe with nothing but respect for Kirby and Pascal. One human in crisis expressing their vulnerability, and another human reciprocating their need with kindness. I have never wanted to be friends with Pedro Pascal more than I do now.
If the toxic half of the internet could shut up for a few minutes, there’s a couple lessons we could learn from Pascal’s interaction on the Comic-Con stage.
First: depression, anxiety, and trauma do not discriminate. It can strike anyone from any socio-economic class. It doesn’t care about your politics, your race, your gender, or your religion. No amount of success, wealth, fame, or acclaim can protect you from mental illness. It strikes rich and poor. It affects beautiful people as much as the ugly dudes. It weighs on the hearts and minds of CEOs and janitors. It is a curse upon the righteous and the unrighteous. And here’s the weird one - even happy people can struggle with depression. I know, because I am one of those happy depressed folks.
Pedro Pascal has a career many actors envy. He’s been the lead actor in celebrated franchises for Star Wars, DC, Marvel, Kingsman, Game of Thrones, and The Last of Us. He’s won a Screen Actor’s Guild Award, two MTV Movie & TV Awards, and a People’s Choice Award. He’s been nominated for Golden Globes, Emmys, Teen Choice Awards, and more. He’s universally loved and respected by those who work with him. He’s made enough money to retire comfortably. Yet despite all his successes, accolades, admiration, and popularity he still battles anxiety.
The other moral of Pascal’s time at Comic-Con is the importance of grounding. Electricians know grounding as a safety method of connecting a powered system to the earth. The therapeutic definition is much the same, but instead of electrical components it connects humans to the terrain. Grounding grounds us. In the simplest sense, grounding is nothing more than touching soil. Walking barefoot through grass or along a sandy beach, wading into a lake or river, lying down in a field or meadow.
One of my favorite podcasts shared a story from a listener who overcame a phobia by grabbing a handful of dirt and allowing it to fall through her fingers every time she had a fear induced panic attack. I have a therapist friend who advocates taking your shoes off outside at least once a day to improve your mood. I’ve even discovered an odd calmness after running my fingers through needles on boughs of pine, fir, cedar, and spruce trees. Psychologists and patients in treatment have praised the use of grounding to treat a wide variety of both mental and physical conditions: depression, anxiety, PTSD, insomnia, hypertension, and chronic pain. It’s not a cure for anything, but it’s an excellent boost when in distress. Kind of like a shot of espresso for a sleepy driver in the middle of a road trip.
Another form of grounding is human contact. My dad preaches the benefits of a good hug. As for Pedro Pascal, finding balance is as simple as holding someone else’s hand. There are times when the feel of the earth isn’t available, no forest or beach or lawn near enough to touch. In those moments, what you need most is the gentle kindness of someone else’s grasp.
It is my hope if you ever find yourself in a time of suffering you have someone like Vanessa Kirby near you, a person understanding and willing to hold your hand to steady your nerves and anxieties. I pray I never reject the needs of a fellow human when their emotional state necessitates a stable platonic touch.
Pedro Pascal has been open about his mental health struggles. He’s admitted anxiety being a part of his psyche since he was a child. In press interviews and red carpet events, you’ll often see him with his left hand over his chest, a coping mechanism he’s learned to keep himself centered. In extreme moments of panic, he needs to hold someone else. Not inappropriate touching condemned by HR offices everywhere, but a steady and platonic grasp - like holding the hand of a colleague. Vanessa Kirby understood the assignment and allowed Pascal to ground himself through her.
Unfortunately, the trollish side of the internet is mocking the situation. Some are claiming Pascal’s experiences with anxiety are fantastical inventions of his imagination. Others are saying it’s a sign of weakness. Meanwhile, I’m over in my corner of the universe with nothing but respect for Kirby and Pascal. One human in crisis expressing their vulnerability, and another human reciprocating their need with kindness. I have never wanted to be friends with Pedro Pascal more than I do now.
If the toxic half of the internet could shut up for a few minutes, there’s a couple lessons we could learn from Pascal’s interaction on the Comic-Con stage.
First: depression, anxiety, and trauma do not discriminate. It can strike anyone from any socio-economic class. It doesn’t care about your politics, your race, your gender, or your religion. No amount of success, wealth, fame, or acclaim can protect you from mental illness. It strikes rich and poor. It affects beautiful people as much as the ugly dudes. It weighs on the hearts and minds of CEOs and janitors. It is a curse upon the righteous and the unrighteous. And here’s the weird one - even happy people can struggle with depression. I know, because I am one of those happy depressed folks.
Pedro Pascal has a career many actors envy. He’s been the lead actor in celebrated franchises for Star Wars, DC, Marvel, Kingsman, Game of Thrones, and The Last of Us. He’s won a Screen Actor’s Guild Award, two MTV Movie & TV Awards, and a People’s Choice Award. He’s been nominated for Golden Globes, Emmys, Teen Choice Awards, and more. He’s universally loved and respected by those who work with him. He’s made enough money to retire comfortably. Yet despite all his successes, accolades, admiration, and popularity he still battles anxiety.
The other moral of Pascal’s time at Comic-Con is the importance of grounding. Electricians know grounding as a safety method of connecting a powered system to the earth. The therapeutic definition is much the same, but instead of electrical components it connects humans to the terrain. Grounding grounds us. In the simplest sense, grounding is nothing more than touching soil. Walking barefoot through grass or along a sandy beach, wading into a lake or river, lying down in a field or meadow.
Another form of grounding is human contact. My dad preaches the benefits of a good hug. As for Pedro Pascal, finding balance is as simple as holding someone else’s hand. There are times when the feel of the earth isn’t available, no forest or beach or lawn near enough to touch. In those moments, what you need most is the gentle kindness of someone else’s grasp.
It is my hope if you ever find yourself in a time of suffering you have someone like Vanessa Kirby near you, a person understanding and willing to hold your hand to steady your nerves and anxieties. I pray I never reject the needs of a fellow human when their emotional state necessitates a stable platonic touch.
8.14.2024
Bless the Artist
In the process of deconstruction, my relationship with the Bible changed. It evolved out of necessity. While some people deconstruct to get away from God, I deconstructed to follow God. I had to figure out how I could still take the Bible seriously when the loudest Christians around me (including many who taught me biblical lessons when I was a child) were not living the way scripture says they should.
How could I believe in the Jesus of the gospel when so many Christian influencers portrayed him to be a gun-toting, power-hungry, hate-filled, bro-dude wearing a red hat? How could I follow the texts so many of my elders claimed to be the exact voice of God when those same leaders actively defied the instructions contained in those supposedly sacred words? How could I embrace Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth when much of the religious right wants to use it as a weapon to harm and control people I love?
This was not an easy exercise. It wasn’t (as celebrity pastor once Matt Chandler called it) a sexy thing to do. Deconstruction is often lonely and terrifying. It is painful and difficult. You lose friends, confuse family, and get ridiculed by the church faithful. In the end, you hope to find truth and freedom but those elements come with a cost. It changes you.
I won’t bore you with the step by step details of how I arrived at my renewed fondness for scripture. Instead, I’ll share the end result because it is (in my opinion) more stunning than anything I was taught in childhood Sunday School.
When I began this journey, I already knew the Bible was a collection of books: stories, poems, letters, records, and law written by at least 40 different authors over a time span of fifteen centuries. I understood every author wrote these books for a specific historical audience for a very distinct reason. It would be foolish to believe we (modern peoples) were the target demographic for these biblical writers. To better understand scripture, you must discover why the stories were originally told.
As I researched a way to answer this question of why, I began to see a pattern, an ongoing theme. Yes, it’s about Jesus. And yeah, it’s about how all these individual authors related to God. But there’s more. My faith was revived when I realized the Bible – start to finish – is a story of creation.
Most church folk will tell you the creation story is the first chapter of Genesis but it stops there. That can’t be it though. As you read the Bible (all of it and not just the parts that make you feel good) God is constantly doing something different. God is relentlessly creative. Sure it starts with creating something from nothing – the heavens and earth, the times of day, birds and fish, all of the animal kingdom, and people created in God’s image. After resting on the seventh day, God had more to accomplish. God wanted to make all things new.
The word “new” appears 280 times in the Bible (NIV translation), and you see this newness everywhere. When Adam and Eve left the garden, they were given new instructions separate from the rules of Eden. After the flood, God did something peculiar – a divine assurance was made, something not done by any other gods worshiped by humans. When God called Abraham, there was a promise a new nation would come from Abraham’s descendants. When the Israelites left Egypt, they were given new laws and new territory. God installed new leadership, new judges, new kings, and new prophets to lead the new nation into a new way of existing. The prophet Isaiah quoted God as saying “behold I am doing a new thing … making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” When Jesus came, God established a new covenant. Jesus regularly spoke about new things. He told the crowds “You’ve been taught to do this, but I tell you something new and better.” He demonstrated a new way of living. At the end of his life, Jesus told his followers to change their focus from the nation of Israel to all nations. Peter was given visions which convinced him to break old laws and traditions in favor of something new. Paul was given a new name and a new profession. In his letter to the church in Corinth, he said we are made new creations in Christ. He told the Galatians church old traditions didn’t matter - what mattered is the new creation. The author of Hebrews detailed a new way of doing religion, a way we could approach God directly, making the old rituals of the high priest obsolete. And the book of Revelation foretold of a new heaven and a new earth.
This is beautiful to me. If God is real, then God is a creative God. If God is real, then God makes all things new. This is something I can believe in. This is something worth living for.
In the gospels, Jesus told his followers “If you believe in me, you’ll do the work I’m doing - and you’ll do even greater things.” To believe in Jesus, who Christians claim is God in human flesh, to follow him we will do what he did. To follow the footsteps of someone who taught new things and new ways, we must do the same. Jesus gave his followers instructions to continue God’s work of creation. Creating something new is perhaps the most holy thing a Christian can do.
So God bless the artist, the sculptor, the painter, the doodler. God bless the storyteller, the novelist, the raconteur, the poet, the bard. God bless the singer of songs, the vocalist, the rapper. God bless the musician, the instrumentalist, the producer. God bless the rhythm maker, the drummer, the beat boxer. God bless the photographer, the videographer, the audio engineer. God bless the crafter, the woodworker, the jewelry maker. God bless the actor, the actress, the costume designer, the director. God bless the artist.
Now ...
How could I believe in the Jesus of the gospel when so many Christian influencers portrayed him to be a gun-toting, power-hungry, hate-filled, bro-dude wearing a red hat? How could I follow the texts so many of my elders claimed to be the exact voice of God when those same leaders actively defied the instructions contained in those supposedly sacred words? How could I embrace Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth when much of the religious right wants to use it as a weapon to harm and control people I love?
This was not an easy exercise. It wasn’t (as celebrity pastor once Matt Chandler called it) a sexy thing to do. Deconstruction is often lonely and terrifying. It is painful and difficult. You lose friends, confuse family, and get ridiculed by the church faithful. In the end, you hope to find truth and freedom but those elements come with a cost. It changes you.
I won’t bore you with the step by step details of how I arrived at my renewed fondness for scripture. Instead, I’ll share the end result because it is (in my opinion) more stunning than anything I was taught in childhood Sunday School.
When I began this journey, I already knew the Bible was a collection of books: stories, poems, letters, records, and law written by at least 40 different authors over a time span of fifteen centuries. I understood every author wrote these books for a specific historical audience for a very distinct reason. It would be foolish to believe we (modern peoples) were the target demographic for these biblical writers. To better understand scripture, you must discover why the stories were originally told.
As I researched a way to answer this question of why, I began to see a pattern, an ongoing theme. Yes, it’s about Jesus. And yeah, it’s about how all these individual authors related to God. But there’s more. My faith was revived when I realized the Bible – start to finish – is a story of creation.
Most church folk will tell you the creation story is the first chapter of Genesis but it stops there. That can’t be it though. As you read the Bible (all of it and not just the parts that make you feel good) God is constantly doing something different. God is relentlessly creative. Sure it starts with creating something from nothing – the heavens and earth, the times of day, birds and fish, all of the animal kingdom, and people created in God’s image. After resting on the seventh day, God had more to accomplish. God wanted to make all things new.
The word “new” appears 280 times in the Bible (NIV translation), and you see this newness everywhere. When Adam and Eve left the garden, they were given new instructions separate from the rules of Eden. After the flood, God did something peculiar – a divine assurance was made, something not done by any other gods worshiped by humans. When God called Abraham, there was a promise a new nation would come from Abraham’s descendants. When the Israelites left Egypt, they were given new laws and new territory. God installed new leadership, new judges, new kings, and new prophets to lead the new nation into a new way of existing. The prophet Isaiah quoted God as saying “behold I am doing a new thing … making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” When Jesus came, God established a new covenant. Jesus regularly spoke about new things. He told the crowds “You’ve been taught to do this, but I tell you something new and better.” He demonstrated a new way of living. At the end of his life, Jesus told his followers to change their focus from the nation of Israel to all nations. Peter was given visions which convinced him to break old laws and traditions in favor of something new. Paul was given a new name and a new profession. In his letter to the church in Corinth, he said we are made new creations in Christ. He told the Galatians church old traditions didn’t matter - what mattered is the new creation. The author of Hebrews detailed a new way of doing religion, a way we could approach God directly, making the old rituals of the high priest obsolete. And the book of Revelation foretold of a new heaven and a new earth.
This is beautiful to me. If God is real, then God is a creative God. If God is real, then God makes all things new. This is something I can believe in. This is something worth living for.
In the gospels, Jesus told his followers “If you believe in me, you’ll do the work I’m doing - and you’ll do even greater things.” To believe in Jesus, who Christians claim is God in human flesh, to follow him we will do what he did. To follow the footsteps of someone who taught new things and new ways, we must do the same. Jesus gave his followers instructions to continue God’s work of creation. Creating something new is perhaps the most holy thing a Christian can do.
So God bless the artist, the sculptor, the painter, the doodler. God bless the storyteller, the novelist, the raconteur, the poet, the bard. God bless the singer of songs, the vocalist, the rapper. God bless the musician, the instrumentalist, the producer. God bless the rhythm maker, the drummer, the beat boxer. God bless the photographer, the videographer, the audio engineer. God bless the crafter, the woodworker, the jewelry maker. God bless the actor, the actress, the costume designer, the director. God bless the artist.
Now ...
8.02.2024
For the Love of Ghosts
As soon as Independence Day passes, Halloween becomes the next big holiday. Summer is the start of the spooky season. Granted, retailers call this back-to-school time, but depending on who you talk to …
Regardless of what dates you accept as the official beginning of the spooky season, I believe horror is something to be enjoyed year round. Winter, spring, summer, and fall (perhaps especially the autumn) scary tales are a gift for all seasons. Time and time again, good humans confront evil in forms of beasts and monsters and terrible people.
Horror has a diverse population or villainous characters. There are the slashers: Freddy, Jason, Leatherface, Chucky, and Michael Myers. Universal introduced us to the classics: Dracula, Frankenstein’s monster, the Wolf Man, the Mummy, the Invisible Man, and Creature from the Black Lagoon. There are countless stories about zombies, demonic possessions, serial killers, alien invasions, and ghosts.
For most of my adult life, I thought zombie fiction was my favorite sub-genre of horror. Yet, looking at my favorite scary books and movies, they tend to be ghost stories.
The Shining, The Ring, Stir of Echoes, The Haunting of Hill House, Mexican Gothic, The Frighteners, The Sixth Sense, The Canterville Ghost, The Fall of the House of Usher, and … well, it’s a long list. There’s something about ghost stories captivating our attention. They haunt us long after the final page or closing credits. They tug our heartstrings and trigger our fight/flight responses. They thrill us, terrify us, fill us with wonder, and remind us our residency in this world is only temporary.
When it comes to tales of hauntings, there is a familiar trope most of these stories follow. A spirit of the recently deceased lingers after a tragic death. Their presence frightens any new tenants in their domain until a person of either high intelligence or spiritual sensitivity moves in and seeks to understand the specter of the abode. From there they find the remains of the dearly departed to either solve the mystery of who killed them or provide a proper burial. This story arc has existed for as long as pop culture has regurgitated ghost stories. But where did it come from?
Have y’all heard of Pliney the Younger? He was a first century Roman historian, politician, philosopher, and student of his uncle, Pliney the Elder. When the Elder died attempting to rescue a friend from the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, his will deeded his entire estate to the Younger who dedicated his life and wealth to the Roman Empire. This Younger Pliney was born high into the Roman aristocracy, influential in both military and civilian circles. He was a prolific writer and orator often addressing emperors, governors, and other noble figures.
In his large collection of epistles, Young Pliney wrote two letters about the Mount Vesuvius tragedy with such great detail and accuracy, they’re still respected by modern volcanologists. While serving as a judge presiding over cases prosecuting suspected Christians, Pliney wrote to the emperor because he’d never investigated the new religion and wanted clear instruction. Their correspondence is some of the earliest extrabiblical accounts of Christianity. He wrote letters explaining Roman administrative processes and his daily life, giving modern peoples a firsthand account of what it was like to live in first century Rome.
Among all of the important historical texts composed by Pliney the Younger, he also wrote the earliest surviving ghost story. Per Pliney’s accounts, he was disturbed by a rouge spirit in one of his villas while he was busy writing. He chose to ignore the ghoul but it kept returning, creeping closer. Rather than dismiss it, abandon the villa, consort with a medium, or seek help from an oracle, Pliney employed his intelligence to investigate. He followed the apparition and discovered a body. Once the philosopher provided the corpse a Roman burial, the ghost was gone - never to return.
We have been following this format for 2000 years. Horror writers are finding new ways to tell the same story and through all ingenuity, we’re maintaining a tradition stretching back thousands of years. We remix haunted tales to create something that is fresh and ancient at the same time.
The notes app on my phone gets a lot of usage. Any time I get an idea for a blog post, short story, novel, or a video I want to make for TikTok, I write a note. For books, some of those thoughts jotted down in digital form are just a notion - a vague “what if?” question that is the basis for all of my book ideas. Others have a very loose outline. A few have character names attached, descriptions of settings, plot points, or more detailed outlines. There’s another note that compiles a list of every book idea I have brewing with the title, genre, and brief synopsis. With 42 titles in that list, I have more plans for books than I have years left to live. Throughout this inventory are ideas for ghost stories.
One is about a single dad confronted with the literal ghosts of his regrets, like Dicken’s Christmas Carol meets Thirteen Ghosts. In another, a ghost falls in love with the living person who bought the house she haunts. There’s an idea about the ghost of a serial killer who possesses the body of a snowman. Or a pair of haunted drumsticks received as a white elephant gift. Then one about a despondent dude taking a cross country road trip with the ghost of his best friend. More proposals exist but you get the point. My special blend of neurodivergence never ceases to generate new ideas. It’s my autistic super power.
These stories sing to me. Tales of the ghosts that haunt us - real or imagined, campfire stories or literary classics, big budget blockbusters or obscure indie flicks - I’m inspired by ghostly fables. Even though I don’t believe ghosts are real I find threads of hope in their legends, the ability to express grief, the power to overcome fear, and a shared lamentation with all humanity.
What is it about these spooky yarns? Why are they so powerful? How to they elicit such strong emotional responses of terror with the comforting sense of solidarity? On a recent episode of Lore, podcast host Aaron Mahnke explained:
There is no better reasoning. Ghosts are dangerous ideas. They are a cancer. They are unfortunate news delivered by doctors and politicians. If we can put our ghosts to rest, perhaps we can also defeat ill intent or survive chemotherapy. By exorcising malevolent spirits, maybe we can expel malicious tyrants and cure malignant disease.
Horror has a diverse population or villainous characters. There are the slashers: Freddy, Jason, Leatherface, Chucky, and Michael Myers. Universal introduced us to the classics: Dracula, Frankenstein’s monster, the Wolf Man, the Mummy, the Invisible Man, and Creature from the Black Lagoon. There are countless stories about zombies, demonic possessions, serial killers, alien invasions, and ghosts.
For most of my adult life, I thought zombie fiction was my favorite sub-genre of horror. Yet, looking at my favorite scary books and movies, they tend to be ghost stories.
The Shining, The Ring, Stir of Echoes, The Haunting of Hill House, Mexican Gothic, The Frighteners, The Sixth Sense, The Canterville Ghost, The Fall of the House of Usher, and … well, it’s a long list. There’s something about ghost stories captivating our attention. They haunt us long after the final page or closing credits. They tug our heartstrings and trigger our fight/flight responses. They thrill us, terrify us, fill us with wonder, and remind us our residency in this world is only temporary.
When it comes to tales of hauntings, there is a familiar trope most of these stories follow. A spirit of the recently deceased lingers after a tragic death. Their presence frightens any new tenants in their domain until a person of either high intelligence or spiritual sensitivity moves in and seeks to understand the specter of the abode. From there they find the remains of the dearly departed to either solve the mystery of who killed them or provide a proper burial. This story arc has existed for as long as pop culture has regurgitated ghost stories. But where did it come from?
Have y’all heard of Pliney the Younger? He was a first century Roman historian, politician, philosopher, and student of his uncle, Pliney the Elder. When the Elder died attempting to rescue a friend from the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, his will deeded his entire estate to the Younger who dedicated his life and wealth to the Roman Empire. This Younger Pliney was born high into the Roman aristocracy, influential in both military and civilian circles. He was a prolific writer and orator often addressing emperors, governors, and other noble figures.
In his large collection of epistles, Young Pliney wrote two letters about the Mount Vesuvius tragedy with such great detail and accuracy, they’re still respected by modern volcanologists. While serving as a judge presiding over cases prosecuting suspected Christians, Pliney wrote to the emperor because he’d never investigated the new religion and wanted clear instruction. Their correspondence is some of the earliest extrabiblical accounts of Christianity. He wrote letters explaining Roman administrative processes and his daily life, giving modern peoples a firsthand account of what it was like to live in first century Rome.
Among all of the important historical texts composed by Pliney the Younger, he also wrote the earliest surviving ghost story. Per Pliney’s accounts, he was disturbed by a rouge spirit in one of his villas while he was busy writing. He chose to ignore the ghoul but it kept returning, creeping closer. Rather than dismiss it, abandon the villa, consort with a medium, or seek help from an oracle, Pliney employed his intelligence to investigate. He followed the apparition and discovered a body. Once the philosopher provided the corpse a Roman burial, the ghost was gone - never to return.
We have been following this format for 2000 years. Horror writers are finding new ways to tell the same story and through all ingenuity, we’re maintaining a tradition stretching back thousands of years. We remix haunted tales to create something that is fresh and ancient at the same time.
The notes app on my phone gets a lot of usage. Any time I get an idea for a blog post, short story, novel, or a video I want to make for TikTok, I write a note. For books, some of those thoughts jotted down in digital form are just a notion - a vague “what if?” question that is the basis for all of my book ideas. Others have a very loose outline. A few have character names attached, descriptions of settings, plot points, or more detailed outlines. There’s another note that compiles a list of every book idea I have brewing with the title, genre, and brief synopsis. With 42 titles in that list, I have more plans for books than I have years left to live. Throughout this inventory are ideas for ghost stories.
One is about a single dad confronted with the literal ghosts of his regrets, like Dicken’s Christmas Carol meets Thirteen Ghosts. In another, a ghost falls in love with the living person who bought the house she haunts. There’s an idea about the ghost of a serial killer who possesses the body of a snowman. Or a pair of haunted drumsticks received as a white elephant gift. Then one about a despondent dude taking a cross country road trip with the ghost of his best friend. More proposals exist but you get the point. My special blend of neurodivergence never ceases to generate new ideas. It’s my autistic super power.
These stories sing to me. Tales of the ghosts that haunt us - real or imagined, campfire stories or literary classics, big budget blockbusters or obscure indie flicks - I’m inspired by ghostly fables. Even though I don’t believe ghosts are real I find threads of hope in their legends, the ability to express grief, the power to overcome fear, and a shared lamentation with all humanity.
What is it about these spooky yarns? Why are they so powerful? How to they elicit such strong emotional responses of terror with the comforting sense of solidarity? On a recent episode of Lore, podcast host Aaron Mahnke explained:
7.29.2024
Stuck
Negative feedback, constructive criticism, rejection - they’re all a part of the human experience. Some people avoid it with varying degrees of success. Others ignore it because the haters gonna hate hate hate. Regardless of the intent behind the criticism, it’s clear not all people see the benefit in it. There are those who are like Melvin Smiley, Mark Wahlberg’s character in The Big Hit, who said … 
If you’re the type of person who can’t handle rejection, the Melvin Smiley kind of human, becoming a writer is probably not the best idea for you. Actually, any career in a creative industry is something you should avoid. That said, I can only speak as a writer and a DJ. These are the only crafts where I possess any experiential authority.
For a novelist, you have two paths to publishing: traditional publishing houses or do it yourself. The latter is expensive as you have to do everything on your own or pay someone else to do it. The editing, formatting, cover art, promotions, and advertising. As someone who is not great at promoting myself, this method does not sound appealing.
Which leaves the former - the method that is the dream of nearly every author, to be published through a traditional publisher and see your books on shelves in everything from Barnes and Noble, to your local independent book store, to Walmart. Writers long to see their titles on best seller lists, get film options, and be the next Brandon Sanderson or Sarah J Maas.
There’s a challenge to the traditional method though. Publishing houses do not accept submissions directly from authors. If you’ve written a novel and want that book to be considered by a company like Harper Collins or Penguin/Random House, you need an intermediary. In the publishing world, those people are called literary agents. Their job is to sell your book to publishers and negotiate the best contract possible. Because the more you get paid, the more they get paid. To follow the traditional route, you need an agent. Without an agent, getting your book published is unlikely.
How do you find a literary agent? You must query. Query good. For the uninitiated: a query is a formal request from an author to an agent for representation. It’s a process. It is arduous and daunting – possibly a little soul crushing if you’re not prepared. Once a query is submitted, there are a few different things that could happen. The first (and worst) is nothing; weeks turn into months and there’s no response as if you and your story never existed. The next possibility is what everyone hopes for - the agent requests either a full copy or partial copy of your manuscript. If they like what they see they make an offer to represent you. The third, final, and most likely possibility is rejection; you get a letter thanking you for considering them but your project isn’t a good fit.
It shouldn’t be a surprise rejections are plentiful, more abundant than any other response. The quantities of books written every year far exceed the number of projects any agent could possibly represent. If a literary agent was foolish enough to accept every author who ever submitted a query to them, they would never have the time to effectively pitch those books to publishers. This means thousands of books are completed and saved as a manuscript on a hard drive somewhere to never see the light of day only to be read by friends, family, beta readers, and critique partners. The population of unpublished authors is so vast it makes the count of published authors comparatively diminutive.
When I began querying “Kingdom of Odd,” I did the math. I searched for all agents on QueryTracker who were open to submissions and accepted queries for young adult fantasy. Then I exported that list into a spreadsheet (because I’m a nerd) and included the number of queries each agent had received with the count of how frequently they requested a partial or full manuscript. The statistics are not encouraging. These agents have received anywhere from 260 to 12,400 queries. The stingiest agent requested at least a part of a manuscript from 0.15% of work submitted to them. The most generous agent requested more from 13.53% of the authors who queried them. At best, roughly 87% of authors are going to get rejection letters. At best. Worst case scenario, some agents reject nearly 100% of the queries they receive.
If you are a writer who wants to see their book traditionally published, there will be rejections. A lot of rejections. If you’re not prepared, it will destroy every shred of self worth your ego can muster. I thought I was ready. My first few rejections came and motivated me to keep trying. According to all available stories, JK Rowling received twelve rejections for “Harry Potter” before an agent expressed interest. To be clear, I am not JK Rowling. “Kingdom of Odd” is not “Harry Potter.” And I’ve received seventeen rejections with more to come. Regardless, I believe in my book and the story and its potential. So I keep submitting. Sometimes, I would submit two queries for every one rejection letter.
As for those rejection letters, they come in a few different varieties. The most common is a form rejection. These letters are identical, with only the name of the author and book title changing from one email to the next. The other options are more personal as they both contain constructive feedback. The rarest instance includes encouragement to change something and resubmit. More probable is a letter explaining exactly why your book was rejected but leaving it open to the author to take the advice before submitting to other agents. For the first six months of querying, every rejection I got was a form letter. “Thanks for considering me but …”
July brought two new things: warmer weather in the Inland Northwest, and the first rejection letter with feedback I could actually use. This excited me. If I’m going to get shot down, I’d at least like to know why. If my book isn’t good enough for someone, I want to know what could make it better. I thought I was ready. Turns out I was only prepared for the form rejections. I was not primed for the useful criticism.
After the first few rounds of editing and revision and feedback from friends/family, I got my manuscript in front of a couple beta readers. The most useful feedback I got from the beta phase was about exposition. This is a blessing and a curse. In fantasy, you need a certain amount of exposition. Without it, readers can’t understand the world your characters inhabit. They won’t know the social structures or the magic system or the reason anyone does anything especially the main characters. Too much exposition is cumbersome and boring. No one wants to read a dull book. The evaluation suggested incorporating the necessary exposition into dialog as it would provide the background readers need while also contributing to character development and natural flow of the story. So I dove into another rewrite to incorporate this feedback.
This is where the personalized rejection letter derailed me. First (like any good manager would do when coaching an employee) it started off with compliments. She said there were great qualities in my work (yay!) and it was an intriguing concept (also yay!) but (and there’s always a but) it was too heavy on dialog and exposition.
Finally, some tangible and helpful feedback from a literary agent. I should be excited, instead I’m confused. I understand her recommendation but I don’t know how to implement it. The original version was heavier on exposition and I revised it to include more dialog based on earlier feedback. One person says more dialog, one says less dialog, and both say less exposition. While I realize I can’t please everyone I want a book worthy of pleasing an agent. I want someone who will take a chance on me.
Now I’m stuck. The one thing I always wanted in a rejection turned out to be a figurative wad of chewed gum clogging the gears of my creative cognitive functions. I’m a writer: I should be writing. I could be revising my completed manuscript taking consideration of recent recommendations. I could be working on my other works in progress. I could be formatting my wife’s children’s book. I could be blogging. Instead I’m trapped inside my head. Since I don’t know how to fix this one thing, I was paralyzed to write anything. To be honest, this is the first significant item I’ve composed since that rejection letter on July 6.
Dump this in a blender with my autistic aversion to boredom, my hyperactive imagination, my evangelical guilt, my lingering situational depression, and all the anxiety I can muster and you get blah. Blah has been my modus operandi for the month of July. And I don’t like the blahs.
If you’re the type of person who can’t handle rejection, the Melvin Smiley kind of human, becoming a writer is probably not the best idea for you. Actually, any career in a creative industry is something you should avoid. That said, I can only speak as a writer and a DJ. These are the only crafts where I possess any experiential authority.
For a novelist, you have two paths to publishing: traditional publishing houses or do it yourself. The latter is expensive as you have to do everything on your own or pay someone else to do it. The editing, formatting, cover art, promotions, and advertising. As someone who is not great at promoting myself, this method does not sound appealing.
Which leaves the former - the method that is the dream of nearly every author, to be published through a traditional publisher and see your books on shelves in everything from Barnes and Noble, to your local independent book store, to Walmart. Writers long to see their titles on best seller lists, get film options, and be the next Brandon Sanderson or Sarah J Maas.
There’s a challenge to the traditional method though. Publishing houses do not accept submissions directly from authors. If you’ve written a novel and want that book to be considered by a company like Harper Collins or Penguin/Random House, you need an intermediary. In the publishing world, those people are called literary agents. Their job is to sell your book to publishers and negotiate the best contract possible. Because the more you get paid, the more they get paid. To follow the traditional route, you need an agent. Without an agent, getting your book published is unlikely.
How do you find a literary agent? You must query. Query good. For the uninitiated: a query is a formal request from an author to an agent for representation. It’s a process. It is arduous and daunting – possibly a little soul crushing if you’re not prepared. Once a query is submitted, there are a few different things that could happen. The first (and worst) is nothing; weeks turn into months and there’s no response as if you and your story never existed. The next possibility is what everyone hopes for - the agent requests either a full copy or partial copy of your manuscript. If they like what they see they make an offer to represent you. The third, final, and most likely possibility is rejection; you get a letter thanking you for considering them but your project isn’t a good fit.
It shouldn’t be a surprise rejections are plentiful, more abundant than any other response. The quantities of books written every year far exceed the number of projects any agent could possibly represent. If a literary agent was foolish enough to accept every author who ever submitted a query to them, they would never have the time to effectively pitch those books to publishers. This means thousands of books are completed and saved as a manuscript on a hard drive somewhere to never see the light of day only to be read by friends, family, beta readers, and critique partners. The population of unpublished authors is so vast it makes the count of published authors comparatively diminutive.
When I began querying “Kingdom of Odd,” I did the math. I searched for all agents on QueryTracker who were open to submissions and accepted queries for young adult fantasy. Then I exported that list into a spreadsheet (because I’m a nerd) and included the number of queries each agent had received with the count of how frequently they requested a partial or full manuscript. The statistics are not encouraging. These agents have received anywhere from 260 to 12,400 queries. The stingiest agent requested at least a part of a manuscript from 0.15% of work submitted to them. The most generous agent requested more from 13.53% of the authors who queried them. At best, roughly 87% of authors are going to get rejection letters. At best. Worst case scenario, some agents reject nearly 100% of the queries they receive.
If you are a writer who wants to see their book traditionally published, there will be rejections. A lot of rejections. If you’re not prepared, it will destroy every shred of self worth your ego can muster. I thought I was ready. My first few rejections came and motivated me to keep trying. According to all available stories, JK Rowling received twelve rejections for “Harry Potter” before an agent expressed interest. To be clear, I am not JK Rowling. “Kingdom of Odd” is not “Harry Potter.” And I’ve received seventeen rejections with more to come. Regardless, I believe in my book and the story and its potential. So I keep submitting. Sometimes, I would submit two queries for every one rejection letter.
As for those rejection letters, they come in a few different varieties. The most common is a form rejection. These letters are identical, with only the name of the author and book title changing from one email to the next. The other options are more personal as they both contain constructive feedback. The rarest instance includes encouragement to change something and resubmit. More probable is a letter explaining exactly why your book was rejected but leaving it open to the author to take the advice before submitting to other agents. For the first six months of querying, every rejection I got was a form letter. “Thanks for considering me but …”
July brought two new things: warmer weather in the Inland Northwest, and the first rejection letter with feedback I could actually use. This excited me. If I’m going to get shot down, I’d at least like to know why. If my book isn’t good enough for someone, I want to know what could make it better. I thought I was ready. Turns out I was only prepared for the form rejections. I was not primed for the useful criticism.
After the first few rounds of editing and revision and feedback from friends/family, I got my manuscript in front of a couple beta readers. The most useful feedback I got from the beta phase was about exposition. This is a blessing and a curse. In fantasy, you need a certain amount of exposition. Without it, readers can’t understand the world your characters inhabit. They won’t know the social structures or the magic system or the reason anyone does anything especially the main characters. Too much exposition is cumbersome and boring. No one wants to read a dull book. The evaluation suggested incorporating the necessary exposition into dialog as it would provide the background readers need while also contributing to character development and natural flow of the story. So I dove into another rewrite to incorporate this feedback.
This is where the personalized rejection letter derailed me. First (like any good manager would do when coaching an employee) it started off with compliments. She said there were great qualities in my work (yay!) and it was an intriguing concept (also yay!) but (and there’s always a but) it was too heavy on dialog and exposition.
Finally, some tangible and helpful feedback from a literary agent. I should be excited, instead I’m confused. I understand her recommendation but I don’t know how to implement it. The original version was heavier on exposition and I revised it to include more dialog based on earlier feedback. One person says more dialog, one says less dialog, and both say less exposition. While I realize I can’t please everyone I want a book worthy of pleasing an agent. I want someone who will take a chance on me.
Now I’m stuck. The one thing I always wanted in a rejection turned out to be a figurative wad of chewed gum clogging the gears of my creative cognitive functions. I’m a writer: I should be writing. I could be revising my completed manuscript taking consideration of recent recommendations. I could be working on my other works in progress. I could be formatting my wife’s children’s book. I could be blogging. Instead I’m trapped inside my head. Since I don’t know how to fix this one thing, I was paralyzed to write anything. To be honest, this is the first significant item I’ve composed since that rejection letter on July 6.
Dump this in a blender with my autistic aversion to boredom, my hyperactive imagination, my evangelical guilt, my lingering situational depression, and all the anxiety I can muster and you get blah. Blah has been my modus operandi for the month of July. And I don’t like the blahs.
6.18.2024
Wedding Professionals
This is me and my friend Syafiq. Both of us are DJs. He’s a dance instructor and choreographer who’s just started officially working as a day-of coordinator. I’m a licensed minister. Naturally, our skill sets place us in the same universe. If you ask my teenage daughter, she’ll tell you Syafiq and I have the same vibe.
We live in the world of weddings. If you’re getting married and need an officiant? We got you covered. Need a DJ for the reception? That’s us. Need someone to teach you to dance so you look like you know what you’re doing during your first dance? Syafiq is your man. Want help writing custom wedding vows? I can do that. Need someone to keep everything moving and organized? We’re available for hire. Taking it a step further - we both take pictures during our gigs which we give our clients for free as an added little bonus.
There’s something about the public display of love and commitment that fuels us and the music we play heals us. We love celebrating love. And that’s what we do at Fuller Entertainment. (Shameless plug: you should follow us on Facebook and Instagram.) If you or someone dependent on you is getting married, we’d love to hear from you.
It’s more than a wedding thing though. We are also available to play music for school dances, corporate events, private parties, religious celebrations, family reunions, bars, and coffee shops. As for the ministry side of things, if you want someone to officiate a comic book or ren faire themed wedding I’d be happy to help. Because I’m a geek and us nerds deserve love too.
And it’s still more than that. The real reason I’m writing this is because Syafiq is a great dude. He’s was the best man at my wedding and is one of the best men I’ve ever known. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be a DJ. Working with him over the years, I’ve learned a lot about his heart and what makes him tick. The compassion he possesses bleeds into everything he does. His goal as a DJ has also become my goal - to lift up and encourage others. We look for clients who ooze positivity. When we recommend photographers, stylists, and caterers, we suggest people who also believe in hope and promote humanity’s better nature. We aim to work with clients, venues, and other vendors with a spirit of collaboration. When a gig is over, we want to be able to tell everyone involved we look forward to working with them again - and be sincere in that statement.
This world is ugly and bitter enough as it is. Neither of us wants to contribute to the proliferation of selfishness and greed rampant in our culture. It might be the harder path to take but we would rather be a light in the darkness. This ideal has been hardwired into Syafiq’s fiber ever since the day I met him. He’s an amazing friend and I’m honored to share his business adventures.
For real though, we’d love to be the DJ and/or minister at your next event.
selfie courtesy Syafiq Fuller
We live in the world of weddings. If you’re getting married and need an officiant? We got you covered. Need a DJ for the reception? That’s us. Need someone to teach you to dance so you look like you know what you’re doing during your first dance? Syafiq is your man. Want help writing custom wedding vows? I can do that. Need someone to keep everything moving and organized? We’re available for hire. Taking it a step further - we both take pictures during our gigs which we give our clients for free as an added little bonus.
There’s something about the public display of love and commitment that fuels us and the music we play heals us. We love celebrating love. And that’s what we do at Fuller Entertainment. (Shameless plug: you should follow us on Facebook and Instagram.) If you or someone dependent on you is getting married, we’d love to hear from you.
It’s more than a wedding thing though. We are also available to play music for school dances, corporate events, private parties, religious celebrations, family reunions, bars, and coffee shops. As for the ministry side of things, if you want someone to officiate a comic book or ren faire themed wedding I’d be happy to help. Because I’m a geek and us nerds deserve love too.
And it’s still more than that. The real reason I’m writing this is because Syafiq is a great dude. He’s was the best man at my wedding and is one of the best men I’ve ever known. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be a DJ. Working with him over the years, I’ve learned a lot about his heart and what makes him tick. The compassion he possesses bleeds into everything he does. His goal as a DJ has also become my goal - to lift up and encourage others. We look for clients who ooze positivity. When we recommend photographers, stylists, and caterers, we suggest people who also believe in hope and promote humanity’s better nature. We aim to work with clients, venues, and other vendors with a spirit of collaboration. When a gig is over, we want to be able to tell everyone involved we look forward to working with them again - and be sincere in that statement.
This world is ugly and bitter enough as it is. Neither of us wants to contribute to the proliferation of selfishness and greed rampant in our culture. It might be the harder path to take but we would rather be a light in the darkness. This ideal has been hardwired into Syafiq’s fiber ever since the day I met him. He’s an amazing friend and I’m honored to share his business adventures.
For real though, we’d love to be the DJ and/or minister at your next event.
6.11.2024
Stolen
The veneration of soldiers as heroes is an honor reserved for military members who served - especially those who sacrificed their lives, health, safety, and sanity.
To be clear, I’ve never been a soldier. I’ve never served in any branch of the military. The Army recruiting office I visited as a 17 year old told me I was too underweight to join - which is funny now considering how chunky I’ve become as an adult. Regardless, the experiences of our armed forces is something I’ll never fully understand no matter how many stories I hear from people who actually served in combat. I can read history books, play Call of Duty, or watch war movies and none of it will compare to the horrors real soldiers endured.
The greatest insult to our veterans is the way this nation treats them. Our government is eager to send our soldiers off to war but hesitant to help those soldiers when they return home physically, emotionally, and mentally broken. War is hell, or so I’ve been told. But a greater hell awaits when the fighting is over and these warriors are abandoned to civilian life with missing limbs, bullet wounds, damaged hearing, traumatic brain injuries, and PTSD. They’re expected to figure it out alone in a country with shortages of mental health professionals and understaffed VA hospitals. We broke them then refuse to fix them. They need our help and we’ve turned a blind eye to their needs. That, in my opinion, is a bigger middle finger to our military personnel than any anti-war protest.
And for years I thought this is the worst we could do to those who served in the armed forces. I was wrong.
Then a draft dodging con-artist wormed his way into the presidency and championed himself as the only true hero the military needed while maligning POWs, families of soldiers killed in combat, and anyone wounded in the line of duty. Trump claimed avoiding STDs was his Vietnam. The man made repeated attempts to make it harder for veterans to qualify for benefits and tried to gut the Veteran Affairs Department budget every year he was in office. The VA staff shrank under Trump’s administration as 50,000 vacancies went unfilled creating severe staffing shortages and closures of clinics meant to help our veterans. When 100 soldiers reported concussion symptoms after an Iranian air strike, the former president brushed it off as mere headaches and said they were not significant injuries. He routinely skipped traditional visits to military ceremonies and battlefield memorials to play golf instead of honoring America’s fallen warriors. His Memorial Day and Veterans Day posts of social media were (and continue to be) abhorrent attacks against his perceived enemies while ignoring the real sacrifices made by our true military heroes.
Somehow this asshole who called our soldiers losers and suckers is lauded as the biggest supporter of the US military. How? Because this is the most insulting thing I could imagine.
This is stolen valor. Someone got confused because he never served. Donald was granted deferments thanks to a combination of his rich daddy’s money and a fake claim of bone spurs. His disdain for American soldiers is thoroughly documented. His face should never be associated with any form of military action.
It is my desire no one ever photoshops my face onto the body of a real soldier or prompts an AI generated image of me in military uniform. I hope no one conflates my respect for members of our military as my membership within their ranks. I’m just a civilian and that is all I’ll ever be. No matter how heroic I might someday become or the capacity to which I may contribute to the betterment of society, I will never be a soldier. I will never understand what it’s like to walk in their combat boots. I will never experience their commitment and sacrifice. If you want to celebrate a soldier, celebrate them - not me.
While we’re here, regardless of your feelings of the military and war, our veterans need and deserve support. There are ample opportunities for you to use your time and resources to help those in your community by reaching out to your local American Legion or VA.
The greatest insult to our veterans is the way this nation treats them. Our government is eager to send our soldiers off to war but hesitant to help those soldiers when they return home physically, emotionally, and mentally broken. War is hell, or so I’ve been told. But a greater hell awaits when the fighting is over and these warriors are abandoned to civilian life with missing limbs, bullet wounds, damaged hearing, traumatic brain injuries, and PTSD. They’re expected to figure it out alone in a country with shortages of mental health professionals and understaffed VA hospitals. We broke them then refuse to fix them. They need our help and we’ve turned a blind eye to their needs. That, in my opinion, is a bigger middle finger to our military personnel than any anti-war protest.
And for years I thought this is the worst we could do to those who served in the armed forces. I was wrong.
Then a draft dodging con-artist wormed his way into the presidency and championed himself as the only true hero the military needed while maligning POWs, families of soldiers killed in combat, and anyone wounded in the line of duty. Trump claimed avoiding STDs was his Vietnam. The man made repeated attempts to make it harder for veterans to qualify for benefits and tried to gut the Veteran Affairs Department budget every year he was in office. The VA staff shrank under Trump’s administration as 50,000 vacancies went unfilled creating severe staffing shortages and closures of clinics meant to help our veterans. When 100 soldiers reported concussion symptoms after an Iranian air strike, the former president brushed it off as mere headaches and said they were not significant injuries. He routinely skipped traditional visits to military ceremonies and battlefield memorials to play golf instead of honoring America’s fallen warriors. His Memorial Day and Veterans Day posts of social media were (and continue to be) abhorrent attacks against his perceived enemies while ignoring the real sacrifices made by our true military heroes.
Somehow this asshole who called our soldiers losers and suckers is lauded as the biggest supporter of the US military. How? Because this is the most insulting thing I could imagine.
It is my desire no one ever photoshops my face onto the body of a real soldier or prompts an AI generated image of me in military uniform. I hope no one conflates my respect for members of our military as my membership within their ranks. I’m just a civilian and that is all I’ll ever be. No matter how heroic I might someday become or the capacity to which I may contribute to the betterment of society, I will never be a soldier. I will never understand what it’s like to walk in their combat boots. I will never experience their commitment and sacrifice. If you want to celebrate a soldier, celebrate them - not me.
While we’re here, regardless of your feelings of the military and war, our veterans need and deserve support. There are ample opportunities for you to use your time and resources to help those in your community by reaching out to your local American Legion or VA.
5.28.2024
Everything Counts
Depeche Mode has been around for nearly as long as I have. I say nearly because their debut album was released in 1981, so I have a couple years on them.
Despite them being huge in the 80s, I didn’t get into them until I was in high school. I became a fan somewhere between “Songs of Faith and Devotion” in ‘93 and my senior year when “Ultra” was released. I became obsessed. I collected their entire back catalog and sought out all of the remixes I could find. I started collecting cover versions of their music - everything from Johnny Cash’s “Personal Jesus” to The Cure’s “World in My Eyes” to Anberlin’s “Enjoy the Silence.” Veruca Salt has version of “Somebody” both devastating and hauntingly beautiful.
I’m still a fan of Depeche Mode, just not quite as obsessive as I used to be. They released Memento Mori last year and it’s a brilliant album but I still only listened to it once and haven’t gone back. They’ll always be a band I respect and admire but they’ll never appeal to me like they did through the mid to late 90s. That said, one of my favorite songs of theirs remains a single recorded over 40 years ago: “Everything Counts.”
This song popped in my head this morning. It’s been years since I last listened to it - or even thought about it. Then while waiting on a colleague to show up this morning, the words popped into my head. “Everything counts in large amounts,” the refrain repeating in my internal jukebox.
Where did this song on my mind come from? The last music I listened to was Matt Osowski’s background beats on the Hood Politics podcast. And the last actual songs I intentionally listened to was a Jelly Roll tune my wife sent me last night and Chance the Rapper’s new track I stumbled into while falling into a YouTube hole. Beyond that, I’ve been playing a lot of Jay-Z, a far cry from DM’s synthy new wave dance pop. So why are the voices in my head suddenly vibing to Everything Counts?
If you assume I spent way too much time pondering the answer to this question, you’re correct. I’m the type of person who believes everything happens for a reason. Even if that reason is bad. Even if that reason is my own stupidity. I am a big believer in cause and effect. The rules of physics enforce it. Newton’s third law demands for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. But there was no corporeal inciting incident. I haven’t played Depeche Mode at a DJ gig or while chilling at home. There’s been no recent radio airplay or Spotify listens. I cannot conceive a literal physical cause where “Everything Counts” is the tangible reaction.
That leaves the metaphysical. Whatever it is you want to call it - God, the universe, gut level instincts … I’m compelled to believe that divine source plumbed the darkest recesses of my musical obsessions to make me pay attention. There are a lot of grabbing hands in my life grabbing all they can. That’s just a natural side effect of parenting teenagers - they will always take more than you allow. But it’s more than just my kids being kids.
The second verse is aptly relevant to the complex and sprawling narrative of this current phase in my life. In it, Dave Gahan sings “Picture it now, see just how, the lies and deceit gained a little more power.”
If that ain’t the damn truth. I’ve been watching (and suffering the effects) of a person who has been steadily gaining power through a web of lies and deceit. It’s been soul crushing to observe, especially when every attempt I’ve made to challenge or expose it has only solidified their amassing power. For years I’ve felt powerless against this dishonest and abusive force.
But everything counts, right?
I don’t really believe in karma but if there was ever a time to hope for it, it’s now. And in large amounts. When I was a kid, I was frequently taught the verse from the Bible that says it’s God’s role to avenge and the Lord will repay. These days, a different piece of scripture is my heart’s cry, “let justice flow like a river, and let goodness flow like a never-ending stream.” Because justice counts in large amounts. As Francis Bacon once said “to delay justice is injustice.” Martin Luther King Jr paraphrased the same concept, “justice too long delayed is justice denied.” Over the last couple years, I’ve held an unfortunate front row seat to recurring perversion of justice. But tides are slowly turning.
Perhaps this is the reason I got Depeche Mode stuck on intracranial replay. Because grabbing hands grab what they can. Everything counts in large amounts. Karma counts in large amounts. Justice counts in large amounts.
Or maybe I just need to listen to more Depeche Mode.
Despite them being huge in the 80s, I didn’t get into them until I was in high school. I became a fan somewhere between “Songs of Faith and Devotion” in ‘93 and my senior year when “Ultra” was released. I became obsessed. I collected their entire back catalog and sought out all of the remixes I could find. I started collecting cover versions of their music - everything from Johnny Cash’s “Personal Jesus” to The Cure’s “World in My Eyes” to Anberlin’s “Enjoy the Silence.” Veruca Salt has version of “Somebody” both devastating and hauntingly beautiful.
I’m still a fan of Depeche Mode, just not quite as obsessive as I used to be. They released Memento Mori last year and it’s a brilliant album but I still only listened to it once and haven’t gone back. They’ll always be a band I respect and admire but they’ll never appeal to me like they did through the mid to late 90s. That said, one of my favorite songs of theirs remains a single recorded over 40 years ago: “Everything Counts.”
“The grabbing hands grab all they can
All for themselves after all
It’s a competitive world
Everything counts in large amounts
Everything counts in large amounts
Everything counts in large amounts”
Where did this song on my mind come from? The last music I listened to was Matt Osowski’s background beats on the Hood Politics podcast. And the last actual songs I intentionally listened to was a Jelly Roll tune my wife sent me last night and Chance the Rapper’s new track I stumbled into while falling into a YouTube hole. Beyond that, I’ve been playing a lot of Jay-Z, a far cry from DM’s synthy new wave dance pop. So why are the voices in my head suddenly vibing to Everything Counts?
If you assume I spent way too much time pondering the answer to this question, you’re correct. I’m the type of person who believes everything happens for a reason. Even if that reason is bad. Even if that reason is my own stupidity. I am a big believer in cause and effect. The rules of physics enforce it. Newton’s third law demands for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. But there was no corporeal inciting incident. I haven’t played Depeche Mode at a DJ gig or while chilling at home. There’s been no recent radio airplay or Spotify listens. I cannot conceive a literal physical cause where “Everything Counts” is the tangible reaction.
The second verse is aptly relevant to the complex and sprawling narrative of this current phase in my life. In it, Dave Gahan sings “Picture it now, see just how, the lies and deceit gained a little more power.”
If that ain’t the damn truth. I’ve been watching (and suffering the effects) of a person who has been steadily gaining power through a web of lies and deceit. It’s been soul crushing to observe, especially when every attempt I’ve made to challenge or expose it has only solidified their amassing power. For years I’ve felt powerless against this dishonest and abusive force.
But everything counts, right?
I don’t really believe in karma but if there was ever a time to hope for it, it’s now. And in large amounts. When I was a kid, I was frequently taught the verse from the Bible that says it’s God’s role to avenge and the Lord will repay. These days, a different piece of scripture is my heart’s cry, “let justice flow like a river, and let goodness flow like a never-ending stream.” Because justice counts in large amounts. As Francis Bacon once said “to delay justice is injustice.” Martin Luther King Jr paraphrased the same concept, “justice too long delayed is justice denied.” Over the last couple years, I’ve held an unfortunate front row seat to recurring perversion of justice. But tides are slowly turning.
Perhaps this is the reason I got Depeche Mode stuck on intracranial replay. Because grabbing hands grab what they can. Everything counts in large amounts. Karma counts in large amounts. Justice counts in large amounts.
Or maybe I just need to listen to more Depeche Mode.
5.15.2024
Oh to Be a Writer
During a recent dinner date, my wife and I talked about some of my recent work - primarily my fanfic suggestions for a Christmas special in the MCU along with Marvel's upcoming Deadpool and Fantastic Four movies. I admitted to Annie how all my blog posts and tweets about things I wish to see in the MCU are really auditions to be a member of Disney/Marvel’s writing team. After all, I’m just a big fan with a fondness for storytelling and thorough understanding of comic book lore. She let me know I should be careful which dreams I share with her because she might just find a way to make it happen.
Then she asked, “How does one become a writer at Marvel?”
I explained in terms I know best: music. “These behind-the-scenes roles like writers and directors, it’s like the Drake song - started from the bottom now we here. Started from the bottom now my whole team here.”
Disney is an empire. Marvel is a behemoth. The people who tell their stories don’t just show up out of nowhere. They did something small. Then more small stuff until one of those projects got attention allowing them to do bigger things. Then they make a good impression through those bigger projects until the decision makers at Marvel Studios asks “Hey, do you want to do that, but with us?”
To prove my point (because I have autism and constantly feel the need to prove myself) I did a deep dive into the writers of the MCU.
First up: Iron Man. Before writing this script Mark Fergus and Hawk Ostby wrote the critically adored Children of Men.
Zak Penn, writer for The Incredible Hulk, worked on Men in Black, Behind Enemy Lines, and Reign of Fire before penning the MCU’s second film.
The writer of Zoolander and American Psycho was selected for Iron Man 2. The two movies he did before joining the MCU were Tropic Thunder and Megamind.
Two of the three writers for Thor got noticed for their work on Agent Cody Banks.
The script team for Captain America: The First Avenger wrote five movies before working for Marvel. Three of those films were Narnia adaptations: The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, Prince Caspian, and Voyage of the Dawn Treader.
2012’s The Avengers was written by Joss Whedon who had a prolific career before working with Marvel. He’s most well known for two things - writing, directing, and producing Buffy the Vampire Slayer; and for being a terrible and toxic person to practically everyone who’s worked with him.
And that’s just the first phase of the MCU. They’re now in the fifth phase with phase six starting in the spring of 2025. Marvel is still using people that proved themselves elsewhere like taking a dude that wrote for Rick & Morty, The Onion News, and Jimmy Kimmel to pen the script for last year’s Quantumania.
The same is true with the MCU TV shows. Before Moon Knight, Jeremy Slater wrote for The Umbrella Academy. Michael Waldron did scripts for Rick & Morty before helming the first season of Loki.
All of these screenwriters wrote cool things, got noticed, and then joined the Marvel fold. Writing for Marvel isn’t a stepping stone, it’s the destination.
One that note ...
Hi Marvel, I’m Nicholas Casey. Author, nerd, and cinephile. I wrote a book and hope to get it published soon. I’m also a fan. Hire me. Please?
Then she asked, “How does one become a writer at Marvel?”
I explained in terms I know best: music. “These behind-the-scenes roles like writers and directors, it’s like the Drake song - started from the bottom now we here. Started from the bottom now my whole team here.”
Disney is an empire. Marvel is a behemoth. The people who tell their stories don’t just show up out of nowhere. They did something small. Then more small stuff until one of those projects got attention allowing them to do bigger things. Then they make a good impression through those bigger projects until the decision makers at Marvel Studios asks “Hey, do you want to do that, but with us?”
First up: Iron Man. Before writing this script Mark Fergus and Hawk Ostby wrote the critically adored Children of Men.
Zak Penn, writer for The Incredible Hulk, worked on Men in Black, Behind Enemy Lines, and Reign of Fire before penning the MCU’s second film.
The writer of Zoolander and American Psycho was selected for Iron Man 2. The two movies he did before joining the MCU were Tropic Thunder and Megamind.
Two of the three writers for Thor got noticed for their work on Agent Cody Banks.
The script team for Captain America: The First Avenger wrote five movies before working for Marvel. Three of those films were Narnia adaptations: The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, Prince Caspian, and Voyage of the Dawn Treader.
2012’s The Avengers was written by Joss Whedon who had a prolific career before working with Marvel. He’s most well known for two things - writing, directing, and producing Buffy the Vampire Slayer; and for being a terrible and toxic person to practically everyone who’s worked with him.
And that’s just the first phase of the MCU. They’re now in the fifth phase with phase six starting in the spring of 2025. Marvel is still using people that proved themselves elsewhere like taking a dude that wrote for Rick & Morty, The Onion News, and Jimmy Kimmel to pen the script for last year’s Quantumania.
The same is true with the MCU TV shows. Before Moon Knight, Jeremy Slater wrote for The Umbrella Academy. Michael Waldron did scripts for Rick & Morty before helming the first season of Loki.
All of these screenwriters wrote cool things, got noticed, and then joined the Marvel fold. Writing for Marvel isn’t a stepping stone, it’s the destination.
One that note ...
Hi Marvel, I’m Nicholas Casey. Author, nerd, and cinephile. I wrote a book and hope to get it published soon. I’m also a fan. Hire me. Please?
5.11.2024
Once a Poet …
My brother graduated high school in 1992 which was the end of my seventh grade classes. It’s also the year grunge broke big. Pearl Jam’s Ten was released right before school started, Nivana’s Nevermind followed a month later, and by October Soundgarden unleashed Badmotorfinger. I was immune to grunge though. Aaron was a heavy metal fan which strongly influenced my musical preferences. A year earlier, most of the kids my age listened to George Michael and MC Hammer. Thanks to my conservative religious upbringing, I was led to believe grunge was inherently evil.
That all changed when I entered eighth grade. Two big albums were dropped in the fall of 92: Core from Stone Temple Pilots and Dirt by Alice In Chains. When my math teacher offered the class permission to select background music, my friend Matt nominated Dirt. “It’s brand new, just came out.” Class lasted 40 minutes so we didn’t have time to play the whole record yet those first few tracks blew me away. Them Bones, Dam That River, Rain When I Die, Down in a Hole. Whatever worksheets we were supposed to be doing is lost to my memory. Mathematic exercises were instantly irrelevant. I spent the remainder of class staring absently at the numbers on the paper in front of me, devoting all of my attention to the driving drum beats, low bass growl, and distorted guitars. My ears clung to every lyric as the vocals alternated between Layne’s manic howl and Jerry’s moody harmonies.
Within the next year, nearly all of my school friends were starting their own bands, including Matt who brought his brand new Alice In Chains tape with him to math class. I was not a good singer and I couldn’t play any instruments but I still loved the world of creating music. Matt suggested I start writing songs. If they were good, his band might use them. I had never written a song before so I asked him for tips. His advice was to pick a random word then write about how that word made me feel. A couple nights later, while bored and sitting in the back row pew of a Sunday night church service, I used the blank space of an offering envelope to write my first song: Reach.
This was the birth of my writing journey. Those first few songs I wrote were nothing more than poetry with a repeating refrain. We lived in the Seattle suburbs, Kurt Cobain was still alive (at least for a few months longer), and I was all in with grunge. The songs I wrote never got used but I kept writing. The song structure became looser until I was writing straight poetry and (according to friends of mine) I was prolific. I continued this habit into my early twenties.
Fear, anger, and pain fueled my prose. A lot of my poetry also contained themes of unrequited love. Loss. Regret. It was the essence of all the stereotypical teenage angst you’d expect from the mid-90s.
Then I fell in love at 23 and discovered I couldn’t write a romantic poem even if my life depended on it. I’d never compose a decent love song. My poetic output decreased, eventually dwindling into nothing. By the time I was 24, I was no longer a poet.
My creative outlets shifted to essays. For twenty years I’ve maintained the storytelling tradition through both fiction and non-fiction. You can’t kill an inner poet though. In the wake of divorce, I penned a couple new poems - an act of pure catharsis. Grief and turmoil were always my greatest muses. Over the years after, I’d unearth my poetic mindset and compose something new. Then put it away and move on.
When the question of women choosing between a bear and a man recently started trending, my wife told me I should write a poem about it. I balked at the idea. I couldn’t do it - it’s been years since I’ve been a poet. I don’t have it in me anymore. Even in the middle of denying my wife’s suggestion, I already had a couple lines swimming in my cranium. Within 24 hours, I wrote a new poem: Choose the Bear.
In the days that followed, my inner poet re-emerged. Two more poems were scribed in quick succession. Annie recorded me reading Choose the Bear and you can find it on TikTok. The next poem, A Weird Combination I Know, will be shared soon but the other, Early Onset Alcoholism will remain hidden for another year. Annie is also pushing me to try out some open mic nights to share my poetry with a larger audience.
Through this process, I’m rediscovering something I knew to be true when I was a teenager: poetry has the power to divulge those feelings you can’t describe in simple conversation. Since my autistic brain has difficulty expressing my emotions, poetry is giving me a chance to process trauma and release all this grief I’ve never been able to grieve.
My wife and I have been dragged through hell the last couple years. Outside forces have been doing all they can to tear us apart but their efforts have only bound us closer together. Somehow it feels the poems I write have more power because I’m speaking for both of us.
This new creative muse is providing more than just catharsis, it’s also healing. Because there’s shit from my childhood I’ve still not processed. There’s shit from my first marriage that I’ve never talked about. And there’s shit flung at my wife and I that I’ve kept quiet.
Until now.
Annie and I have full custody of our younger two children. We only had to split custody with my older three kids. The first is 19 and lives independently. My next daughter is 17 and in the going-to-do-whatever-she-wants-to-do phase and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. My son is in jail and will be until he’s almost 18. This era of co-parenting is coming to an end.
For the last 11 years, I’ve tried as hard as I can to keep my mouth shut and take the high road. My ex-wife continues to violate our custody order and makes every attempt to stir up chaos in my life. Her reasons are unknown to me but my happiness seems to offend her. With these factors at play, my gloves are off. I have nothing to lose. We need peace and I’m finding it in poetry.
Ps: I’ve kept everything I wrote in the decade between the ages of 14 and 24. It’s all squirreled away in a box somewhere in the garage. Perhaps I’ll need to revive them and re-write them, transform them into something a little less angsty and juvenile.
That all changed when I entered eighth grade. Two big albums were dropped in the fall of 92: Core from Stone Temple Pilots and Dirt by Alice In Chains. When my math teacher offered the class permission to select background music, my friend Matt nominated Dirt. “It’s brand new, just came out.” Class lasted 40 minutes so we didn’t have time to play the whole record yet those first few tracks blew me away. Them Bones, Dam That River, Rain When I Die, Down in a Hole. Whatever worksheets we were supposed to be doing is lost to my memory. Mathematic exercises were instantly irrelevant. I spent the remainder of class staring absently at the numbers on the paper in front of me, devoting all of my attention to the driving drum beats, low bass growl, and distorted guitars. My ears clung to every lyric as the vocals alternated between Layne’s manic howl and Jerry’s moody harmonies.
Within the next year, nearly all of my school friends were starting their own bands, including Matt who brought his brand new Alice In Chains tape with him to math class. I was not a good singer and I couldn’t play any instruments but I still loved the world of creating music. Matt suggested I start writing songs. If they were good, his band might use them. I had never written a song before so I asked him for tips. His advice was to pick a random word then write about how that word made me feel. A couple nights later, while bored and sitting in the back row pew of a Sunday night church service, I used the blank space of an offering envelope to write my first song: Reach.
This was the birth of my writing journey. Those first few songs I wrote were nothing more than poetry with a repeating refrain. We lived in the Seattle suburbs, Kurt Cobain was still alive (at least for a few months longer), and I was all in with grunge. The songs I wrote never got used but I kept writing. The song structure became looser until I was writing straight poetry and (according to friends of mine) I was prolific. I continued this habit into my early twenties.
Fear, anger, and pain fueled my prose. A lot of my poetry also contained themes of unrequited love. Loss. Regret. It was the essence of all the stereotypical teenage angst you’d expect from the mid-90s.
Then I fell in love at 23 and discovered I couldn’t write a romantic poem even if my life depended on it. I’d never compose a decent love song. My poetic output decreased, eventually dwindling into nothing. By the time I was 24, I was no longer a poet.
My creative outlets shifted to essays. For twenty years I’ve maintained the storytelling tradition through both fiction and non-fiction. You can’t kill an inner poet though. In the wake of divorce, I penned a couple new poems - an act of pure catharsis. Grief and turmoil were always my greatest muses. Over the years after, I’d unearth my poetic mindset and compose something new. Then put it away and move on.
When the question of women choosing between a bear and a man recently started trending, my wife told me I should write a poem about it. I balked at the idea. I couldn’t do it - it’s been years since I’ve been a poet. I don’t have it in me anymore. Even in the middle of denying my wife’s suggestion, I already had a couple lines swimming in my cranium. Within 24 hours, I wrote a new poem: Choose the Bear.
In the days that followed, my inner poet re-emerged. Two more poems were scribed in quick succession. Annie recorded me reading Choose the Bear and you can find it on TikTok. The next poem, A Weird Combination I Know, will be shared soon but the other, Early Onset Alcoholism will remain hidden for another year. Annie is also pushing me to try out some open mic nights to share my poetry with a larger audience.
Through this process, I’m rediscovering something I knew to be true when I was a teenager: poetry has the power to divulge those feelings you can’t describe in simple conversation. Since my autistic brain has difficulty expressing my emotions, poetry is giving me a chance to process trauma and release all this grief I’ve never been able to grieve.
My wife and I have been dragged through hell the last couple years. Outside forces have been doing all they can to tear us apart but their efforts have only bound us closer together. Somehow it feels the poems I write have more power because I’m speaking for both of us.
This new creative muse is providing more than just catharsis, it’s also healing. Because there’s shit from my childhood I’ve still not processed. There’s shit from my first marriage that I’ve never talked about. And there’s shit flung at my wife and I that I’ve kept quiet.
Until now.
Annie and I have full custody of our younger two children. We only had to split custody with my older three kids. The first is 19 and lives independently. My next daughter is 17 and in the going-to-do-whatever-she-wants-to-do phase and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. My son is in jail and will be until he’s almost 18. This era of co-parenting is coming to an end.
For the last 11 years, I’ve tried as hard as I can to keep my mouth shut and take the high road. My ex-wife continues to violate our custody order and makes every attempt to stir up chaos in my life. Her reasons are unknown to me but my happiness seems to offend her. With these factors at play, my gloves are off. I have nothing to lose. We need peace and I’m finding it in poetry.
Ps: I’ve kept everything I wrote in the decade between the ages of 14 and 24. It’s all squirreled away in a box somewhere in the garage. Perhaps I’ll need to revive them and re-write them, transform them into something a little less angsty and juvenile.
4.28.2024
Civil War
When I worked as a corporate trainer, I was taught to use a four quadrant model of facilitation. It graded the effectiveness of a class by measuring how well students know, comprehend, enjoy, and recall class content. We used paper tests and hands-on exams to quantify the first two quadrants, opinion surveys for the third, and the final quadrant was determined by how well the employees performed in production after graduating training.
The Q4 model is just a simplified version of Bloom’s Taxonomy. This teaching structure (created by Benjamin S Bloom in the 60s) divided a student’s retention into six categories: knowledge, comprehension, application, analysis, synthesis, and evaluation.
I learned about Bloom’s Taxonomy in second grade. Was it the primary teaching method in the Marysville school district? Nope. They clung to the pattern of teacher led presentations and rote memorization. I was a special kid though. In second grade, my parents subjected me to IQ testing to figure out what was wrong with me. Apparently, my defect was being really smart. For all I knew, people asked me questions and I answered them. The result placed me in the top five percent of all students my age. As a reward, I got to leave my class one day a week to attend Enhanced Learning.
In enhanced learning, we studied topics not taught in any normal elementary school curriculum, like bridge engineering and Greek mythology. One other feature setting Enhanced Learning apart from typical grade school classes: it used Bloom’s Taxonomy. For every year long study, we had to demonstrate that we knew the topic and comprehended it. The we had to apply what we learned, analyze it, and synthesize it into our own remixed creation. Finally, at the end of the year, the teacher submitted us to evaluation - not just her own testing but also to the judgment of our peers as we had to evaluate each other.
The first topic our class studied during my tenure was all about American geography. We learned about the Highway system, the fifty states, and the national parks. We had a race on paper where our team’s “car” could move across a giant map every time we completed specific tasks. In addition, we had to calculate traveling times between destinations - all in the era before Google Maps existed. I created a board game about Mt Rainier for the synthesis section of our class, foreshadowing the love of mountains I discovered as a teenager. My game was the final solo project my classmates judged for evaluation.
The other solo project in class came during the analysis section. Our teacher took a pair of scissors to a map of the United States, slicing America into puzzle pieces. Each of us students were given a section of map and instructed “it’s a new country.” Ms Wilson told us the USA broke apart and these bits distributed between us became independent nations. There was no rhyme or reason to the shapes. She didn’t cut lines based on cultural, regional, or ideological divisions. Her obligation was to split the American map into a number of sections equal to the amount of kids in the class.
Once we had our individual maps, we had to research - analyze - the area to know what jobs existed in our borders. We compiled lists of industries done there: forestry, agriculture, tourism, manufacturing, etc. We added up the populations of the metropolitan areas to estimate how many people lived in our nations. We determined which city would become the capital. My country contained parts of Northern California, western Nevada, and Eastern Oregon. This project helped feed my lifelong obsession with maps. I loved it.
There was another lesson I learned during this analysis project, even if unintentional: the United States of America wasn’t permanent. This land of ours was something different before we got here and it could just as easily become something different again. Our borders could change. Our neighbors could change. Our anthems could change. Despite not having any frame of reference for military conflict (it was the mid 80’s before the first Gulf War) this was the first time the idea of a civil war formed in my brain.
These are not normal concepts for a seven year old to ponder but I wasn’t a normal kid.
Then I got older and school classes taught us about the real Civil War. I realized if it happened once, it could happen again. Then I got older and saw the news about the bombing that destroyed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. I learned the culprit and his co-conspirator were American citizens and military veterans. I realized if Americans could attack America, it could happen again. Then I got older and studied political science and statistics and saw the accelerating political divisions steering this nation. I realized if it could happen in government, it could happen with the wider populace. Then I got older and watched the rise of the Tea Party and the alt right, the endless mass shootings, the proliferation of conspiracy theories and hate groups, and the riots intending to overthrow our government. I realized we are on the brink of another civil war.
I am saddened to see how many of my fellow Americans, including many who have worked their way into elected positions, have embraced ignorance as a virtue. I am heartbroken so many adhere to the doctrine declaring anyone who disagrees with you to be an enemy.
I’m not a prophet. I’m not psychic. I’m not a fortune teller. I don’t know what the future holds. What I do know is our existence is fragile. I know the freedoms and luxuries we enjoy could vanish at any moment. I know the same thing I’ve known since second grade: the United States of America isn’t permanent.
This is the perspective I carried with me into the theater this week when I finally got a chance to watch Alex Garland’s Civil War. The movie follows a small group of journalists trying to capture photos of the front line and secure an interview with the president before the opposition forces conquer Washington DC.
The movie doesn’t explain why the separatists seceded or how the civil war started. It doesn’t identify the politics of either side of the war. It doesn’t even ask the audience to pick a side. The heroes are the journalists - incredible performances from Kirsten Dunst, Wagner Moura, Cailee Spaeny, and Stephen McKinley Henderson. You see the conflict through their eyes and camera lenses. You feel their fear and their grief.
In one scene, Moura’s character screams in anguish (although his audio is muted) and for that moment, the filmmakers tell you everything you need to know about civil wars - real or cinematic: everyone thinks they’re fighting for the right side. No matter who wins, there are no winners.
Civil War gave me a lot of feelings. As a father, as a writer who married a photographer, as a minister, as a pacifist observing the genocidal war between Israel and Palestine, as an American who hates seeing what is happening in my real-life country, as a storyteller, as a cinephile … Civil War was an emotional ride. It’s also the first time I’ve cried in the theater since the death of Tony Stark. It’s a difficult movie to watch but a master-class presentation in scriptwriting, acting, and cinematography. Considering our current political climate, it’s also probably one of the most important movies released in the last few years.
The movie also brought me back to the seven year old kid I once was, realizing for the first time that the unifying bonds of our nation are fragile. Alex Garland provided most realistic demonstration of the facts I’ve known for twenty some odd years. It’s happened before, it could easily happen again. If we can’t learn from the mistakes of our past, Civil War might not just be a movie; it could be a warning of things to come.
The Q4 model is just a simplified version of Bloom’s Taxonomy. This teaching structure (created by Benjamin S Bloom in the 60s) divided a student’s retention into six categories: knowledge, comprehension, application, analysis, synthesis, and evaluation.
Click to enlarge
I learned about Bloom’s Taxonomy in second grade. Was it the primary teaching method in the Marysville school district? Nope. They clung to the pattern of teacher led presentations and rote memorization. I was a special kid though. In second grade, my parents subjected me to IQ testing to figure out what was wrong with me. Apparently, my defect was being really smart. For all I knew, people asked me questions and I answered them. The result placed me in the top five percent of all students my age. As a reward, I got to leave my class one day a week to attend Enhanced Learning.
In enhanced learning, we studied topics not taught in any normal elementary school curriculum, like bridge engineering and Greek mythology. One other feature setting Enhanced Learning apart from typical grade school classes: it used Bloom’s Taxonomy. For every year long study, we had to demonstrate that we knew the topic and comprehended it. The we had to apply what we learned, analyze it, and synthesize it into our own remixed creation. Finally, at the end of the year, the teacher submitted us to evaluation - not just her own testing but also to the judgment of our peers as we had to evaluate each other.
The first topic our class studied during my tenure was all about American geography. We learned about the Highway system, the fifty states, and the national parks. We had a race on paper where our team’s “car” could move across a giant map every time we completed specific tasks. In addition, we had to calculate traveling times between destinations - all in the era before Google Maps existed. I created a board game about Mt Rainier for the synthesis section of our class, foreshadowing the love of mountains I discovered as a teenager. My game was the final solo project my classmates judged for evaluation.
The other solo project in class came during the analysis section. Our teacher took a pair of scissors to a map of the United States, slicing America into puzzle pieces. Each of us students were given a section of map and instructed “it’s a new country.” Ms Wilson told us the USA broke apart and these bits distributed between us became independent nations. There was no rhyme or reason to the shapes. She didn’t cut lines based on cultural, regional, or ideological divisions. Her obligation was to split the American map into a number of sections equal to the amount of kids in the class.
Once we had our individual maps, we had to research - analyze - the area to know what jobs existed in our borders. We compiled lists of industries done there: forestry, agriculture, tourism, manufacturing, etc. We added up the populations of the metropolitan areas to estimate how many people lived in our nations. We determined which city would become the capital. My country contained parts of Northern California, western Nevada, and Eastern Oregon. This project helped feed my lifelong obsession with maps. I loved it.
There was another lesson I learned during this analysis project, even if unintentional: the United States of America wasn’t permanent. This land of ours was something different before we got here and it could just as easily become something different again. Our borders could change. Our neighbors could change. Our anthems could change. Despite not having any frame of reference for military conflict (it was the mid 80’s before the first Gulf War) this was the first time the idea of a civil war formed in my brain.
These are not normal concepts for a seven year old to ponder but I wasn’t a normal kid.
Then I got older and school classes taught us about the real Civil War. I realized if it happened once, it could happen again. Then I got older and saw the news about the bombing that destroyed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. I learned the culprit and his co-conspirator were American citizens and military veterans. I realized if Americans could attack America, it could happen again. Then I got older and studied political science and statistics and saw the accelerating political divisions steering this nation. I realized if it could happen in government, it could happen with the wider populace. Then I got older and watched the rise of the Tea Party and the alt right, the endless mass shootings, the proliferation of conspiracy theories and hate groups, and the riots intending to overthrow our government. I realized we are on the brink of another civil war.
I am saddened to see how many of my fellow Americans, including many who have worked their way into elected positions, have embraced ignorance as a virtue. I am heartbroken so many adhere to the doctrine declaring anyone who disagrees with you to be an enemy.
I’m not a prophet. I’m not psychic. I’m not a fortune teller. I don’t know what the future holds. What I do know is our existence is fragile. I know the freedoms and luxuries we enjoy could vanish at any moment. I know the same thing I’ve known since second grade: the United States of America isn’t permanent.
This is the perspective I carried with me into the theater this week when I finally got a chance to watch Alex Garland’s Civil War. The movie follows a small group of journalists trying to capture photos of the front line and secure an interview with the president before the opposition forces conquer Washington DC.
Image courtesy of A24
The movie doesn’t explain why the separatists seceded or how the civil war started. It doesn’t identify the politics of either side of the war. It doesn’t even ask the audience to pick a side. The heroes are the journalists - incredible performances from Kirsten Dunst, Wagner Moura, Cailee Spaeny, and Stephen McKinley Henderson. You see the conflict through their eyes and camera lenses. You feel their fear and their grief.
In one scene, Moura’s character screams in anguish (although his audio is muted) and for that moment, the filmmakers tell you everything you need to know about civil wars - real or cinematic: everyone thinks they’re fighting for the right side. No matter who wins, there are no winners.
Image courtesy of A24
Civil War gave me a lot of feelings. As a father, as a writer who married a photographer, as a minister, as a pacifist observing the genocidal war between Israel and Palestine, as an American who hates seeing what is happening in my real-life country, as a storyteller, as a cinephile … Civil War was an emotional ride. It’s also the first time I’ve cried in the theater since the death of Tony Stark. It’s a difficult movie to watch but a master-class presentation in scriptwriting, acting, and cinematography. Considering our current political climate, it’s also probably one of the most important movies released in the last few years.
The movie also brought me back to the seven year old kid I once was, realizing for the first time that the unifying bonds of our nation are fragile. Alex Garland provided most realistic demonstration of the facts I’ve known for twenty some odd years. It’s happened before, it could easily happen again. If we can’t learn from the mistakes of our past, Civil War might not just be a movie; it could be a warning of things to come.
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