The Curse of Creativity

Creative folks are some of my favorite people. I love artists. My dad is a woodworker, my mom a crafter and clothing maker. One of my aunts makes and sells handcrafted stuffed animals, and another aunt produces multimedia art combining photography and painting. One of my best friends is a DJ and a dancer. Throughout my adolescence and early adulthood, I surrounded myself with thespians and musicians. These are my people. As a writer and a DJ, I understand other creatives much better than humans with no artistic outlet.

When my wife and I first started dating, her artistic flair was one of the traits which attracted me to her. She was a photographer and photo editor. We knew early on in our relationship we would be able to work on our crafts separately together - independent in each other’s company. It was a beautiful symbiosis. Over time, I’ve discovered she’s more than a photographer. She’s also a painter and a jewelry maker.

As we are settling into a new house, her creative mind is overclocking. She is an overflowing fountain of decorative ideas: furniture and room colors and flooring and paint and … A couple weeks ago, she saw a picture of a mural painted in someone else’s home then decided she would do something similar in our living room. After receiving zero objections from me, she’s begun the project, still a work in progress. Last weekend, we bought a $5 end table at Habitat for Humanity and set it up in its desired location. Later that evening, she insisted we epoxy it to match the mural she’s painting. It’s now a swirly blue table and looks great.

She has a dilemma though. Her fount of ideas is relentless. It’s a never ending stream of consciousness with no off switch. I hear her say the words “What if we” at least a few times daily. These plans and thoughts and dreams erupting from her cranium are wonderful and delightful. Unfortunately, there isn’t enough time in the day to make all of her artistic longings become tangible.

I have similar struggles. As someone who has studied history and possesses an autistic knack for pattern recognition, it’s hard to watch the news and not guess what’s coming next. Sometimes my predictions are wrong - see my previous blog post for an example. But I can’t make it stop. My brain is wired to analyze if/then scenarios and morph those into digestible stories for others to consume. My furious creativity doesn’t cease at sociopolitical precognitions either. Any time I attend a baseball or hockey game, my brain constantly sorts through my internal jukebox to conjure which songs would better fit the moment than the songs selected by the stadium or arena’s in house DJ. And my writing … book ideas are piling up in the notes app on my phone and I know I’ll never live long enough to author all of them.

This is the curse of creativity. We are imaginative 24 hours a day. When we wake, when we sleep. When we struggle, when we thrive. Our brains are constantly visualizing new worlds, new words, new images, new melodies, and new possibilities. We can’t quit; it’s a part of what makes us who we are. To complicate matters - we all have day jobs. At least, those of us who haven’t retired have day jobs. Time card punches don’t stem the tide of creative musings. We get new ideas nearly all day every day. Some of us manage it better than others, and I am not one of them. But I try. My notes are meticulous and abundant. Book ideas, reminders to add certain songs into specific playlists, and board games I want to buy for family game night, I keep a record of it all. The noise never ends so I channel it as best as I can.

If this sounds like you, fear not. You are not alone. The curse of creativity is accompanied by a life of beauty, wonder, and awe. It might be devastating as much as it is comforting. In the creative curse you’ll find catharsis, healing, confusion, and purpose but only if you allow it. To thrive as an artist, you must always be ready because inspiration may strike at any (and often peculiar) moment.

My brother-in-law lives with us. He’s got a multitude of disabilities which prevent him from living independently. My wife is his caretaker and he’s our third wheel. Caring for and about disabled individuals can be frustrating so I attempt to have as much fun with him as possible. One of my methods to enjoy time together is to call him silly names. When I wake him up in the morning, or call for him to get shoes on so we can go somewhere, or bring him his bedtime snack, I’ll call him something absurd.

“Hey nacho cheese … ”
“Hey Larry Curley and Moe … ”
“Hey Macarena … ”
“Hey there Delilah … ”
“Hey Steven Michael Montgomery … ”
“Hey turducken … ”
“Hey spic n span … ”

Sometimes he’ll laugh. Sometimes he says “Stop iiiiit.” Sometimes he’ll let me know I scared him. Regardless his reaction, I always get a smile - enough to make the effort worth it.

Last night, with a banana in my hand, I approached his room intending to say “Hey dune buggy” but there was a short circuit between my frontal lobe and my lips because what I actually spoke did not follow my plan. When I say inspiration can appear at the strangest moments, the interaction with my bro-in-law last night is proof of concept. I blurted out some gibberish twist on dune buggy when the moment arrived. I handed him the banana while my hippocampus lit the beacons for Gondor. As I walked away pondering my verbal blunder I thought, “That would be a great name for the main character of a novel.” I unlocked my phone, opened the notes app, and created a reminder of an epic character name I need to use some time in the future.

What’s the name you ask? Well, an author needs to keep some secrets. I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.

The Tolerance Paradox

It’s an accusation I’ve heard several times, almost always from conservative people when they’re called out for bigoted statements or behavior. Perhaps I’ve heard this statement more than most people because I’ve thrust myself into peculiar social circles. Yet it remains ready on the lips of the alt-right and self proclaimed white nationalists.

Boogie men (and women) lurk in the shadows and around every corner for these people. Their beliefs in superiority influence their thoughts and actions. It is their perception of liberals tolerating the things they hate which makes their protest ever more believable. In their minds, tolerance is the main tenet of liberalism. Therefore, any criticism of their beliefs from a liberal person is a display of intolerance out of step with the assumed progressive ethos.

I make no claim to being the representation of everything liberal. Some might call me a zealot but I aim to be more pragmatic in my approach of my personal politic. My bend to progressivism is rooted more in religious imperative than social preference. Considering the region where I live and the leanings of my family, it would have been easier for me to have remained a conservative, resting in the comfort of religious right spaces. Instead, I entered the narrow gate at a terrible cost of ridicule, isolation, slander, and abandonment.

Take my perspective for what it is: an observation. I speak for myself and actual validity among others from the left end of the political spectrum will vary.

The word “tolerant” is a bit misleading. Sure, I know many progressives who pride themselves for their tolerance of minorities whether it’s based on race, religion, or sexuality. But even for then, tolerance isn’t their true intention. They strive for acceptance. They accept queer folks, immigrants, people of color, Muslims, migrant workers, and any other marginalized community. They see the value and beauty in these underrepresented populations and tell them, “You’re welcome here.”

Those harboring bigoted ideals see this loving tolerance from progressive individuals and assume “If they tolerate that person and their deviant ways, they must tolerate me too.” Then they spout off something offensive and cry victimhood because their terrible perspectives weren’t tolerated.

Pure tolerance creates a paradox. It is impossible to be tolerant of all people in all situations because showing tolerance to some automatically treats another with intolerance. Sometimes it’s necessary to pick a side; choosing tolerance for one defaults to oppressing the other.

I’ll start with a completely neutral example. Nobody watches a boxing match and says “I hope they both win.” Such a declaration is absurd. Someone has to lose. It’s OK if you don’t know who to cheer for but you can’t expect two people to repeatedly punch each other and both walk away winners.

What if you have an islamaphobic person spreading anti-Muslim rhetoric? If I chose to tolerate their voice, I would be intolerant of Islamic people. And by default, tolerating the Islam faith means I’m intolerant of anyone who hates Muslims. I can’t play both sides.

This idea that our every thought (no matter how vile) must be tolerated flourishes on social media. We get caught up in the intoxication of reactions and replies. It feeds our dopamine addictions and fuels our selfish needs for admiration. The moment anyone responds critically or expresses disgust, our brains instantly feel discomfort. We have a biological need to explain anything that doesn’t fit the pattern of our preconceptions. One objection to our lesser id breaks away from the solidarity we crave so we rationalize it as someone being intolerant of our values. Someone utters “you probably shouldn’t say that” is met with “respect my freedom of speech.”

There’s irony when intolerant people demand tolerance.

Let’s be real though, I am not a tolerant person. I’m not tolerant of people who brand my disabled friends as lazy. I’m not tolerant of people who promote Russian propaganda. I’m not tolerant of people who describe everything they don’t like as woke. I’m not tolerant of gay jokes. I’m not tolerant of incels. I’m not tolerant of clergy who abuse women and children under the guise of godly authority. I’m not tolerant of people who think drag queens are more dangerous than automatic weapons. I’m not tolerant of book banners. I’m not tolerant of anyone who believes vaccines cause autism.

I am accepting though. I accept my queer friends and family members as wonderful people who were fearfully and wonderfully made. I also accept a homophobic individual’s rights to hate the LGBTQ community. I will not tolerate their bigotry though. I accept women’s place as equal and deserving contributors to all levels of culture. I also accept a misogynist’s grasp on patriarchy. I will not tolerate their arrogance though. Damn the man. I accept the diversity and strength of my non-white friends, celebrating their color and their cultures. I also accept a racist’s predisposition toward racism. I will not tolerate their prejudice though.

A chasm exists between tolerance and acceptance. You can’t tolerate everything but you can accept all things. Acceptance is possible for the people you love as well as the people you loathe. You can accept viewpoints conflicting with your beliefs. You can accept the practice of any religion, any gender identity, any education level, any political party, any national origin, and still not agree with them. It’s called being a decent human being. But I guess that’s considered “woke” these days.

The Best Advice I Ever Received

A corporate trainer was one of the first grown-up jobs I ever had. The type of work that felt more like a career than a paycheck, weeks filled with meetings and important interactions. I spent four and a half years of my mid-twenties in this position, met a lot of great people, took opportunities for business travel, and networked with colleagues who were predominantly my elders. By the time I transitioned into a new role with the company, I was burnt out. As much as I loved the job, it was clear I could not continue.

During this time, I played supervisor and coach to groups of brand new employees roughly every month and a half. Turnover rate at the company was high enough to ensure we were always hiring which meant there was a constant need for me to do my job. Two big issues contributed to my burnout: the people we hired and the time I was given.

During this new hire class, I had to teach grown adults ranging from fresh out of high school kids to elderly folks approaching retirement who had never used a computer. It was my responsibility to educate this mishmash swath of humanity about the products to sell, bills to read, systems to use, and etiquette of customer interaction. My biggest challenge was half of the people in my classes didn’t want to be there, they just needed a job.

Originally, these classes lasted six weeks, five in the classroom and one in production where they would shadow tenured employees. In an effort to save money, the duration of these courses were trimmed from six weeks, to five, then eventually to four. Also due to budget constraints, the eight hour long class time was cut down to six hours and forty-five minutes. What began with two hundred hours to instill as much skill and knowledge as I could into my students had to be compacted into one hundred one hours and fifteen minutes. I had to create an accelerated course to cover the same curriculum. Speed runs are a fun challenge with video games but tortuous with employment.

One class was my tipping point, the beginning of my end.

I had three weeks to teach soft skills for sales and customer service, demonstrate a dozen different computer systems, and discuss all of the details of five different products. The fifth one was my favorite because it was the one with which I was most familiar. It was also the most complicated for anyone without experience. We spent two whole days (a Thursday and Friday) talking about the fifth product and practicing how to order it. Then they had a weekend off and returned on Monday to start working with a mentor in production.

The fourth week of class was not entirely spent shadowing qualified employees. At the end of every day, we would regroup and discuss any questions they had from what they observed and address any knowledge gaps.

They also had smoke breaks which is where everything fell apart. If you’ve ever worked in a call center, you probably know the designated smoking areas are places for gossip and venting. The more time you spend in the smoking section, the more likely you are to hear someone complaining. Doesn’t matter if you’ve worked there for ten years or ten days. There was one call center I worked it in Sioux Falls (I won’t mention Citibank by name) where this phenomenon was so prevalent, employees referred to the smoking area as the “bitch deck.”

Trainees tend to gather in a circle while taking their cigarette breaks, even during the final week of on-the-job training. That first Monday contained a plethora of lament. I’m not a smoker so I only learned of how this conversation transpired after the fact from people who were involved. It went something like this …

Person 1: “It’s so stressful. I feel like I forgot everything Nic taught us.”
Person 2: “I took a call about product five and couldn’t remember anything about it.”
Person 3: “It’s almost like we didn’t talk about it during training.”
Person 4: “Yeah, I don’t remember Nic saying anything about product five.”

Now, this is all normal stuff. When you spend three weeks taking in large quantities of information, you’re not going to remember everything. That’s why I did the regroup sessions at the end of the day. Also, some people are nervous talking on the phone and being the expert customers expect. It could have all been handled and resolved except the last person in the above conversation started a mutiny. As soon as they said I never covered the fifth product, everyone else joined in claiming “I don’t remember Nic teaching it either” and “yeah, he didn’t talk about product five at all.”

Unfortunately for me, one of the supervisors happened to be outside smoking at the same time. She was standing apart from the group but close enough to hear the conversation. Since product number five was a huge source of revenue, she panicked. Instead of coming to me and asking what happened, she went straight to my boss and let him know I skipped a section of the curriculum. Then he, without confirming what did or didn’t happen with me, scheduled a day for that supervisor to come teach a section of curriculum I already spent two days teaching.

I was also put on a performance plan to correct my error despite the fact I made no error. My boss’s argument was “You said you taught it but she says you didn’t and she’s a supervisor so I have to take her word over yours.” A few months later, I was forced out of the learning and development team.

Not everyone in the class lost their minds. A few level headed participants expressed frustration losing a day in production to review something that had already been taught. One of them was roughly fifteen years older than me, an old school metal head all grown up and gentrified. He was a military veteran who liked guns but loved his kids more. He had a scathing sense of humor yet took his responsibilities seriously. I’ve never been adept at hiding my emotions and he recognized the grief I was feeling in the moment. He pulled me aside to give me a pep talk.

After listening to my tale of woe, how a few smokers looking for something to whine about made me look bad and placed my job at risk, he told me something I haven’t forgotten.

“You can’t make a rock do back flips.”

My job was to teach classes of adults to jump through hoops necessary to sell and perform customer service in an environment where customers might not want to do one and is unhappy with the other. The individuals causing my trouble were a bunch of rocks. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how well other people from the same class performed, those rocks were never going to do back flips.

Nearly two decades have passed since that conversation. I wasn’t happy to end my time as a trainer but in hindsight it was the best thing for me. Like I said, I was burnt out. I was tired of trying to teach people who didn’t want to be taught. I was tired of cramming content into an inadequate time frame. I was tired of trying to make rocks do back flips.

I changed departments and continued working for the same company. I remained there far longer than I should have. Things worked out and I’m happy doing what I do now. Still, rocks abound. Rocks are everywhere these days.

There’s a Bible verse my dad quoted a lot when I was growing up. It’s from the prophet Isaiah when God tells the people “Come let us reason together.” The God my dad taught me about is one who gave us brains, fully intending us to use them. Dad passed on the idea of a God who wanted us to study and learn about everything from the microscopic structure of the cells inside our bodies to the cosmic sights in the furthest reaches of our universe. I fell in love with a God who wanted me to appreciate the details, to navigate discourse with logic, and communicate with reason. Knowledge was sacred. Its pursuit was holy.

Looking back, I realize I was raised in a dichotomy. While my father imprinted God’s desire for us to reason together, I was also raised in the heyday of the satanic panic. I made my transition from high school into adulthood as purity culture began to flourish in evangelical churches. These two eras were not defined by truth and sound reasoning; rather they were born of innuendo and fear. Unfortunately, sex and witchcraft weren’t the only demons lurking around the corners of Christian imaginations: science was treated like the devil itself. I remember a youth leader letting me know biology teachers were going to teach me fancy stories of evolution with malicious intent and it was OK for me to pretend I believed them so I could pass their class safe with the real truth that evolution was a hoax. The wholesale distrust in public education we see today were seeds planted decades ago.

It should be no surprise our collective ability to reason together is sorely lacking, not just in evangelicalism but among the general public. This is what happens when society elevates ignorance as a virtue. For a while, I foolishly thought I could bring people to enlightenment with reason. I figured facts, evidence, and logic would convince others to see the flaws in their own understanding. I was wrong.

The older I get the more it becomes evident you can’t reason with the unreasonable. While I still crave the God who called us to reason together, I’m confronted with the sage advice I was given seventeenish years ago: you can’t make a rock do back flips. And there are a lot of rocks out there.

An open letter to the victims of Californian fires

In November 2017, my wife and I bought a farm. Nearly seven acres in the rural scrub between Spokane and the Idaho border. We quickly found ourselves to be a blue dot in a red corner of a blue state. But it was home, and it was good. We did everything we could to make it our own little slice of paradise.

A year later, the first flames sparked on Boeing property near the Simi Valley. It quickly erupted into the Woosley Fire, ravaging the city of Malibu and surrounding hills. It completely destroyed over 1600 homes and killed three people. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only blaze terrifying Californians that month. Two other wildfires began the same day: Hill Fire 15 miles to the west of Woosley and the Camp Fire near Chico. The Northern Cali fire was deadlier, ending 85 lives. It destroyed 18,000 structures and displaced 50,000 people.

Our tale of homesteading bliss and collected Californian disasters might appear both emotionally and geographically unrelated. However, these contrasting events are not completely divergent.

Come January 2019, home sales in our area increased. Over the next few months, real estate prices in the Spokane area continued the upward trend. Before long, complaints arose from locals priced out of buying a home. Annie and I considered ourselves lucky to purchase when we did - a year before the spike. We were still confused though. Sale prices exceeded actual property value. It defied logic which unsettled my analytical autistic brain.

At a holiday party late that year, a family member (who happened to be a realtor) provided an explanation. Californians who lost their homes in the wildfires were bringing their insurance settlements northward. They flooded the inland northwest with enough money to make cash purchases, often offering tens of thousands of dollars more than the seller’s asking price. If there was a bidding war, the Cali expats were going to win. Some of them could buy two houses in Spokane with the amount of money they got from insurance.

It made sense. Relocate to a state with similar cultures, geographically close, with climates less wet than Portland or Seattle. Process of elimination made Spokane an ideal destination for their new hometown.

It took a full two years for the skyrocketing market to hit the top and another two for actual values to catch up with listing prices. During the pandemic, a national article was released by a major media outlet detailing the ten most over inflated real estate markets in America and the Spokane area was plopped right in the middle of the listicle.

The collective disasters of the Camp, Hill, and Woosley fires were unfathomable tragedies for the state of California but they were not isolated events. The fallout caused financial burdens upon uninvolved populations in regions outside their state.

Now, a little more than six years later, history is beginning to repeat itself as multiple fires rage around Los Angeles, including the Sunset fire in the Hollywood Hills. Much like Hollywood blockbusters, the sequel is worse than the original. There are five separate fires ablaze in the area with at least 180 thousand residents under evacuation orders and 1.5 million people without power. Two of these wildfires are already the most destructive in LA’s history and they’re not yet contained. Five deaths have officially been reported with thousands of structures destroyed, a number sure to grow before this horrible saga is over.

Image courtesy of KTLA

I don’t want to make light of the harrowing ordeal consuming the greater Los Angeles region. The heartbreak, loss, and fear are all valid as these Americans are living through an apocalyptic nightmare. I know because Spokane experiences a wildfire season every year. Even if the flames are not dancing on our doorsteps, winds bring the smoke into our neighborhoods, slowly choking out the outdoor activities and entertainment which make the unbearableness of the inland PNW more bearable.

The devastation also hits close on a personal level. Several family members on my wife’s side live in Medical Lake - the site of 2023’s Gray Fire. We are intimately aware of the fear and pain of a wildfire’s invasive touch.

If history truly is repeating, the people of Spokane should prepare to meet some new neighbors. A lot of new neighbors. I hope not though. Not because of an anti-Californian bias which is common around here. Not because we’re already struggling with the logistics of population growth even though we are. I hope for something different this go around because our nation is in crisis. Californians might not be the heroes we deserve but they could be the heroes we need.

We can laugh as a way to cope with tragedy but there is nothing funny about the massive and destructive force of nature in its cruelest moments. In lieu of jokes, I offer a proposal.

Take that fire insurance settlement and move to a red state. Hear me out.

States like Oklahoma, West Virginia, Indiana, Arkansas, Louisiana, and Kentucky are among the cheapest places to buy a house in America and they’re all red states. They also have some of the worst education systems compared to other states. They are most in need of improvement. A little insurance money can go a long ways in states like these.

Move there. Property is cheap. Buy a home and work remotely. Buy two or three homes and turn them into rental properties for ongoing income. As soon as you’ve met residency requirements, run for political office: school board, library board, city council, county commission. Or be entrepreneurial; start a small biz and join the town’s business association or Kiwanis club. Become a foster parent or sponsor a refugee family. Volunteer with a local chapter of PFLAG, Color of Change, or Citizenship Coalition. Donate to homeless shelters and organizations that help women escape domestic violence.

Whatever it is, where ever you go, use your money, time, and votes to make that place a little better. Transform your new hometown into a safer place for immigrants, people of color, and the LGBTQ community. Build grassroots foundations to create something even bigger and better, something blue wavyish. And maybe, just maybe, people like you are the ones who save us all from MAGA. Perhaps you would be the ones to actually make America great again.

I’m happy to share Spokane with you but you should spread the love a little. If all else fails, Spokane will still be here. Please though … try a red state first.

The Thing I Fear

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A swing and a ...

It is baseball season. Which means my brother is probably recording for his First Pitch Strike podcast. And if he’s not working on the podcast, he’s probably watching baseball. I know for a fact he was in Denver yesterday to watch the Mariners annihilate the Rockies in their home stadium.

Baseball runs in my family. My dad was a pitcher in high school. Growing up, the Mariners were broadcasted somewhere in our home, either on TV or the radio - sometimes both. The voice of Dave Niehaus is the sound of my childhood. Even though I didn’t play baseball, there was nothing more special than a trip to the Kingdome to watch the boys of summer play, fireworks ignited every time one of the M’s hit a home run. During my nephew’s high school days in Cheyenne, he was a star pitcher and he’s now returned to join his old team’s coaching staff. So far, two of my five kids have entered the world of America’s past time. Last summer, my eleven year old’s softball team took first place in their league.

Peewee baseball/softball is a bizarre creature. I’d call it organized chaos but there is very little organization present. I’ve observed this curiosity twice now and it wouldn’t surprise me if our youngest follows her older siblings’ footsteps.

First there’s t-ball: everybody swings and everybody runs. Sometimes they run even when they don’t get a hit. This phase is pure comedy. There are kids who don’t know what to do when they hit the ball so they stand at home plate until one of the adults drags them to first base. Other kids run the wrong direction after the hit. Inevitably, the helmets are far too big for some players, permanently obscuring their vision. Once on base, nearly every kid will keep on running until they reach home.

Years later they have it figured out. Uniforms fit and teams are sponsored by local businesses. There are strike outs and line drives. Fielders dive for balls and runners slide into bases. Kids stop swinging at every pitch, they make fewer errors, and teams become more competitive. Wins and losses suddenly matter.

Between these two stages there is another form of the game, one where the rules don’t matter and the goal is giving players experience. This is the transition time, the first year without a batting T. Coaches pitch for their own team and batters are up until they get a hit. Strike one? Cool. Keep going. Strike 13? It’ll happen eventually. Keep trying. Batters at this age are given infinite strikes. The moment their bat makes contact, everyone cheers - even if it’s a foul ball.

In the creation of a novel, there are phases. First is the raw work: plotting and planning, researching, drafting, editing, rewriting, beta readers, and more editing. Eventually you figure it out. There’s a contract signed with a publisher - perhaps with one of the big five or a small regional press or you decide to self publish. Then one day, an author walks into their favorite book store and finds their novel under new releases, debut authors, or local writers. There are no real wrong paths here. Publishing a book is a gargantuan task.

But somewhere between those two stages is something different and a million times more chaotic. Publishers don’t accept submissions from authors but they will accept them from agents. If an author hopes to get traditionally published, they need to find an agent who will sell the book to a publishing house. To secure an agent, authors submit queries to various agents. It is time consuming because every agent wants something different. If you’re not prepared for rejection, it can also be a little soul crushing.

Writers on social media jokingly call this period the query trenches as if we’re dug in for battle and we must be careful not to lift our head above ground at the wrong time.

But for me, it feels a little like peewee baseball - that first year after the batting T is removed. I get infinite pitches. I send agents information about me and my book. That’s the pitch. I’m swinging every time. I’m aiming for the fences. If your query isn’t a good fit for an agent, or they’re just not interested, they send you a rejection letter - usually a form email. That’s a strike. However, don’t despair - just like little leagues, there are no strikeouts. I get another pitch. I get another chance to swing. If it’s another strike, I’m still up to bat.

The writing community is a lot like those little league teams. As soon as an author gets a hit - an agent request for a full or partial copy of their book, or makes an offer of representation, everyone cheers. We don’t care if that author is a friend or a stranger or a competitor. A success for them means we have a chance when it’s our turn to bat. That’s what we do in the trenches. We root for other writers while we swing at pitch after pitch after pitch. From the first rejection to the fiftieth, the only way we can strike out is if we quit playing. As long as our heart is in the game, there’s always another agent.

I’m not a big baseball person. Not like my dad, brother, and nephew. I’ll attend an occasional Spokane Indians game and make it to as many of my kids’ little league games as possible. The only time I’ll watch baseball on TV is if the Mariners are playing. Being an M’s fan is a labor of love. It is truly a practice of long suffering. Perhaps being a fan of the best team to never win the World Series prepared me for the query trenches. At the end of every season, Mariners fans confidently declare “next year will be our year.” In a similar fashion, after every rejection, I tell myself “here’s to the next one.” I step back into the batter’s box ready to take another swing.

To Be President (Let’s Play a Game)

Presidential debates are a joke, right? It’s just two (sometimes three) candidates from opposing parties criticizing each other while competing in mental gymnastics to avoid answering questions placed by the moderator who lost control of the event before it even started. Or in the case of Donald Trump, debates are an opportunity to be creepy and follow your opponent around like some sort of menacing sexual predator.

I remember when the debates were actual debates. Some boring newscaster would ask the candidates what they would do about various issues facing Americans; then the wannabe presidents would provide a vague semblance of what they believe to be the best course of action. Their opponent would poke holes in those policy plans then the same question would be posed to the second candidate with the first hopeful to dismantle the opposing ideas.

Those days are gone. I don’t have any hope of such a format returning to American political discourse. However, I’m not thrilled about the current approach of letting all the monkeys fling poo at each other until the broadcast is terminated. Besides, we already know what positions the candidates support. We’re not learning anything new from the debates.

Many people have suggested adding an age limit for presidential qualifications but I have a better idea. Instead of an arbitrary number, what if we could use the debates to filter out those who are too old due to incompetence or mental decline? What if we created a method far more educational and entertaining than what we do now? At least it would be fun and informative for the average voter; I’m not sure how much the candidates would enjoy it. All nominees in the general election (3rd parties included) should compete in a series of game shows based on high school civics exams, citizenship tests for immigrants, and introductory level understandings of things like economics, law, and geography. Instead of pundits from various news networks hosting these competitive debates, they should be hosted by the comedians of late night television.

The first round should be a Jeopardy style game with trivia from high school civics classes. All clues will be read in the form of an answer. Contestants, ahem, I mean candidates should buzz in to answer with a question. Categories could include topics like Current World Leaders, Cabinet Positions, Constitutional Amendments, Checks and Balances, War on Drugs, and Immigration Policy.

Round Two: Hollywood Squares. Just like the classic game show, celebrities fill up a 3x3 tower of booths to help (or decidedly not help) the candidates as they take turns with questions taken straight from the test immigrants take to become citizens. When a would-be president answers a question correctly, they get an X or an O for a competitive game of tic-tac-toe.

Next up, round three is Hot Ones. Candidates are asked a series of questions about the functions of the government and various branches of the armed forces. If they answer correctly, nothing happens. If they get a question wrong, they have to eat a chicken wing covered hot sauce. Or meatless wing if they’re a vegetarian. The wings get spicier with each subsequent wrong answer. The more they get wrong, the hotter their wings get.

Where in the World are American Interests? fills up the fourth round with geography questions. In this Carmen Sandiego spoof, candidates are the gumshoes answering questions focused on the locations of our foreign allies, military assets, and global conflicts.

The fifth round features kids. In Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader? each candidate is paired with an elementary student to answer basic questions about American history, ethics, business, money, and culture. If the candidate gets a question wrong while it is successfully answered by their fifth grade partner, the moderator will make jokes about the failing potential president’s educational degrees and professional accomplishments.

The final debate is a revamped Price Is Right. In this competition, those running for president will play a bunch of mini games to guess how much money it takes to live in America. The idea is to see which candidate is most aware of what American consumers pay for basic necessities of housing, transportation, utilities, education, food, clothing, health care, and electronics.

We don’t need to hear candidates spout their opinions about hot button issues because we know those will fall into ideological lines of their parties. It would be helpful to know if these potentially most powerful people in the world are smart enough to handle the basics of the presidency. Do they know what they’re talking about - even if you don’t agree with their biases?

Six rounds of game shows replacing debates. Attendance mandatory. Everything is scored so there can be definitive winners and losers. All facts, no opinions. Hosted and moderated by funny folks like Steven Colbert, Jimmy Kimmel, Conan O’Brien, Amber Ruffin, Seth Meyers, and John Oliver. Losing doesn’t remove POTUS hopefuls from the ballot but (hopefully) sways voters to pick better Presidents. This plan even has the potential to create a smarter electorate. Perhaps the viewer will learn something about this country while learning about their favorite contestant. I mean candidate. Perhaps, with a better educated populace, we could avoid repeating the mistakes of our past.

Theoretically speaking of course. What do I know? I’m just a DJ and an author.

To Be President (On Paper)

The constitutional requirements for someone to become the President of the United States of American is embarrassingly sparse. Or at least, the qualifications to be eligible are few.

1. Must be at least 35 years old. Technically a 34 year old could campaign as long as they turn 35 before the inauguration.
2. Must be a natural born citizen of the USA. There’s been lots of arguments about what that means, and that’s a debate I do not wish to settle.
3. Must have been an American resident for at least 14 years. Suck it ex-pats.

That’s it. You gotta live here, be born here, and be 35 or older. With math and some rough estimations, that’s roughly 120 million Americans who are eligible to become president. Why don’t more people run? Well, from a humorist’s perspective, the only people who want to become president are the kinds of people who should never be president. Theory has it one must be pathologically narcissistic to run for president.

In reality though, money rules the USA. Only rich people can afford to run for president. That takes our estimated 120 million eligible natural born American residents over the age of 35 down to a list of 22 million millionaires. But 1% of millionaires are under 35, so some more calculations give us 21.7 million who meet the constitutional standards to be president and possess the capital to run for office.

Even money and meeting qualifications aren’t enough. You need to be accepted by a party and we all know there’s enough infighting in politics to exclude certain candidates from their own party’s primaries. Even if one is on the primary ballot, those candidates must appeal to the most extreme elements of their base to make it through to the general election. If we’ve learned anything from the 2016 and 2020 elections, overcrowded clown cars in the primaries tend to provide the worst possible candidates in the general election.

All things considered, from the wealth to the influence of the fringes - becoming president is not simple. However, I believe it’s too easy to qualify to be president. Being the right age, naturally born, and residing in America is not enough. Our guidelines should be a little more stringent. If I had it my way (which we all know I don’t) I would include a few more requirements for anyone to be eligible for the presidency.

1. Be a natural born citizen of the USA.
2. Reside in the USA for at least the previous 14 years.
3. Be 35 years of age or older.
4. Must have one election for either municipal, state, or federal position.
5. Cannot be the parent, child, spouse, or sibling of a previous President.
6. Can only run for President once unless running for reelection.

Just imagine how different our United States would be right now if we had these rules.

George W Bush would have never been President.
Hillary Clinton would not have been the DNC candidate in 2016.
Carly Fiorina would not have been in the GOP 2016 primary.
We wouldn’t have heard jokes about Low Energy Jeb.
Donald Trump would still be a reality TV star and polarizing celebrity instead of a former president facing multiple indictments.
Tom Steyer would not have been in the DNC 2020 primary.
There’d be no need for Chris Christie to withdraw from the 2024 race.
Vivek Ramaswamy would not have had a 2024 campaign to terminate.
Jill Stein would’t be currently running for the Green Party.
We would have had candidates of greater quality in the previous two and current elections.

How much better off would our nation be right now if the 2016 election was Marco Rubio or Ben Carson versus Bernie Sanders or Martin O’Malley? Where would we be if Pete Buttigieg or Andrew Yang won the nomination four years ago instead of Joe Biden.

Looking into the future, these three new requirements I propose would prevent Michelle Obama or Don Jr from running for president because they are the offspring of or married to a former president. Kamala Harris would be disqualified from running for President because she ran in 2020. As much as I like Cory Booker and John Kasich, neither of them would qualify to run for President because they were unsuccessful in their last attempts. No more Ron DeSantis or Beto O'Rourke or the national stage. We wouldn’t have any random rich dudes who got wealthy through pharmaceutical or tech startups decide they are smart enough to run the country. No more real estate moguls or CEOs who sold the SuperSonics to OKC thinking their wealth qualifies them to be the POTUS.

Theoretically speaking of course. What do I know? I’m just a dude who writes books and plays music for other people.