Tidbits - rewind and revisit

Eight years ago, I had an idea for a blog post - dismayed by the abysmal cabinet Diaper-Don assembled for his first term. The business of life and parenthood overshadowed the thoughts I had about the potential post so it was a plan with no execution. A lot has happened in the two presidential terms since then. Other ideas percolated and faded into the fuzziness of incomplete and half baked notions, haunting my cranium for frequent contemplation. Back then, I thought the tangerine tyrant’s cabinet was the worst possible collection of unqualified and incompetent individuals to ever disgrace the White House. The events of the last six months have proven me wrong. The sentient Cheeto’s current cabinet makes his original group of advisors look like sober genius patriotic saints in comparison. This newness of lower lows in politics has rekindled inspiration from the murky depths of previous designs.

Needless to say my typing fingers have been busy. The project I had originally thought to be a single blog post or two has grown. Burgeoned. Ballooned. Expanded. Exponentialized. It has bred with other unmaterialized concepts and decided it was gonna go big or hibernate. I’m in the middle of composing the eighth part and have no clue how far it’ll go. But it is going somewhere.

This is not the only big thing I’m working on either. I’m editing and revising the first 1500 words of “Only for a Day” (my superhero/pandemic science fiction novel) to enter it into a contest. This work in progress is more commercially viable than my first book so I have high hopes. Even if I don’t succeed in the contest, I’m looking forward to querying the final product as soon I get to that phase.

In the meantime, I wanted to throw out a quick update since it will be a while before I post any new content. It’s also June, practically halfway through the year and a good time to revisit my new year’s resolution: take more hikes, read more books, and watch more movies.

Well, I’ve only gone on one hike. Technically that’s more than I completed last year but there’s still room for improvement. The other two parts are more successful. So far I’ve watched 25 new (or new to me) movies and read five books. I know the latter number isn’t that impressive but compared to last year it’s a win. Not included in my January declaration is a goal to attend more live shows (comedy/theater/music) of which I’ve seen four so far with a fifth happening tonight.

A full list will be provided at the end of the year. Until then, here’s a brief preview.
Least favorite movie so far: Blink Twice.
Favorite movie so far: The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent.
Least favorite book so far: We Ate the Dark by Mallory Pearson.
Favorite book so far: Hip-Hop Is History by Questlove.
Lease favorite performance: Seether.
Favorite performance: Steve Hofstetter.

With that said, I’m headed back into the writer’s lab. Things to do, words to type, and ideas to solidify. Happy escapism my friends.

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.

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.

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.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Writing a Novel

Hero was in love with the girl next door. Unfortunately, she was courtesan pledged to be married to a famous soldier who was on his way home from war to claim his new bride. Not all is hopeless for romance; Hero’s family has a slave named Pseudolus who will do anything to earn his freedom and he’s willing to lie or cheat to get it. Pseudolus sees this star-crossed lust as his chance to escape slavery.

The two boys hatch a plan. Pseudolus will help Hero get the girl of his dreams. In exchange, Hero will grant Pseudolus the freedom for which he yearns. The scheme is complicated and does not turn out the way they hoped. High jinks, and supposedly comedy ensue.

This is the gist of the 1966 movie, “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.” I was a kid the first time I watched it: junior high aged, perhaps younger. At the time, it was the weirdest film I had ever seen. My undeveloped brain struggled to follow the quick dialog and musical numbers. I failed to see the humor or purpose of the elements of slapstick and farce. I was unable to understand the satirical social commentary. I was soured by the 60s sounding score and the dated Romanesque costumes. “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum” is not a kids movie and I was far too young to enjoy it.

courtesy of UA/MGM

Now older and more appreciative of movie history I’ve grown into a connoisseur of a wider variety of film styles. I’m no longer appalled by the shenanigans of Pseudolus and Hero in their quests for freedom and love. Upon review, I’ve found myself relating to the slave Pseudolus. I’m not the liar and cheater like the movie character but I understand his motives. Playing matchmaker for Hero and Philia was his one opportunity to seize everything he ever wanted. He saw this as his one shot and was not going to miss his chance to blow because this opportunity comes once in a lifetime.

That makes sense to me.

Pseudolus was a slave to Hero’s parents and he wanted a new and better life. I’m also a slave to our modern world: a nine to five job, child support payments, a mortgage, grocery coupons, rebellious teenagers, and a limited budget. For nearly a dozen years I’ve felt like writing was the only available ticket to my new and better life. If my outlook was dismal, I would write my way out. I don’t have any star-crossed friends who want to be lovers in need of my help, but I did write a book. Sometimes it feels like my one shot, one opportunity. If I can’t turn my authorship into a career, there is no plan B. Like Eminem said, Success is my only mother(expletive) option.

courtesy of Universal Pictures

Like Pseudolus and his ill advised trip to the forum, a funny thing happened to me on the way to writing a novel. Several years ago, when blogging was still the next big thing, a friend of mine got a two book publishing contract with one of the big five. I was excited for her, along with our little blogging network. After the debut of her first novel, she started blogging less and eventually stopped updating her blog. It’s been over a decade since she’s posted anything on her blog. I understand why she did what she did so I’m not holding any grudges. At the same time, I swore I would not fall to the same fate when I wrote my first book. But here we are. Ever since I started working on “Kingdom of Odd,” my blogging output has dwindled.

Now is my time to hustle, edit and refine, and dive headfirst into the world of shameless self promotion. Keyboard fail me not this may be the only opportunity that I got.


More to read:

Me and that Eminem song
Why I write
My novel in process

The Hateful Faith

Growing up as a church kid in the 80s & 90s, I’m aware there are aspects of my youth most would consider abnormal. I’m OK with that. I have come to terms with the weirdness of my evangelical roots. Even though I’ve flown away from the nest, it’s still the beast who raised me.

While rote memorization of scripture is common in many religious communities, mine focused on recalling a select few verses stripped of context and prioritized word for word accuracy over a thorough understanding and the complete text. One of those verses came from the gospel of Matthew: “You will be hated by everyone because of me but the one who stands firm until the end will be saved.”

Unfortunately, like many other things, the focus on this verse was dumbed down and twisted. Many of my youth group peers interpreted it to mean “People hate us because we’re Christians. If people don’t like us, it’s because we’re right!” Rather than using this as a command to relax when mistreated, it became a self fulfilling prophecy. We can see it happening today: Christians who are hostile and rude to nonbelievers then celebrate victory when their vitriol is returned with anger.

“Hah!” They say. “I told you so. See, they hate us because we’re Christians.”

It’s as if those church kids I grew up with wanted their struggle to be against flesh and blood because it’s more tangible than the spiritual forces of evil in heavenly realms described in scripture. I used to hang out with guys who wanted a little more physical combat in their metaphysical spiritual warfare.

By the time I was in high school, I was prepared with years of reminders - they’re going to hate you. I was fully prepared for my non-Christian classmates to treat me like shit because I believed in Jesus.

Then something unexpected happened. The people who supported my faith the most were people that didn’t share my faith. Instead of hating me because I was a Christian, they were accepting of me, as I was, Christianity included.

Against all logic, those who hurt me most were people who supposedly shared my faith. I was never truly welcomed or accepted in my youth group. There, I was a weirdo, the outcast, the last one picked, the often picked on. The churches who taught me we were strangers and aliens in this world made me feel like an alien among them. Those who claimed the banner of Christ acting so unlike Christ.

Being a teenager is confusing for most everyone - my church home made those years even more perplexing for me. I was loved and respected by people who were supposed to hate me, but mistreated by the spiritual family who should have been my safe place.

I still believe following Christ is following an idea that miracles happen. My continuing faith in God is a true miracle as life has given me every reason to run the opposite direction. It’s for this reason I understand how and why anyone else makes that choice.

This has been the heart and soul of my deconstruction. How do I continue to love a God served by the same folks who have wounded me so deeply? How to I practice my faith when those who taught it to me act contrary to the doctrines they gave me? How do I heal from the wounds inflicted by people who should have loved me unconditionally? None of it makes sense yet I’m convinced answers are out there.

Some things never change. 25 years after graduating high school, the harshest and most hateful treatment I receive still comes from Christians. These people tell me to follow Jesus, and when I say I am, they reply “No, not like that.” These people trained me to love my neighbor but constantly remind me which neighbors they don’t love. They instructed me to act humbly while they pursued power. If I say “I love God,” they reply “No you don’t.” I tell them I’m leaving toxic communities and they respond with toxic behavior.

I get it. Deconstruction is the evangelical boogie man du jour. Celebrity pastors (a thing that should not be) rant about it being “sexy” or demonic. Even Christian musicians rant against deconstruction between songs. Speaking of which, when did John Cooper (of Skillet) stop preaching the gospel and become an asshole for Jesus?

These people cause so much pain, division, strife. Yet, if I take my faith seriously, I’m supposed to love them too. I’m obligated to love the friends, coworkers, acquaintances, and former mentors who curse, ridicule, and condemn me. I don’t know of any way to do that except love them from a distance.

My original plan for this blog post was to wrap it up with an observation about the anger and madness demonstrated by Christians in the public square of media and politics. The odium they display doesn’t surprise me because I’ve experienced their ire my entire life. If Jesus told his followers to prove their discipleship through their love for one another, the hateful behavior of mainline evangelicals is anti-Christ. That’s how I thought this post would end. Then something funny happened.

These days, it takes me a couple weeks to compose a blog entry. Writing the first draft, revisions and re-writes, grammatical editing, beta reads and feedback, a final round of corrections and adaptation, finally the selection and formatting of imagery - all before I click the publish button. Somewhere in the middle of this process, I managed to ruffle some feathers on social media because I shared a quote from a Lutheran minister. Predictably, it was my church friends who were most offended. Here’s the quote:

One of the hateful faithful is a former coworker and ex-Mormon. She felt it was her religious duty to rebuke me, condemn me, and eventually unfriend me. The weirdest part of the exchange is how her arguments against me were all built on false assumptions. She kept leveling accusations against me with no basis in anything I said or posted. Those claims she made include the following:
• That I’m violating scripture because I’ve given up meeting with other Christians.
• That I’m ignoring what God is telling me to do.
• That scripture is absolutely worthless to me.
• That I think the church is all bad.
• That scripture has nothing to do with my decisions or ideology.
• That I’m creating God in my own image.
• That I’m looking for the world’s approval.
• That I’m playing the victim.
• That I’m being led by feelings and bad theology.
• That I claim to have access to a higher spiritual plane no one else can reach.
• That my god is myself and my opinions.
• That I’m a part of a cult.


Her crusade against me is as meaningless as it is invalid. But that’s OK, she’s free to believe whatever she wants about me. The timing of her attacks were peculiar though considering I was in the middle of writing a blog about her kind of Christianity. Without realizing the irony of her own behavior, she was proving why I posted what I posted. The Bible told me I would be reviled because I follow Christ and so far, it hasn’t been wrong - even if the hatred is coming from other Christians like my former friend.

What’s the point of all of this? Well, if you tell me you feel like Christians hate you, it’s OK - they hate me too. If you don’t want anything to do with the institutions who claim to be followers of Jesus while acting nothing like Jesus, I get it. Me too. You’re not alone and I believe in a God who loves you even if their followers don’t. And no matter what people think of me or my theology, I will chose to love when everyone else chooses the opposite.

There Might be Something Wrong with Me

When I was in elementary school, my parents wanted to know what was wrong with me. Well, maybe that’s a bad way of phrasing it. They didn’t think I was broken, yet they knew I wasn’t normal. So they did what any parents raising kids in the late 80s would do in their situation: they took me to a psychologist to determine why I’m weird. I walked out of the psych office with an ADHD diagnosis and a learning disability that affects the way I read.

in an absence of available pictures of me from 1987, please accept this substitute courtesy of Amblin Entertainment - disclaimer: I was never that cool

One of the tests the doctor asked me to perform was an exercise where I tapped my thumb to each individual fingertip. Starting with the index finder, then the middle, ring, pinky, then reverse to ring/middle/pointer. He explained kids with ADHD struggle with this task while other kids can do it without thinking. I had to concentrate to do complete the test - and even with total focus I still came close to screwing it up a couple times.

These days I can tap thumb to subsequent fingers back and forth at a rapid pace nearly instinctually. It’s a nervous habit for me, a tick I do whenever I’m anxious. If the same shrink who evaluated me over 30 years ago saw me again today, I’m not sure if he’d reaffirm my ADHD diagnosis because I would ace the finger tapping test with unquestionable perfection.

Neurotypical people would describe my compulsive finger taps as fidgeting. For those of us on the autism spectrum, it’s called stimming - or self stimulating. And yes, I said “us” because I have autism too. If my parents wanted to know why I was so quirky, this is why. Perhaps if Reagan era psychology had a better understanding of autism, I would have been given a proper diagnosis. (That’s not to say I don’t have ADHD. ADHD and ASD are frequent co-occurring disorders.)

Stimming helps people with autism regulate themselves. It is great for me in the moment; unfortunately, it is only beneficial while I’m doing it. If I’m unable to reel in my nerves while repetitively thumb tapping my fingers, my nervousness returns as soon as I cease my anxious habit.

I often wonder how different my life would be if the doctors of yesteryear had correctly identified they way my brain worked when my parents took me in to be evaluated. Would I have found adequate support at Pinewood? Would middle school have been more bearable? Would I have been bullied less? Would I have found helpful coping mechanisms in junior high? Would I have fit in with my peers? Would I have been a better student at MPHS? Would I have completed college and garnered a higher paying job? Would I still be who I am now?

My life followed the rough path to here – now grown with the pressures of adult responsibility causing havoc inside my autistic brain. Between parenting three teenagers, a daughter biologically born from a worthless man, and a baby quickly becoming a toddler, my time is often consumed with kids. Then I have a full time dead end job, weekend DJ gigs, a farm requiring daily work, all while trying to maintain this blog and write my first novel. House chores, errands, bills, car repairs, date nights with my wife, maintaining friendships, support groups, doctor appointments, attempting to eat a healthy diet, and manage some semblance of exercise. It frequently feels like it’s all overwhelming.

image courtesy of International City/County Management Association

Much like Elton John, I’m still standing better than I ever did. Fueled by coffee or anxiety, I keep going, looking like a true survivor and feeling like a quirky little hyperactive kid.

Yes, I know I’m weird. It’s not easy being an adult – a thing even more complicated when you’re on the spectrum. I won’t complain though. Autism makes me a better DJ and provides me a unique perspective as a neurodivergent writer. I’m not Ok but it’s OK. There might be something wrong with me but I’m doing fine.

Still, if you see me tapping my fingers, I wouldn’t object to hearing an encouraging remark.

Not your typical Easter post

Elvis died a couple weeks ago. Not the Blue Suede Shoes Elvis, he left the building a long time ago. Elvis was a fluffy black feathered bird, a silkie with a pompadour, the first rooster to live at Heartsong Meadow. He was everyone’s favorite chicken, practically our farm’s mascot. The girls loved him most and together we grieved. Then the next day, one of our mama goats gave birth to quadruplets. From mourning fatality one day to celebrating life the next. It’s like we were living God’s promise to make all things new.

Inspired by events on our farm, I posted the following on facebook.

Seemed fitting as we entered the Easter season to experience death and birth in quick succession, as if we could explain the crucifixion and resurrection through barnyard animals.

I had a plan, much like I do around major holidays, to compose a blog post in honor of Easter. I had great ideas to speak of the jaded cynicism living in a world where everyone is quick to shout “crucify him” at the littlest provocation, while confronted with the relentless optimism of Palm Sunday. I thought about the devastation of Good Friday and the hope of resurrection and how I could tie it all together through the cycle of human emotions we all experience. Joy, sorrow, expectation, disappointment, surprise, and relief.

To be honest though, I just don’t have it in me this year. Instead, you’re getting an unedited, first draft, random stream of consciousness, screaming into the universe at 4am jumble of raw emotional pain spewed out in the form of words on a screen.

Of the four baby goats, the kids found one cold and motionless but barely hanging on to life. We spent a week tube and bottle feeding the kid, trying to nurse her back to health. Unfortunately, she failed to thrive. At the same time, we had to grieve the loss of one of Annie’s childhood friends and two extended family members. Then yesterday, we had to put down our buck (and my second favorite goat) after he was attacked by an animal, and my parents left for a two day drive to Oklahoma City to visit my Grandma who was rushed to the hospital on Thursday. Barring any miracles, this will probably be the last time my dad will get to see and talk to his mom.

Sure, I could try to be eloquent and compose something inspiring. Just not today. Not tomorrow either. While Christians will be filling church pews tomorrow (or watching online because COVID), I’ll join them. We’ll partake in the traditions and rituals of Easter – the holiday to remember the death and resurrection of Jesus. Over the past few weeks, my family has seen enough death. It’s too much. We need a little more life, resurrection, hope, and second chances.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Composing a Soundtrack

I had a plan for 2020 but it went awry. This is a true statement for practically every human in America. However, my plan was for writing - nothing to be affected by quarantines or social distancing. Yet, I was still derailed.

It was a good plan, 100% plotted out in an Excel spreadsheet because I’m not just a writer, I’m also a nerd and a data analyst. I introduced the project through a blog post early in the year then had a schedule to follow: two posts a month to begin, then three posts a month through the summer, retuning to two a month through the fall, ending with a final epilogue on New Years Eve. I hoped to spend the year blogging my way through the soundtrack of my life.

The first few months went according to plan. I kept the pace through March, despite a hospital stay at the beginning of the month. There was a little hiccup in April but I thought I could get back on track only to falter, completely fail my schedule, and miss my self-imposed deadlines.

But why?

While most everything going haywire in 2020 can be blamed on COVID-19, my blundering inability to complete a blog series is not a victim of the pandemic. A global viral outbreak didn’t break me but health issues were my first complication. A year ago, I landed in the hospital. My diagnosis was diverticulitis with a rupture. Rest, antibiotics, and a change in diet wasn’t enough to heal on my own. I returned to the ER a month later and was scheduled for a pair of emergency surgeries and a weeklong stay at Kootenai Health.

My first hospitalization wasn’t my downfall. I kept pace and refused to be discouraged. I continued writing and even published a blog post inspired by a visit from my kids and commercials aired on the TV in my hospital room. My second stay was different. It was longer, more painful, lonely, and exhausting. By then, new rules had been instituted due to the pandemic and visitors were no longer allowed.

After all the medical crises were done, I made some attempts to get caught back up until I got bogged down in content of the posts. The true reason I didn’t complete my project according to plan is the mental fatigue of reliving my past.

As a series, What It’s Like to Be Me was (is) divided into four sections. First, In the Beginning reviewed the songs I relate to my childhood, teen years, and young adulthood. The Family Man covered those songs reminding me of starting a family and raising kids. The third chapter was All Falls Apart, these songs put my divorce into perspective. The final chapter will be called Begin Again, a collection of songs reflecting who I am now, from being a single father to a second chance at love and blending two families into one.

All Falls Apart is where my plans fell apart. This is the darkest phase of my life. Retelling those stories wasn’t easy and there were more recalled but never shared. When I created my blogging schedule, I underestimated the emotional turmoil I would feel dredging up those unpleasant memories. Who wants to relive the ugliness of their past? I didn’t. The more I wrote, the less I wanted to write.

Lesson learned.

There is good news though. The most unpleasant time of my life was followed by the happiest. I finished the worst chapter of my soundtrack at the end of the worst year in modern history. With the new year, I get to tell new stories about the new me. Instead of cramming the songs that have carried me through the last seven years into three months, I’m going to spend the rest of 2021 year sharing tales from my favorite years of my life. Chapter four, Begin Again begins soon.

A Few of My Favorite Things

Almost a month into 2021. Are we ready to remember last year? I know it sucked for almost everyone on earth but it can’t be all bad. While I pity the future history teachers who will have to explain the events of 2020 to kids not yet born, we need to remember the treasures in what was demonstrably a dumpster fire of the year. To do so, my first post of the new year is looking back at what I believe to be the best of the worst year I’ve ever experienced.

found on Reddit

Starting with my Top 10 movies from 2020. Since moving to the farm, I haven’t been able to get to the theaters as much as I used to. In 2020, theaters closed and everyone felt the same unrequited yearning for the true movie experience. However, being home all the time gave me more time to watch one of my favorite mediums. There’s a lot of 2020 movies I’ve not yet had the chance to see, but these were (in no particular order) my favorite films from the year.

Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga
Hamilton
Enola Holmes
Guns Akimbo
Soul
My Spy
The Platform
Onward
Project Power
Coffee & Kareem

Not a lot of new music came out last year. Or at least, not a lot wowed me in any way. Some big name artists even pushed back planned releases because of Covid. However, even in the dearth of musical debuts and massive singles, there were songs that still worked their way into my consciousness and remained there. These are my five favorite songs of 2020, also in no particular order.

Pigeon John - The Greatest
Twenty One Pilots - Level of Concern
Blue October - Oh My My
Eels - Are We Alright Again
LANY - If This is the Last Time

Being home all the time gave me more time to watch movies. But it also gave me more time to read. However, much of what I read were older books. So here are my top four books from 2020 plus one from 2019 that I read this last year. Two fiction, three non-fiction.

Mike McHargue - You’re a Miracle and a Pain in the Ass
Carlos Whitaker - Enter Wild
Max Brooks - Devolution
Stephen King - If It Bleeds
Ibram X. Kendi - How to Be Antiracist

Enough about what kept me entertained. What about what kept you entertained. Here are my five most frequently read blog posts of 2020, and these are in order with the most popular first.

Bragging Rights 
Tortured 
Pay Up 
The Spring of Babies 
Tour de Bux 

However, not all of my favorite posts are particularly popular. Sometimes, I write things I’m eager to share then no one seems to notice when I do. Regardless of total views, I am most proud of these five posts.

Protect Ya Neck: Sanity in the Age of Social Media 
Geeks Will Save the World 
Rise of the Sidekicks 
All Other Ground 
What Does Love Require 

Our farm’s population is always in flux. The population of our chickens and duck ebb and flow with hatchlings and death. Geese and turkeys come and go. We breed the goats in the fall and sell their kids in the spring. We find stray kittens in the barn and re-home them after getting them spayed or neutered. We are ground zero for the circle of life. We also bring in animals who become permanent residents of our circus. Three of them have become my favorite animals on our property. A with apologies to all our our pre-existing furry and feathered friends, these are the three best additions to our farm.

Edgar the Mastiff

Wasabi the Emu

Hank the Donkey

Now for the absolute best thing about 2020? We had one more addition to the family in 2020. She was a surprise we didn’t think was possible. Violet has made our world even brighter than it was before and she seems to bring out the best in her older siblings.

Annie and I inadvertently scheduled our annual camping trip for the same weekend we originally planned on getting married. Our venue canceled because of insurance issues. Then we found out Annie was pregnant. Then Covid happened and the world got put on hold. Wedding plans got delayed until further notice. Instead of getting married on the beach, we went hiking on the beach. Instead of a bed-and-breakfast, we slept in a tent. It was the best option we could come up with for a socially distanced family vacation. Instead of a destination wedding with about 50 friends and family members, we Took our family of seven camping 50 miles north of our previous plans. While there, we went hiking in the Hoh Rain Forest. This is where I experienced my most surreal moment of 2020. Along the Hall of Mosses Trail, I took some snapshots of the kids. Looking at those pictures now, I am confronted with the reality of 2020 and the weirdness of being surrounded by unparalleled natural beauty in the midst of a pandemic. Our existence on earth is a clash between the ancient and the modern, a truth most evident in photos like these.

Finally, a few of your favorite things. On New Years Eve, I asked my Facebook friends to share their favorite part of 2020. Here is a summary of the most inspiring responses.

While Annie and I (along with countless other couples) canceled their 2020 nuptials, love endured and some people found a way to get married in the midst of a pandemic. I know because my friend Syafiq DJ’d for a couple fun receptions. My friend Nate officiated what he called a beautiful wedding. And my friend Heather married the love of her life.
My cousin Allen reconnected with his dad (who travels a lot) in Miami to watch the Super Bowl. He grew up in Kansas City so the Chiefs are his favorite team. Spending time with his dad and watching his favorite team is a memory worth holding dear.
And he wasn’t the only one to reconnect with family. My Aunt Kim made a trip to Portland to spend time with her kids, my friend Julie’s son came home, and a distant cousin of mine reached out to her extended family (which included me).
Other friends focused on their home, like Natasha who remodeled her kitchen and Tiffany and her husband who put a down payment on their first home.
My best friend from high school graduated with her BSW, an old family friend watched her granddaughter graduate high school, and my cousins decided to permanently home school their kids.
Then there is my friend Jennifer who got her first tattoo. The story behind it is beautiful but it’s her story to tell, not mine.

courtesy Jennifer Nixon

Pay Up

A little over a year ago, I posted a list of who I would want to see cast in the MCU version of The Fantastic Four. If you missed it, you can read part one HERE and part two HERE. As a quick refresher on one character from the F4 universe, this was my pick for the actor I would love to see join the Marvel roster. And it seems someone at Disney was reading.

Rami Malek was (and still is) who I think would be the best option to become the Silver Surfer. And he's been busy. After his Academy Award winning role in Bohemian Rhapsody, he joined Iron Man Robert Downey Jr in Disney's Doolittle. In a couple months, we'll see him as the villain in the newest Bond movie, No Time to Die. Between his talent, success, and experience with an MCU alumnus, Malek would be the perfect fit inside the world of Marvel films.

If the rumors are true, the casting team at Marvel Studios took my suggestion to heart. What rumors? Watch:



Well, Disney? What do you have to say for yourselves? I'm ready to discuss my consulting fees. Or you could just hire me. Please?

Step One: Know Yourself

Five years ago, a social networking expert invited me to participate in her 365Awesome project - a series of blog posts about how to be awesome all year long. Below is my contribution. In the years since, she deactivated her blog and the post I wrote for her migrated into the void of 404 errors. Since my original post vanished from a website that no longer exists, I’m reclaiming it.

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Step One: Know Yourself

When my phone receives a call from an unknown or blocked number, the default ring tone blares out a couple distorted power chords and a warbling synth riff, followed by a chorus familiar to anyone who watched CSI or listened to 70's era rock music. "Whooooo are you? Who Who? Who who? Who are you? ..." This gives me an automatic recognition that I don't know who is calling me. And I really want to know, who are you? Are you someone I want to talk to? Or should I let you go to voice mail?

Looking at the relationships in my life - family, friendships, colleagues - answering this question is essential. As a storyteller, I want to know who you are. I want to know your story. What excites you? What defines you? What makes you you?

Can you answer those questions? Who are you? One of the most fundamental elements to human existence is the desire to know and be known. Such knowledge is the foundation to intimacy. Who are you?

It is a simple query, yet complex enough to make it a challenging question to answer. It is easy to fall back on token answers, to rely on job titles or social status to define our identity. Or our hobbies, our finances, our romances. We tend to allow inconsequential tasks or labels determine who we think we are while our true selves are buried or forgotten.

That is the path I took. Afraid of criticism and ridicule, I stuffed my personality in a box and hid it in the attic of my mind to gather dust and cobwebs. The result was unpleasant. Not only was I chronically unhappy, I forgot how to experience true joy. The people that were most important to me suffered. Emotionally, spiritually, socially, I was a mess.

Thankfully, that was not a permanent affliction. I began to unpack my baggage and examine myself. Who am I? I sought to answer that question as thoroughly and honestly as possible. I didn't want to be miserable. I wanted to know myself. My desire was to discover someone awesome.

Along the way, I reclaimed my love for hiking and live music. I connected with an encouraging and vibrant community. I indulged in my geekiness. I took responsibility for my actions and choices.

I also learned a critical lesson. If you want to chase your dreams, if you want to be a leader, if you want to achieve your life goals, if you want to engage in any measure of personal growth or self-improvement, the question of your identity is one that must be answered. Who am I? Who are you? A complete answer to this question is the first step to bigger and greater things.

When you are interviewing for your dream job, launching an entrepreneurial venture, beginning a healthier lifestyle, or heading out for a first date. Knowing yourself makes the journey easier and more rewarding.

This is not a new concept. 18th century Scottish philosopher Adam Smith recognized this same truth. He said, "The first thing you have to know is yourself. A man who knows himself can step outside himself and watch his own reactions like an observer."

You need to know yourself first. Before anything else. This self examination gives you the ability to embrace the parts of you that you love and provides opportunity to fix the parts in need of repair. Your core identity grants you a baseline for self worth. It is the platform upon which you can accept healthy criticism or reject unwarranted discouragement.

To know your innermost self is power. Use it wisely. So, who are you?

The Art of Blogging

There are rules. Several rules. Well, maybe not rules, they’re more like suggestions. Enter “blogging tips” into any search engine and you’ll find more helpful lists than you’ll ever have time to read. There are some good suggestions out there.

If I’m honest though, I don’t follow all of the rules. Blogging is an art and sometimes the best artists are those who paint outside the lines.

Most professional bloggers will tell you to maintain a regular posting schedule. I tried it, it’s exhausting, and it hurts my soul. My brain doesn’t properly function under such rigorous demands. So I aim for regular-ish, at least once a week. However, since my car accident, I’ve been lagging behind the more relaxed self-imposed expectation.

Some prominent tips I do attempt to follow, like including pictures in every post. Blog posts with pictures attract more traffic. It's even better if there are words in your pictures. Allegedly.

I also aim to keep the length of my posts within a reasonable word count. Experts tell you if they’re too short, readers skim and move on quickly. But overly long posts risk becoming boring, causing reader to lose interest before they finish. Different writers maintain slightly varied opinions on the correct length of a blog post, and I have my own - no shorter than 800 words, no longer than 1200 words.

That’s my rule and sometimes I break it. I am today by being too short and my next post will be in violation for being too long.

Normally, I don’t pay much attention to word counts when I compose a first draft. My rough drafts are usually composed in a note pad on my computer or the notes app on my phone so that I don’t see the count until I move it into Word. From there, I edit the misspellings and grammar, re-read it for clarity and fix any logical problems, and then I consider length. If it is over the 1200 word limit, I have two choices, cut out extra words or divide the long post into two or more smaller posts.

Usually, I lean toward multi-part posting because I’m hesitant to eliminate content. “I wrote those words for a reason,” is my rationalization. Some ideas also present themselves better in separate yet related posts.

Right now though, this post is only a brief update to where I’ve been and a disclaimer of what’s next.

I got hit by a semi a couple months ago and much of my writing time has been absorbed by physical therapy and recovery. We also have a farm to run and I’ve been working through the pain to make sure our animals remain cared for and fed. Everything I do takes twice as long because I’m moving slower.

Also, just because I haven’t been posting as frequently to the blog, doesn’t mean I’m not writing. I’m working on my book and my fiancée has been incredible through her support and encouragement to hustle creating something tangible to publish and hold in your hands.

Finally, there is a reason I mention the rules, the steps I take conforming to those rules, and how I sometimes ignore the rules. My next post is going to be long. Really long. It might be the longest single post I’ve ever written for this blog. Normally, I would break up pieces of this length into a part 1 / part 2 series but not this time. My biggest challenge is how it’s a continuous narrative and I couldn’t find a natural break in the story where I could comfortably stop one post and begin another.

The story is also deeply personal. I feel it is too important to split into multiple parts. So brace yourself, it’s a doozy. You’ll want to pour yourself a cup of coffee and find a comfy seat before you read it.

You need it to get it: this writer’s struggle

For most struggling artists, the biggest dream they could dream is to make money doing what they love. Most of us yearn to turn our creative work into some form of income. The photographer who longs to book a celebrity session. The sculptor who wants to be hired for a commissioned piece of art. The painter who envisions their own creation as a mural along a busy street. The actress waiting for her big break The author who hopes to have their manuscript published.

Accomplishing any goal requires hustle and baby steps. Breakthrough artists are rare and overnight successes are rarer. Just like any other industry, creative pursuits require practice. Mastery is the result of years of trial, error, failure, rejection, and disappointment.

Some accomplishments are too complex to phrase in simple terms, especially when you have yet to reach them. Such admission is humbling for a writer like me - a person who regularly manipulates syntax and vocabulary to tell stories and communicate ideas. I am not immune to the challenges other artists face. Right now, my biggest hurdle is finding the one person who is willing to take a risk on me.

Eighteen years ago, Common released one of my all time favorite rap albums: Like Water for Chocolate. About halfway through, Mos Def joins Common for a track ‘The Questions.’ Lyrically, the two rappers trade back and forth, asking each other thought provoking questions and responding - usually something like “I don’t know you tell me.” The song is quirky and funky. Now, after nearly two decades, my current plight brings me back to one of Mos Def’s questions:

"Why do I need I.D. to get I.D.? If I had I.D. I wouldn't need I.D."

This one line is one of those odd truths about modern life. It doesn’t make sense but we accept it because that’s just the way it is. You need it to get it.

Which brings me back to today. As a struggling artist, an unpublished writer looking to transform my hustle into a career, I realize the I.D. Mos Def questioned could be replaced by other items.

I’m looking for opportunities to increase my income and it’s not an easy task. I have a steady day job - it’s not glamorous but I’m good at it. It pays the bills and provides medical benefits. My boss trusts me and there’s a couple hundred employees that rely on me. I don’t want to replace my income, just add to it. Between my skill set and lack of fancy degrees, writing is the most practical and logical method of earning more money. Considering the limited time I have outside my office, freelancing seems to be my only option. However, finding a paying gig is harder than you’d imagine.

Publishers looking for freelancers only want to hire writers with previous freelancing experience.

I could rewrite Mos Def’s lyrical musing: why do I need experience to get experience? If I had experience I wouldn’t need experience.

The J Jonah Jamesons of the world tend to ignore new faces. Whether they control the budgets and hiring decisions for websites, magazines, newspapers, or ad agencies, they want writers with proven track records. They would rather poach from a competitor than gamble on an underdog. This is a scary world for up and coming writers looking for their first step into professional bylines. Publishers want a sure bet. They don’t want talented writers, they want profitable writers. If you want to demonstrate your profitably, you must already be profitable.

Which is why you need experience to get experience.
You need publishing credits to get publishing credits.
You need a freelancing gig to get a freelancing gig.
You need name recognition to get name recognition.
You need a fan base to get a fan base.
You need an income to get an income.
You need I.D. to get I.D.

I do have a small army of fans: a few friends and family members who read everything I write. Their compliments motivate and encourage. However, I’m not a fan of nepotism and none of them work in print, web, or broadcast media. Their kind words are appreciated but don’t translate into dollar bills. If interpersonal encomium had monetary value, I’d be wealthy.

Unfortunately, I don’t have any answers for this phase in my creative journey. This isn’t a testimonial. This isn’t an “I can do it you can too” exhortation. Rather, it’s a call for solidarity. A beacon of hope - if you’re there, I am too.

You are not alone.

The Kids Are Alright

On a Tuesday night a few weeks ago, I was sitting in McDonald's with my laptop and my standard order of a McChicken, medium fries, and a cup of water. When I am writing, I am more productive in public spaces than I am at home. Even with the distractions of people coming and going, I get more work done at a fast food joint or coffee shop than in the comfort of my living room. I prefer Jack-in-the-Box or Wendy's, but anywhere with free wi-fi is fair game for me except Starbucks - it's a bit too cliché.

This writing session was flowing as it usually does. I was typing out a film review in between bites of food, rewatching the movie trailer on YouTube, staring into space trying to determine exactly how to phrase a certain conglomeration of words in a way it would be coherent and reasoned. Then some teens began to enter the lobby. Then some more. And then even more. Three waves of youthful energy packed the place, roughly two dozen when all had walked through the doors. They all appeared to know each other, they bounced from one conversation to the next while waiting to place or receive their orders, a nebulous mass of human forms and boisterous voices.

Normally, customer traffic doesn't bother me. I can continue plucking away at my keyboard as if they're just ghosts in the room, present yet unseen. With this group of kids though, it was different. I stopped typing, looked away from my screen, and observed for the duration of their visit. Sure, they splintered off into small huddles like any other group of teenagers would do. However, they never remained in one conversation for long. They bounced around from one cluster to another. All smiling, happy, eager, and connecting with each other. I watched in wonder.

(like this but less creepy)

I remember being their age. between the ages of 17 and 19, the kids I hung out with would invade various food establishments after church on Sunday nights. We'd roll in, dine cheap, stay for an hour, then leave behind a mess. We were obnoxious, sloppy, and enjoying our time together. Twenty years ago, we were the wayward youth grownups blamed for the downfall of America. The kids I recently observed in McDonalds reminded me of my old group of friends. Descending upon a source of inexpensive edible junk, chatting and laughing the whole time, loving every minute, then leaving.

Yet they were different than the crew from my good old days. I was impressed by how they presented themselves. None wore anything flashy or revealing. None dressed grungy or slobby. Not over the top formal wear like they were on their way to a school dance, just smart and semi-professional in appearance. Each spoke with polite language. They were goofy and boisterous, yet they didn’t use any profanity, insults, or dirty jokes. They were all respectful toward each other and the other customers in the dining area. When they left, it was like they were never there. These teens were just like the kids I grew up with, only better. Their visit filled me with a sense of hope.

This transpired in the weeks after the shooting at MSDHS, before the nation-wide school walkouts and March For Our Lives protests. The kids from Parkland were constant faces on news channels, headlines both praised and criticized them. At the time, I wanted to write something about how great it was to see youth engaged in the political process. Whether you agreed with them, whether they’re right or wrong, whether they succeed or fail is irrelevant. We need passionate and energetic fresh faces involved with political discourse because the decisions our government makes today will affect them and their peers more than it will impact me and my generation.

After the shooting, I avoided writing about the topic. I've talked about gun control before and I probably will again but that wasn't the blog post I wanted to write. Instead I wanted to compose something encouraging those students challenging the adult world, political process, and the way we think about American rights. I was dismayed at the alleged grownups in the room who acted with a maturity level more fitting for grade school playgrounds. Yet I couldn't do it. I tried. There are four different drafts I deleted after I couldn't figure out how to say what I wanted to say in the way I wanted to say it.

I know what it was like to be young and ambitious and inspired and facing nothing but a wall of condescending elders. I felt like I had words for these kids that needed to be said. I wanted to let them know that they would be mocked and ridiculed for their actions. I wanted them to know how people will go to absurd lengths to defend their sacred cows, and when it comes to Murica, there's no greater sacred cow than the Second Amendment. I wanted to tell them the same thing I tell my son about bullies, their words and actions speak more about them than you.

Much of what I wanted to write about was obvious, the smear campaigns and ad hominem attacks were prominent in conservative media. I saw the fake news stories and photoshopped memes on Facebook. Everywhere I looked, I saw a grumpy old man complaining these kids were too young to have an opinion. Every news channel had a pundit claiming these kids were paid actors. I didn't need to warn them what was already happening was going to happen.

There's more I wanted to say. I wanted to let them know a day is coming when they'd look back and wish they had done things differently and it's OK to have those kinds of regrets. I wanted them to know they would make mistakes and they shouldn't let those errors derail them. I wanted to warn them of the danger of overnight celebrity. Historically speaking, youth and fame are not a good combination. The rush of everyone paying attention to you can be addictive. The lure of the spotlight is powerful and can be taken away as fast as it was obtained. However, I've never been famous; I don't have any legitimate advice from experience.

I hope they have strong emotional support. I hope they don't take these days for granted. I hope they remain engaged and do great things with their lives, yet I also hope they do the things kids their age typically do: attend sporting events and concerts, compete in talent shows, go to prom, graduate, take summer road trips, go camping, register to vote, enlist in the military, apply for scholarships and enroll in a university or trade school, get a degree, fall in love, fall out of love, start a career.

At the end of my high school days, the private Christian college I wanted to attend required all prospective students to memorize a Bible verse from 1st Timothy: "Don't let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith, and in purity." I wanted to pass on the wisdom in this scripture to these kids leading the Never Again movement. It doesn't matter if they follow Jesus or not, if they're religious, spiritual, or none of the above. There is power in embracing your youth. Any time a young person finds themselves in a leadership role, older generations will attempt to discredit or discourage them. I wanted to tell these kids to not allow their elders to destroy them, to stand strong, to set an example for their elders so loud and noble and pure that it can't be ignored.

That is what I wanted to write, and I just couldn't do it. Then I witnessed local kids in action. I've spent a lot of time with teenagers as a youth leader, yet those interactions were all in controlled and supervised environments of church youth groups and summer camps. My oldest is now a teenager, yet I don’t see him when he's not around adults like me or teachers or youth pastors. My time at McDonald's was like watching kids in the wild, observing them in their natural habitat. No chaperone. No responsible adult monitoring. No grownups telling them what they can or can't do. Only a herd of teenagers free to do whatever they want and act upon their own desires. I couldn't look away and I was in awe. These were not the Tide Pod eating, Logan Paul wannabe, participation trophy receiving idiot youth my conservative friends warned me about.

Whitney Houston once sang, " I believe the children are our future." On a Tuesday night in late February, I was given a glimpse into days yet to come; someday soon they will be our elected leaders and corporate CEOs. Bring it on. Give them a platform and a microphone. Let them lead. Let them protest. Agree with them, disagree with them. Debate them. Educate them and learn from them. If these kids are our future, then the future is very bright.