Journal of Fear and Hope (2012)

Writing In a Darkened Room
September 30, 2012

I love Charles Schulz. But man, is his comic strip depressing. So what do you do with a work of art based around loss, failure, and unrequited love? You make a calendar of it.

Depression is one of the great themes in literature, for the simple reason that every single human being has experienced it. Depression is a topic to which we can all relate. Writers, it seems, have a special affinity for being depressed. Writing is a lonely, thankless job. But here's a tip, write about depressed people all you want, but don't write while depressed. When you're depressed, especially if you're an artist, you are, to put it bluntly, an asshole. I'm sure you have an excellent excuse for being an asshole: you got dumped, a loved-one died, your career path has dead-ended. But you are still an asshole. A judgmental, self-absorbed one at that. And you'll write like one. You'll bleed all that angst and bile onto the page, try to capture your sadness in prose or, worse yet, poetry, and fill page after page with scribbled truth you personally hauled back from the abyss. But whatever you do write, it will suck. I promise you. You'll be high on self-pity and blind to your own insipid drivel. Wanting to share your hard-earned, holy truth with the world, you'll publish that crap on your website or paste it to your Facebook wall, and all the world will know you for the asshole you are. So give it a few days. Or weeks, or however long you need. Cheer up, gather yourself, and get some distance between you and your pain. Then you can see it objectively and write about it truthfully.

Creed Into Your Deed
September 22, 2012

Stephen King says to write ten pages a day. About 2,000 words. Ray Bradbury advised to write no less than 1,000 words every day of your life. Joe R. Lansdale says that you should write whatever amount you can, what your ability and schedule comfortably allows. As long as you do it regularly. Because writing is a muscle. And you can work to strengthen it or let it go to pot. My own daily workout is pretty pathetic. I've been working on one story for months now, and I can tell it's changed throughout the process. My voice has altered, and the end is not like the beginning. But I do try to put something on paper, or on disk, or into the ether, every day. Sometimes it's another paragraph of that story. Other days it's a new joke, worked out verbally in the shower or on the drive to work. The commute is a good time to write. I can ramble on about a topic or a memory until I make myself laugh, and there's the beginning of a new routine. Or I stare at the passing forests and mountains and plan what I hope to be the next story. Good staring time is not to be dismissed. But I really should write more. When I left Florida, I vowed to publish something on this site every week. Let's scroll down to the bottom and see what lies I promised both of us. Damn it, me of the past, you actually promised an entire short story every Friday with a second essay on Wednesdays. What the hell was wrong with you? Looks like it's time to rededicate myself. Before the year's end, because no one takes New Year's resolutions seriously. So here we are on the first day of my 37th Autumn. Feels like a good day to make myself a new promise.

What I have to share today is a first for me. I've written CD reviews before, for an Asheville free paper called The Indie, but never a book review. I don't have a variation on the thumbs up/thumbs down or utilize stars in any fashion. Just what I thought of the book. I learned a lot from writing this review; I plan to do more. Here is my reading review of Joe R. Lansdale's Edge of Dark Water.

Next week, I hope, will bring another first.

The Kindest and the Best
Agust 2, 2012

Kinda hard not to think about death these days isn't it? It's on the news and our Facebook walls and sometimes in our living rooms. I helped my fiancee plan her mother's memorial service last week, so death has been on my mind almost constantly. But I'm not afraid of death. Sure, Id rather it come as late as possible, but I know with absolute certainty that it will be an exciting experience. How do I know this? Because Walt Whitman told me so. In "Song of Myself" he says, "All goes onward and outward... and nothing collapses/ And to die different from what anyone supposed, and luckier." You see? Death is unknown. All the assumptions about it, whether it's followed by punishment or reward, if we'll see our loved ones, or if there will dogs: they are all wrong. You can't know what comes after, so you can't control it, so you shouldn't fret about it. That's a weight off my mind. Now let's get to having fun and stop worrying.

Not Proud At All
July 21, 2012

Back in junior high, I began the task of filling the cultural void of my mind. I actively sought authors, musicians and pop culture stars to follow and make my favorites. And I brought destruction down upon them all.

The heavenly sound of the band Queen beckoned to me from the soundtracks of Highlander and Flash Gordon, and I bought their most recent album. Freddy Mercury was the greatest singer ever. And then he died from AIDS. But "Innuendo" was a damn good song.

In the world of science fiction, you won't find anyone better or smarter or more prolific than Isaac Asimov. He wrote factual books on nearly every subject imaginable, published about 500 books altogether, and his Foundation trilogy won the Hugo for best trilogy of all time, actually beating out The Lord of the Rings. I read everything of his I found, tried to write like him, glued cotton to my face to look like him. And then he died. From AIDS.

Plucked directly from my sugar-fueled fantasies was a bizarre Saturday morning program about a hyperactive man-child with a bow tie fetish who had his own playhouse filled with living puppets and robots and talking furniture and claymation dinosaurs and wish-granting genies. He would scream at people and have play dates with cowboys, and every episode a milf with a beehive hairdo would show up to give him and his viewers tingly feelings. But then Pee-Wee Herman was arrested for expressing those tingly feelings in public and went to jail where he got AIDS and died. Well, his career died, and no one wanted to touch him, and Tom Hanks dressed like him in a movie. Close enough.

Every celebrity I liked met some horrible fate, a power I wanted to use to benefit mankind, but try as I might I couldn't bring myself to enjoy the Bee Gees.

What hit me the hardest was the realization that even artists can be taken by death. The ones we need to help us find enlightenment are subject to the same cold hand that will touch the racist and criminal and ignorant worst of us. You'd think Jim Henson could be granted a pass, but nope, he and Hitler were both turned to compost by the same uncaring cosmos. If Ray Bradbury can die, then what hope is there for us lesser writers and the non-creative garbage? Sure, Shakespeare's plays still live, and everybody knows who Superman is, but why can't artists actually live forever? Who knows how more mind-blowing Jimi Hendrix's music would have become if the universe had taken pity on the poor guy and made his vomit just a little less chunky?

I'm not saying that artists should quit out of fruitless frustration. I'm saying everyone should make art. Because whether you paint the Mona Lisa or glue macaroni to pie plates, we're all equal in the eyes of the universe. And if we all chip in to fill the world up with art before we die, then life will be a little easier to endure.

Who Would Be a Father!
June 29, 2012

My Dad taught me a few things. How to ride a bike, how to fish, why I shouldn't do drugs, and that I should never, under any circumstances, grow up. You see, after he gave me the first two lessons, my dad made sure I wouldn't get hooked on drugs by consuming all of them. This instilled in me a mistrust of all adults, especially men. Men steal and lie and abuse. I'll just remain a child the rest of my life, thank you.

But my fiancee praised me highly on Facebook yesterday, complimenting me on all the things I do to help her. I won't list those things for fear of tooting my own horn; my horn has been sufficiently tooted. But several people replied to her post calling me a good man. Really? When did that happen? When did I become a man? And am I really a good one? Maybe I can do a better job of parenting than my dad. Perhaps I've learned a few more lessons. And maybe having a kid will mean finally having someone to share my toys with.

Outcry of the Heart
March 10, 2012

When I take the stage, the outside world disappears. That's why I started doing stand-up. I've performed with a headache, with a full bladder, and twice with a broken molar sending pain novas screaming through my brain. As soon as I took the mic, the pain went away. The moment I kick into my set, my brain immediately becomes too involved with the present moment to register anything else. But one night, the real world cut too deeply for the balm of comedy to heal.

My friend John is a fellow comedian and nerd. We played Magic: The Gathering at open mics, taking a lot of good-natured ribbing from other comics. We went to Friday Night Magic tournaments and pre-release events. We traded cards, discussed comic books and bands. I don't make friends very easily or all that often. It had been a while since I made a new friend. It felt good to bond. Then John announced that he had to move back to Texas, where he was from. The news didn't really set in till the night he was supposed to leave. He went to the open mic one final time. All the comics wished him well. He did his set and killed. Then we hung out on the sidewalk for a bit. Said our good-byes. Exchanged man hugs. Then my friend went away. I walked back inside and was immediately told it was my turn to go on stage. The hurt did not disappear. I fumbled for five excruciating minutes then gave up. Maybe that means I'm not that strong a comedian. After all, Weird Al performed the same night after learning both his parents had died at once. But it's good to know there are some emotions too powerful to be driven off by jokes.

Not One of Us
February 25, 2012

I've always considered myself a nerd. It seems everyone needs a label, and I feel comfortable with that one. But what is a nerd, how do you know you are one, and if you are, should you seek treatment?

The definition seems to have shifted since the 1980s. Back then, a nerd was pictured as an obvious outsider, dressed in short sleeves with a pocket protector stuffed with pens. His glasses were crooked, often broken then repaired with bulging rolls of tape or rubber bands. And the laugh of the nerd sounded a lot like the hiccup of a congested buffalo played in reverse.

Now, a nerd is someone who likes science fiction movies, video games, and computers. And you know who else likes those things? Everybody. Avatar made so much money it has its own place in the UN. We all have an arcade's worth of games on our cell phones. And even the Amish have a website.

Today's nerds are defined simply by what they like. Which makes it a far less exclusive club than it used to be. You and I are not the same because we both went to see Harry Potter. You are a regular person who likes action movies. I'm the socially inept guy who once spent a Saturday night hot gluing aluminum foil stars to his graduation gown to make a wizard robe. We nerds have always been different than the rest of you. We don't know how to talk to people or what to do at parties. We talk funny or fast or quiet or all of the above. But we all had certain hobbies that helped us connect with others like us. We got together and exchanged trading cards or rolled dice or discussed the plot points and terrible science of the latest Star Trek episode. And as with any group of friends, it was us against the world. Nerds versus normals.

But now anyone who can make the "live long and prosper" sign thinks he's a nerd. I knew a girl who liked the Battlestar Galactica reboot. While talking about the show one day, she said, "I'm such a nerd." No. You're not. You're socially dexterous, and you have big boobs. You'll never be a nerd.

So I'm taking the word back. Because you're not a nerd. I have repaired my glasses with a rubber band, and thought women would be legitimately impressed by my ingenuity. So back off you wannabes, you posers. Don't make me enact revenge on you.