Monday, February 27, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Nothin But Darkness
Do you ever wonder if anyone is paying attention to you, or what you have to say? The truth is, everything we say matters. Whether it's a fact, or embelished truth, or a flat out lie, what we say affects something or someone around us. And if you are a writer, what you wish for more than anything else, is to be heard. It's the old addage: If a tree falls in the forest and no one's around to hear it does it make a noise? Of course it does. And when you blog about something--which in the old days meant offering your opinion about something--it DOES make a noise even if no one reads it. The problem is, we WANT others to hear the 'tree fall', to acknowledge that they have at least laid eyes on the words that stumbled from our subconscience onto the blank page. For those of you that think it's easy, try putting together several paragraphs of witty banter or a short piece of intilectual gold worthy of someone elses time. And do this WITHOUT your english teacher looking over your shoulder pointing out your overuse of adverbs and your frequent run-on sentences. Go ahead! Impress me.
I'm in the process of getting my book formated for publication and was informed by the publisher that it would be 326 pages. Holy Mother of Jesus! Please excuse my language here. But just think about it. How many of you have written more than say, a ten page essay? How about fifty pages? Anyone for a hundred? 326 pages is in the neiborhood of 91, 365 words, give or take a hundred. It's months of work! And the truth is, I probably trashed or rewrote another 10,000 words trying to get it perfect, which I never will according to the editors and agents that keep telling me it's not good enough. I know what your thinking; SO WHY DO IT? The answer is simple: I LOVE to write. Love it!
I was recently watching the remake of TRUE GRIT and had to write down a line in the movie that caught my attention. When the Sheriff was describing Rooster Cogburn to the teenage girl, he warmed her that Rooster "liked to pull a cork now and then". He didn't say, "He's a drunk." or say, "He's a drunken loser." For those of you who aren't aware of this, a movie has to be written--by a writer or team of writers--before the video camera is ever pulled out of its case. I wonder if this script writer would like to know that one of the lines he or she so carefully crafted made me stop and smile. I think I'll find them and let them know. I bet they'll be thrilled. What do you think?
I'm in the process of getting my book formated for publication and was informed by the publisher that it would be 326 pages. Holy Mother of Jesus! Please excuse my language here. But just think about it. How many of you have written more than say, a ten page essay? How about fifty pages? Anyone for a hundred? 326 pages is in the neiborhood of 91, 365 words, give or take a hundred. It's months of work! And the truth is, I probably trashed or rewrote another 10,000 words trying to get it perfect, which I never will according to the editors and agents that keep telling me it's not good enough. I know what your thinking; SO WHY DO IT? The answer is simple: I LOVE to write. Love it!
I was recently watching the remake of TRUE GRIT and had to write down a line in the movie that caught my attention. When the Sheriff was describing Rooster Cogburn to the teenage girl, he warmed her that Rooster "liked to pull a cork now and then". He didn't say, "He's a drunk." or say, "He's a drunken loser." For those of you who aren't aware of this, a movie has to be written--by a writer or team of writers--before the video camera is ever pulled out of its case. I wonder if this script writer would like to know that one of the lines he or she so carefully crafted made me stop and smile. I think I'll find them and let them know. I bet they'll be thrilled. What do you think?
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
The Man In the Mirror
The alarm clock wakes me with its insistent beeping, flashing a rhythmic curse in glowing red numbers, nudging me to acknowledge the morning sun rising on the smog filled horizon. Like an outdated, rusty robot, I slap the top of the alarm to silence the shrill beast and then throw my bare feet over the side of the bed, causing a pendulum action that lifts me into a sitting position. Wobbling left and right for a precarious moment, I rub the remains of my dreams from my eyes, wishing again that I could stay in the dream for a while longer, jealous of a world different from my own. I’ve learned not to keep my eyes closed for too long for fear of lying back down and drifting into the oblivion I’ve come to prefer over my real existence, a reality I know I cannot keep.
With shaky knees I make my way into the bathroom and empty my ballooned bladder to the hum of the vent fan and the flicker of fluorescent bulbs trying to come to life. My hands move without thought to turn on the tarnished faucet at the sink. Water runs over my fingers now, a liquid not quite as clear as it should be. I splash some on my face despite its color and lift my face to the mirror in front of me.
It’s not my face looking back at me.
This face has water dripping from its chin and clinging to its eyebrows just as I do, but it’s not me. My name is Ben. I’m sixteen, with shoulder length, dark hair and a pimpled face. I’ve got to get ready for school before mom starts to scream at me. The man in the mirror appears to be about twenty five. He has short, dark hair parted on the side, and a bright, eager look on his face. An ivory shirt and maroon tie hangs on a hook behind him. That can’t be right. I’m going to wear my AC/DC shirt and blue jeans—the ones with the holes in the knees—to school today.
The man looking back at me has a shiny gold band circling the ring finger on his left hand. The gleam from the gold and in his eyes gives me the impression it hasn’t been there for long. I stare at the face in the mirror. The eyes—so familiar—stare back at me.
The alarm sounds again, blaring out a song from yesteryear, waking me from my slumber. I’m twenty-one now and on my own. The apartment is quiet and caverness, plain and void. My head pounds with the echoes of last night’s party. Too much beer and booze has put an asterisk on my day, forcing me to hurry to the bathroom and purge my stomach of the liquor poisoning my soul. When the heaves finally subside, I splash cold water on my face, stand naked before the mirror, and confront the stranger looking back.
He’s older now, perhaps late thirties. His hair has receded and is hauntingly thin. A ragged, five day beard covers his face like a shadowy veil, almost as dark as the circles under his eyes. The wedding ring is no longer there. All that is left is a pale imprint of what used to be. Looking at the reflection in the mirror, I notice empty beer bottles strewn about and the remains of poison, poison from a syringe.
I confront the face in the mirror again and scream, “Who are you?” There is no answer. “What do you want from me?”
The face in the mirror mimics the movement of my lips, mocking me. I stare deep into the eyes and see loneliness, hollow and empty. And then I see something that chills me to the bone; an obvious and unmistakable absence of hope.
I don’t remember how I got here, or where I’m at. I’m thirty now, but this is not my bathroom. I should be getting ready for work, my Honda warming up outside on this cold winter day. But that’s not what I see. The face in the mirror has changed again.
This man has to be at least sixty, or maybe he just looks that way. His thin, wiry hair, tied in a ponytail, is a ghostly shade of gray. Ragged and deep wrinkles mar his face. The teeth, some rotting or missing, others tobacco stained and a deep yellow, protrude from swollen gums. His arms are lined with needle marks like tracks from a demon hunting a lost soul.
Through the reflection in the mirror, I see the room behind me. The smell of booze, drugs, and sex sickens my nostrils. A large woman with too much makeup lies naked on the bed. Her snores rumble with every inhale and wheeze with every exhale. Neon lights flashing outside the window light up her pink eye liner like the eyes of a clown. The room is dark, drab, and musty from years of neglect. Three day old donuts litter the counters to become rat food when the evening light fades.
I don’t recognize this person in the mirror, but the eyes looking back recognize me. They are hateful and accusing, sad and pathetic. I try desperately to blink away the image in front of me, but only succeed in making my head spin and my mind waver. I look again and the man is crying. Deep waves of regret and misery wash down his face like a torrent of lost days. I want to console him, to embrace his agony, but I don’t know how. How can I comfort myself?
Depression and inexpressible loneliness overwhelms me, and now I weep with him, the tears bulging from my eyes and rolling down my cheeks. When I can bear it no longer, I turn out the light illuminating my madness, and leave the stranger to his own misery, and me to mine.
The alarm sounds and I fling the wretched thing across the room. I have come to despise the mechanical sound of ritual and order. I burrow down into the bed and cover my face with my pillow. The mirror in the bathroom calls to me, but I can’t bear the thought of what I might find.
You see, today is my fortieth birthday, and I’m afraid of the man in the mirror.
With shaky knees I make my way into the bathroom and empty my ballooned bladder to the hum of the vent fan and the flicker of fluorescent bulbs trying to come to life. My hands move without thought to turn on the tarnished faucet at the sink. Water runs over my fingers now, a liquid not quite as clear as it should be. I splash some on my face despite its color and lift my face to the mirror in front of me.
It’s not my face looking back at me.
This face has water dripping from its chin and clinging to its eyebrows just as I do, but it’s not me. My name is Ben. I’m sixteen, with shoulder length, dark hair and a pimpled face. I’ve got to get ready for school before mom starts to scream at me. The man in the mirror appears to be about twenty five. He has short, dark hair parted on the side, and a bright, eager look on his face. An ivory shirt and maroon tie hangs on a hook behind him. That can’t be right. I’m going to wear my AC/DC shirt and blue jeans—the ones with the holes in the knees—to school today.
The man looking back at me has a shiny gold band circling the ring finger on his left hand. The gleam from the gold and in his eyes gives me the impression it hasn’t been there for long. I stare at the face in the mirror. The eyes—so familiar—stare back at me.
The alarm sounds again, blaring out a song from yesteryear, waking me from my slumber. I’m twenty-one now and on my own. The apartment is quiet and caverness, plain and void. My head pounds with the echoes of last night’s party. Too much beer and booze has put an asterisk on my day, forcing me to hurry to the bathroom and purge my stomach of the liquor poisoning my soul. When the heaves finally subside, I splash cold water on my face, stand naked before the mirror, and confront the stranger looking back.
He’s older now, perhaps late thirties. His hair has receded and is hauntingly thin. A ragged, five day beard covers his face like a shadowy veil, almost as dark as the circles under his eyes. The wedding ring is no longer there. All that is left is a pale imprint of what used to be. Looking at the reflection in the mirror, I notice empty beer bottles strewn about and the remains of poison, poison from a syringe.
I confront the face in the mirror again and scream, “Who are you?” There is no answer. “What do you want from me?”
The face in the mirror mimics the movement of my lips, mocking me. I stare deep into the eyes and see loneliness, hollow and empty. And then I see something that chills me to the bone; an obvious and unmistakable absence of hope.
I don’t remember how I got here, or where I’m at. I’m thirty now, but this is not my bathroom. I should be getting ready for work, my Honda warming up outside on this cold winter day. But that’s not what I see. The face in the mirror has changed again.
This man has to be at least sixty, or maybe he just looks that way. His thin, wiry hair, tied in a ponytail, is a ghostly shade of gray. Ragged and deep wrinkles mar his face. The teeth, some rotting or missing, others tobacco stained and a deep yellow, protrude from swollen gums. His arms are lined with needle marks like tracks from a demon hunting a lost soul.
Through the reflection in the mirror, I see the room behind me. The smell of booze, drugs, and sex sickens my nostrils. A large woman with too much makeup lies naked on the bed. Her snores rumble with every inhale and wheeze with every exhale. Neon lights flashing outside the window light up her pink eye liner like the eyes of a clown. The room is dark, drab, and musty from years of neglect. Three day old donuts litter the counters to become rat food when the evening light fades.
I don’t recognize this person in the mirror, but the eyes looking back recognize me. They are hateful and accusing, sad and pathetic. I try desperately to blink away the image in front of me, but only succeed in making my head spin and my mind waver. I look again and the man is crying. Deep waves of regret and misery wash down his face like a torrent of lost days. I want to console him, to embrace his agony, but I don’t know how. How can I comfort myself?
Depression and inexpressible loneliness overwhelms me, and now I weep with him, the tears bulging from my eyes and rolling down my cheeks. When I can bear it no longer, I turn out the light illuminating my madness, and leave the stranger to his own misery, and me to mine.
The alarm sounds and I fling the wretched thing across the room. I have come to despise the mechanical sound of ritual and order. I burrow down into the bed and cover my face with my pillow. The mirror in the bathroom calls to me, but I can’t bear the thought of what I might find.
You see, today is my fortieth birthday, and I’m afraid of the man in the mirror.
Monday, March 7, 2011
LIFE WILL NEVER BE WHAT WE EXPECT IT TO BE
I’ve spent most of my adult life with an unseen entity living inside of me, a parasite immune to penicillin, Ritalin, and Pepto-Bismol. I’m referring to the writing bug. Growing up as a very shy child, I guess my imagination was my best friend. My wife has taken over that spot but my imagination still runs a close second—which comes in handy when trying to twist individual words into a cohesive story worth telling, and reading for that matter. When I was a child I hid from the world by creating my own world inside of my head. Through a stubbornness that could only be provided by God, I have overcome most of my fears, learned to step out of the box, and have discovered that I can tell a pretty good story with words. I make a living building custom cabinets—a trade looked upon in awe by many—but would trade it all for the opportunity to share my stories with the world. I guess you could say building cabinets requires a certain amount of creativity, as it does, but it has its limitations. When it comes to writing, there are no limitations to the imagination, no boundaries to pin you in, and only your own self doubt to hold you back.
In the coming days and weeks, I hope I can pass along some things I've learned, some things I wish I knew, and let you take a glimpse at my other side.
In the coming days and weeks, I hope I can pass along some things I've learned, some things I wish I knew, and let you take a glimpse at my other side.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
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