FREE SPEECH: June 2023
|
ONE WORD AT A TIME!
The Big Days
1st
Writing Tips
11
Tripod Killer Alexa murders nature photographers because they are trying to capture perfection, something that has been haunting her entire life. Truth has to always turn to fiction because nobody believes the truth. The problem with perfection found in beauty is that it becomes a debilitating lifelong quest to remain beautiful. More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
Smile + Natural Beauty
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| ||||||||||||||||
2nd
Writing Tips
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Ray Parker Junior
Why? I struggle with sleeping. It's Gummy Friday, and the usual characters are here with one sub, Karl. I don't want to be Karl's friend. What's the word for someone who is white who has had a charmed life → Who bought a home decades ago → Somehow at the right time → Flipped it into a comfortable retirement → But when he joins the group on Friday → Can't help but expound his vitriolic hatred of others → Poor people, indigenous people → And the blacks → And thinks it's funny telling jokes about people suffering in Biafra? Can I field this one? You are just uptight → Everyone is too sensitive these days → Karl is joking; lighten up. He's a fucking entitled douchebag racist piece of shit. I don't want to be his friend. |Sarcasm Alert| Us whites have had it rough. Grant, whose father was a pilot, thinks my mind rests near genius. He believes challenging me brings out brilliance. I disagree. His father was a pilot in the air force. His mother is still alive at 96ish. When she passes, he’ll be bequeathed the family home. He worked as a postal worker for a long time, retiring a few years back. He's white. He's had a charmed life. But for some fucking reason, when Karl is around, he spews, “They should kill all the poor people in the homeless tent city. I'm sick of them.” “Don't get me started on the indigenous; I'm sick of them being given things. I've worked hard for everything. Look at this video about taking away my Pabst. It's hilarious.” |Sarcasm Alert| It’s tough being white. What Grant spews is garbage; if there was the absolute bottom of low brow, this would be it. I love Weird Al Yankovic; he was brilliant and hilarious, and his song parodies are-- Were boring, predictable, I don't say this; I don't want to rile up Grant anymore than he already is. Gummy Friday is supposed to be fun; it's not supposed to be aging white assholes bitching about stuff they don't understand. I don't like Grant. I do. But not at this moment. I'm worried liking him and not punting him to the curb shines a light on exactly who I'm trying not to be or become. Change the subject. Grant tells the table about a movie he went to with Karl. Karl hated it; his review when they left the theatre was, “What the fuck was that shit?” This came from a man who has watched Baby Driver 49 times. Reg, another white piece of trash; his white hatred of anything else; makes it easier for his bigoted thoughts to scratch the surface of his being, slipping out from time to time, not nuanced, evident if you listen. Most people don't listen—like their skin tone, they think everyone should just fucking lighten up for a minute. Anyway, Reg insults me regularly. He think calling me ‘fucked’ when I'm making original, not racist, cerebral observations, I had spelled cereberal (sic) wrong, that's funny in itself, anyway, Reg spews, “Do you talk in your sleep? It must drive everyone around you crazy.” Fuck off. I tell Reg I've been in a loving relationship for 13 years. He thinks it's a hilarious saying, “Who could stand you that long?” He adds to a conversation about a news story where people were dying, “Were they black?” — and laughs. Racism lives in Canada. I tell him he knows my partner. He flashes an ignorant card, “I do know him, he’s the one who looks over and waves at me awkwardly every once in a while.” Your face is awkward, Reg. Others aren’t to blame for your health problems. While we're talking about blame, Karl, and Grant, you've had a blessed life. It is sickening that you feel the need to flex your unbelievable lack of empathy, compassion, understanding, and blatant ignorance. I don't want to be like you. I'm happy to say I'm not. I don't want to be toxic like you. As we age, cutting and chopping people out of our life is essential. It's not because they don't serve any purpose in your life anymore. It is. How? Because I don't want to be friends with the enemies of my thought. You can't discuss complex issues; such as poverty, homelessness; and anything else, with people who are angry about what they fucking have. It's too taxing; soul eradicating. And it is impossible to be friends with people who think racist jokes are jokes. I want to like Grant. But I can't stoop far enough to enjoy a song about taking away my Pabst Blue Ribbon; or get over him hating people suffering (for a plethora of reasons) when he, himself, talks about sniffing glue. What's wrong with people? Scott is an ass. Tell me how you really feel. Scott barked at someone he didn't know how much he hated curling. That was the precise moment I concluded; he needed to be chopped. More on him later when I meet up with Dean, a dying man I met recently. It's been easier being in his presence when I don't have to pretend to engage with him. You are being an asshole. No, prudent. Do you know what the problem with the world is? Humans are parasites. The world will be better off when we're gone. Scott often shouts out. Jesus, Scott, shut the fuck up. You are in your 70s, you have COPD, and you brag, “Nobody knows how much I donate yearly to the YMCA. Nobody does.” “Let me tell you about Dan, my partner, Dan, and I… Dan and I… Dan and I… Dan's an alcoholic…” Scott, that's what you've chosen to share about your partner…? “Dan and I…” Nobody has ever seen Dan. It doesn't matter; I have a sneaking suspicion if Dan exists, it's in a box like Helena. Why didn’t you go with a situation comedy character we never see? If you get the references, 100 Bonus Points are for you, for each. A man sits next to Scott. He’s judged inadequate by Scott. I don’t think he knows how much Scott donates. Scott sneers. The man feels uncomfortable and leaves. Someone Scott approves of takes the stool. Next, Scott pretends to be fucking woke and not a bigot. He tells the man about all the fantastic restaurants he's never eaten at. Restaurants he’s researched online while drinking one, two, three, four, or five… …beers before he goes home to his boxed alcoholic husband that we have no business attaching alcoholic to someone we'll never meet. What kind of dick shares something so personal with others. Scott. The question was rhetorical. The man's face looks anguished. He wants to escape. He's from Florida and has lived there his entire life; Scott has read about Florida during beer 4 and 5 while the stool beside him sat victimless. I've lived in Florida my entire 64 years on the planet, the man says Scott tells him he's been doing it all wrong. I don't engage with Scott anymore. The Gummy is kicking in. Karl is telling jokes about Biafra. Grant is wincing about his hatred for poor people, except the one in front of the Independent grocery store he judged as worthy of a $1 donation. He tells us about him or her, letting us know he appreciated her politeness. “I don't mind giving him or her a dollar.” “The rest are fucking garbage, they should all die or be locked up.” He says. I need to change the discussion. The Mayor. 2G. Karl. Grant. Me. Remember Arnie? I ask the table Yes. Yes. Nothing. Yes. Arnie had an Axe Body Spray mister installed on his apartment's front door. He was blasted with toxic fragrances every time he walked in and out. I know, he stunk, the table says in unison. What I love most about Arnie is that it didn't matter what anyone was talking with him about; he would regularly slip in, “I'm not gay.” It is hot out today, Arnie. You know, I'm not gay. What a football game yesterday. Not gay. Do you like toast, Arnie? Not gay. I woke up this morning. Not gay. Every day Arnie would drink in a gay bar announcing he was not gay. Every day. I guess he just likes gays. Arnie successfully changed our discussion. Could you imagine being in an STR8 bar and announcing every few minutes, I'm not STR8? And at Christmas having your mother + father take you aside and say, this hurts us more than you, but honey, you’re STR8—we always wanted a gay son. So, we hate to tell you, if you don't suck a whack of dicks in the next month, you must go; you can't live here anymore. You need to bring home at least nine different guys in the next month and get to some sucking… or else. But mum, dad, Tiffany, and I just got engaged. Son, Tiffany, must go, and besides, doesn't everyone named Tiffany need to change their names in their twenties if they want to live a long life? What? Up your Grindr game, son; suck some dicks, please, we love you, but we need a gay son. I'm not on Grindr. Son, the clocks ticking. The Mayor. 2G. Karl. Grant. Me. Let's vote. Which one of us would be the most likely to be gay, if only one of us were at this table? Grant votes for 2G. I vote for Gregg. Wait. No Karl. Karl tries to sneak in a joke about black people. 2G says something about absorbing his twin. It's up to The Mayor. The Mayor, who do you think would be most likely to be gay? He says, a shotgun would answer the question. I don't know why that's funny. It just is. OMG. The Mayor is killing us off one by one. I'm last. Bye The Mayor. The Mayor's all alone. We're all dead. Fuck, what's a gay to do when they're the only one left? Porn? Great. We've lightened up. Grant calls himself an idiot, and then adds, we all are. I've become deft at avoiding Grant's vitriol. Most of the time. I don't want to hear him disparage me for not being angry and white like he is. He is. Unless he's lying for effect. He judges everything I do based on entertainment value. Grant, I think I had a heart attack. You know your problem, Lindsay; you used to be funnier; I challenge you to bring out… The song about Pabst is the antonym of funny? I don’t say. Your problem, Lindsay, is you dwell. Is this dwelling? I don't think so; it's freeing. Anyway, be funnier, Lindsay, take a risk. Grant, you shouldn't call yourself or anyone else an idiot. We all are. That's not the point. A famous, well-respected person once said we need to talk nicer to ourselves if we want mentally healthy lives. Who? Ray Parker Junior, I just said, Ray Parker Junior. Go gummy. Of all the things stored inside my brain-computer, WTF is Ray Parker Junior on the ready? Seriously. Why? I'm worried. I don't even know who the fuck Ray Parker Junior is? I think he's a singer. He may have done the Ghostbuster theme song. I don't know. I could look it up, but I'm not going to. Why? Because if I did, I would add to my Ray Parker Junior knowledge, and I'm certain nobody has ever gotten laid because they uttered his name. Because, if they did, they would have a go-to reason to use the word surreal. I just finished reading a book about rehab (fiction) where the author skewered the Keg Restaurant. I was fired almost 1,000 days ago, ending my career life. I wrote a story about a fictitious Food Distribution Company with a ten-letter acronym, and with the story's protagonist having a unisex name. I received a court-injunction saying I can never use the abbreviation again in my writing (CYUCWUSCYI) or the unisex name (NARAT) because it cost the assholes I used to work for, business. Liars. The assholes (or maybe it was their lawyer doing his job by using what the system allows) claim six-fucking months into the pandemic → → and the never-ending Trump shitshow → → and the fight for democracy in full swing → → they claim their client's thought of me → → the fired fifteen-year employee (who they fired because of my age to avoid severance pay—which threw my life into flux) → → that their client's thought of me → → remembered how to spell my last name → → Googled it → → went to my website → → scoured the hundreds of pages → → found a story about CYUCWUSCYI and NARAT→ → decided it was about the company I used to work for (A Staffing Company) → → phoned the company I used to work for → → and told them because of my story → → they would never use the services of the company I worked for again. |Sarcasm Alert| Sounds believable. I'm sixty-two now. My career life is over. My court case still needs to be resolved. Almost 1,000 days have passed since my firing. The fucking system protects those with money. A year ago, in the second year of my firing, six months after my deposition, I let my lawyers know I'm in financial turmoil. (Eighteen months before today) Instead of receiving a shred of empathy, the primary lawyer on my team basically told me to shut up and that I should feel lucky they took my case. I wish I was lying. I was told the wheels of justice are fair for everyone. I got fired at fifty-nine. I've lost nearly $300,000 in income. My life savings are gone. Is it time to die? I mask my suffering with wit, often teetering toward darkness. I hide behind it. I'm fucking funny. Maybe only some things you are reading here. I. AM. FUCKING. TERRIFIED. I. AM. BATTLING. DEPRESSION. AND. DEPRESSION-FUELLED. INSOMNIA. Bruce and Henry are sitting at the bar. I've been penning an episodic series about THIS TABLE. Bruce and Henry give the show a huge thumbs up by turning around to catch this episode live! The Golden Girls meets Archie Bunker meets Breaking Bad meets Baby Driver. It's time to go, and for the tenth fucking time, as I'm paying my bill, Grant says, “Oh no, this should be good,” to me and the server. Grant, WTF? Are you cheering for my card to be declined? Your problem is you dwell. Are you, cheering for it to be declined? It would be funny. More fucking pain would be good for me? I hope Grant judges me worthy of a loonie when he sees me on the street. The following day, I sat down with The Mayor. I tell The Mayor I don't want to be Karl's friend. As for Grant…? It's getting harder. The Mayor understands; however, he avoids the vitriol and confrontation. I understand. I've come to a place where when I listen to what people say, I accept their words reveal who they are—it saddens me when people I like choose deafness as a haven—because it isolates those who do listen. I don’t want to be the only one who cares. Dean sits beside me. I introduce him to The Mayor. Dean has blessed me with the challenge of growth. I met Dean for the first time in September (it's now November). Dean's dying soon. Talking with someone whose dying is a learning opportunity. I like him. He says there is nothing I could say that would offend him. But still…moments like this reveal who we are inside; it helps us hone humour in the most trying of situations… Dean appreciates whatever my sense of… is? We talk about potatoes because Dean orders a sandwich with fries. I say as I get older, my love of ketchup is waning. Is it okay to eat the fries without ketchup? I ask. Eoin, the bartender, is from Ireland. Is that where French fries came from? I ask. Eoin says they discovered potatoes first in Peru. Quinoa is a superfood, I say. I wonder why I've said this, or even, typed it here. Dean says he loves Quinoa. Dean, you're dying; it won't help you now, I didn't say. I think Quinoa is a weed that grows on the side of hills in Chile, I say. I don't know if that is true.. I'll ask Ray. This get's me thinking. Humans are fucking weird. Have we scoured the earth with Mikey(s) looking at things and thinking, I wonder what that would taste like? I know; get Mikey to try it… If you got that reference, you will, receive 250 Bonus Points. How many Mikey(s) have been sacrificed? Son, suck some dicks, if you don’t want to be judged by Karl and Grant. I moved to Ecuador for a few minutes. I'm back. Dean's food arrives. He asks for a second plate. He shuffles the fries onto the plate and gives them to me. I graciously accept. Actually, I hate the word; actually, I literally hate it—actually, I'm not sure I said thank you. I skip the ketchup and dribble vinegar on the fries. The Mayor says vinegar is good for us. I add, and for wiping counters. I eat all the fries. When I finish, I ponder: You haven't lived until a dying man has given you, his fries. I had used pontificate instead of ponder; above, I had never used pontificate before. Ray told me I needed to be using it correctly. Ray is right. Is Ray still alive? If he's not alive, change Ray is right, to ghost Ray is right. Dean says he just got off work. He adds he's quitting in six weeks. He only has a few years to live. I remain silent. I’m growing. Dean is working until he almost dies. I want to cry. I don't. Dean has a cane. I've been unstable walking lately because of my dwelling, often wondering when people pass me with canes, walkers, and scooters; if it's foreshadowing. Dean says he's been having a lot of sex lately. He can't believe there is a market for dying men with canes. Adding, “Even with being a little pudgy.” I ate his fries. Are we going to have sex? He asks me. No, I say. I ask him if he thinks people with walkers are getting any? He says I'll let you know in a few weeks. Scooters? I won't make it that long, he says We're not going to…? I'm afraid not, Dean. Why? He asks. Because I don't want the closure. And what would happen if you don’t die? I add. A couple sits down next to me after Dean leaves. They are from Maryland. I want to have sex with one of them. We chat. The one I'm googly-eyed-dwelling-on googly-eyes me. Our chat is amicable. Did I use amicable correctly? Ray…? I don't care; it will give you something to look up. Go. Look it up. Before Dean left, he said he was not looking for an LTR. That reminded me of Scott, seventy-ish-something Scott; I was shown his personal ad once on a sex site. Scott’s Sex Ad I'm a power top. Looking for casual. I'm not looking for LTR. Do you know how much I contribute to the YMCA every year? I do yoga. Only if it is really in an expensive studio with a group of other whites wearing expensive yoga gear. Yoga used to be free to everyone in South East Asia – until us whites saw a way to take it away from them and turn it into something most of us can’t afford, sort of like Whole Foods. I think humans are parasites. Everything in your life you’ve done, I can tell you about, better than you. I like to place name brand bags on the bar when I drink to brag about how wealthy, I am. Does this shirt make me look fat. Namaste I ponder: Does Dan get to watch? I'm left at the bar with the one I want to have sex with? Maybe I can take them both home with me to my partner. While alone, I say, you have a beautiful smile. I say this without even the slightest twinge of creepiness. I’m returned a smile, and “I hope we see you again. We're here till Tuesday.” Am I cheating? On Friday and Saturday Night (11-12 November 2022), I made vomit when I got home. Sort of a hobby. I should let Grant know. I’m a lot funnier when I’m not upchucking. Why do I have upchucking stored in my brain computer? Ray…? More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
Pussy on a Pedestal
Home Cooking + Life Savings + Green Day
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| ||||||||||||||||
3rd
Writing Tips
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Floor 10
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. Scratching. Clawing. Haunting us. Trying to destroy everything about us. I can’t fucking sleep. I try. I chant to myself repeatedly, don’t think, don’t think → STOP. FUCKING. THINKING. Fight it. I’m losing. Depression is relentless. I want to fucking write, write, write. Tell a story essential to me, immortalize my core. Make people who don’t know me feel something; cheer for me. I need this. To survive. STOP I can’t. When I need to drift off, the stories I’ve shared before spring into my mind, rattling, prattling, scattering, running from side to side in my brain. Taunting me. Begging me to tell them. Begging me to listen. I need to clean the wax in my ears. If I don’t find out who I am, I will die. I don’t want to die. I want to live until I’m 135. I need to hit my stride. I need you to come along with me. Close my eyes. Pull the eye shades down. Go blank. Why are you here now, Dean? Why did we come together? What are you trying to teach me? Why am I listening? In the truest sense of the word, a friendship has formed and is ephemeral; you will die before others read this. As I age, I understand I love humanity, but people, not so much. I drift off for a second, only a fucking second. I wake up, and I’m drenched. My head is floating above me. Is my heart failing? It’s pounding against my chest. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. It is trying to blast out. I grab my chest and push as hard as possible to hold my life inside me. I’m shivering. The hairs all over my body are standing at attention. Fear. Flight or fight. What am I fighting? My body shudders. Where’s Hana? She’s hiding under the couch. She’s mewing. She has seen evil. Typically, during my nightly battles with slumber, she comes to me, crawls on my chest, and starts purring loudly, giving her health to me, risking her own. But not tonight. Hana’s hiding; like me, she’s recoiled into a ball of fear. I need her to be safe. I crack my eyes open ever so slightly. My monster has arrived. I see a shadowy figure sitting on the sofa just outside my bedroom. The creature is panting in a guttural manner. Hissing. Its skin is scaled. Talons are razor-sharp, and shredding the sofa, trying to get to Hana. The creature hisses again. I shudder. Why is this fucking beast here? The creature hears my fear, cocks its head in my direction, and casts its fierce blood-red eyes towards me. They are the eyes of a devil. I am going to die. I need to escape. But to where? If I move, its steely claws will shred me. My mind screams at me to run. There is nowhere to run. I will perish if I don’t deal with what life has gifted me. I can’t hide behind the comedy delivered to me in pain anymore. I’m going to die tonight. I can’t catch my breath. The creature hears me gasping. It rises with a thrust from the sofa and scratches the floor gratingly as it ambles toward me. I desperately pull on a pair of pants and throw on a shirt and shoes. I reach beside my bed; a backpack is lying there. A go bag. Where did it come from? I didn’t pack it; I don’t know what’s inside. Survival? The monster shreds my bed and slashes my right calve. I bleed. I frantically grab the backpack, thrust it over my shoulders, and jump to my feet. Sweat drips down my body. A never-ending river. I jump to my feet. The monster slams me against the wall. My neighbours must have heard it. I will be rescued. The creature growls at me; its fetid breath almost decapitates me. I’m going to die. I jump over the bed and run into my living room. I must make it to the door. I reach for Hana. She scratches my hand. I tell her I’ll return for her. With my eyes trying to adjust to the darkness, I stride toward the door. I halt because I see, four fierce eyes darting back and forth, pacing, blocking the path to escape. I’m doomed. The first creature blasts toward me. The two creatures at the door grind their way toward me. There is no escape. I collapse to the floor, accepting my time is up. An opening magically appears, where I’m lying crumpled in defeat. A light flashes. The portal is a stairwell snaking upward from the middle of my living room. It’s reaching for the heavens above. Hana, I’ll return for you, I whisper delicately, in order to not arouse the monsters. I dash into the opening, racing toward the stairs, with the monsters nipping at my heels. I pause. To get to the stairs, I must wade through a slough filled with rodent-like creatures with blood-curdling eyes and snapping fangs. I must make my way through to survive. I’m slashed by one of the monsters. Blood spills from my wound. I find the motivation to move. I dive into the water. Wading through. With every step, I am bitten. The flesh is being torn from my body. I whinge in agony. I am going to die. Twelve steps and one-hundred bites later, I reach the other side. The three monsters chasing me are now in the water, slashing the rodent creatures into pieces, devouring them, a seemingly endless buffet of terror. I can’t reach the start of the stairs; they’re broken, hanging in the air. I need to climb to them. I snap my eyes shut and flash them back open. On the stairs cheering for me is what I barely make out to be a collection of my past; a likeness of me is there at least twenty me(s), different iterations. Standing behind the many me(s)—so many me(s)—is a collection of history, haunting me but strangely needing me to arrive at a place of understanding. I feel my pulse slow as the blood drains from my body. I will not make it, but the strength of the hundreds of hands from before is waving me toward the glowing light they are swaddled in. I look back, and the monsters are still ravaging the rodents. I breathe in deeply, and with every ounce of strength I can muster, I jump just high enough to grasp the ledge of the stairway. I hold on with all my might, and just as my grip is about to give out and I am going to fall to my demise; I understand, just like all who’ve fallen before, a moment appears when you know falling will be the outcome—and you are forced to accept agony is all that will remain. Miraculously, with my grip failing and the inevitable here, I feel a hand latch onto me and then another. And another. And another... So, I close my eyes, and I beg the heavens above for salvation. I lay on the stairwell floor, gasping again; my blood had stopped flowing. I open my eyes. The hundreds of people are now a haze drifting into the ether, up, up, up, the snaking stairs. I blink. I blink. I blink. I pry my tired eyes open and whisper, “Danell.” More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
A Lot of Feelings
Original Lindsay Art: When I Was a Cardboard Box
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
4th
Writing Tips
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 2. Danell
Welcome, I have been expecting you. What is this place? Am I dreaming? Lindsay, you can stop shaking for a moment. The beasts are busy. We have time. Not much. We must hurry. Come with me. Danell… Wipe the tears from your eyes. I’m dead. They have tasked me with starting this journey to send you toward the correct path. You are a good man, Lindsay. I’m sorry about what happened to you. I read it on Social Media, and my heart sank. I know we haven’t talked for quite some time. But still… It’s okay, Lindsay. Why are you here, Danell? I’m here to give you a sense of calm. Danell, my heart breaks, I can’t get over it; you are young; I just can’t get over the cruelty of… The dying thing? How are…? What’s wrong with me? Lindsay, it’s okay. It took me by shock as well. Not the dying part. I understood that. I’ve seen death before. The shock stemmed from the diagnosis. I… I… I didn’t want to go. Not yet. I had much more living ahead of me. Life is… Fucking, vicious. Thanks for relieving me of profanity. We must keep walking. Time is running down. This way, up. ↑↑↑ How far? A ways. You’ll understand where I’m taking you when we arrive. Danell, I’m sorry. Stop saying that. I’m shaking. I’m swallowed in an acrid mist. What is this feeling? A sudden wave of exhaustion is rolling over me. I want to cry. If I do, I’m afraid I won’t be able to answer why? I’m overwhelmed. I’m sinking deeper with every step upward. Danell, hold me. You can’t; you are not real. I am. How can my life be here, this moment, this place, this pain? Was I defective from day one? Worthy of lies? Follow me, Lindsay, only a little further. A rat scurries by. At least, I think it was a rat. Beady eyes. Frothing mouth. I feel wretched, and my blood flows again. I must get out of this darkness. Why won’t you fucking go already? GOOOOOOOOOO Get the fuck out of here? I will never leave you? Why? You need me. I need more and deserve more. Danell, help me. Fuck, I’m pleading with a ghost for liberation. Fight through it, Lindsay. You must. I deserve more. You can’t destroy me. Stop whining. I am in control. NO. Fuck off, are you, my father? Do you know where he is? He’s dead. Asshole. I took him away to punish you. Do not speak to me like that. He wasn’t my father. I feel the warmth caressing my hand. Danell. I’m here, Lindsay; look. What, are we in Regina in 1989? Yes, the Keg, we are meeting for the first time. Danell, I don’t remember. I’m sorry. Were we a couple? We were together for a blip. It was a wonderful blip. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m struggling with memory. Stop saying sorry. Danell, what I do recall is we were active. I don’t remember dating, but I remember our time together was blissful. So, why didn’t we become more? Lindsay, we were both broken. We both needed warmth, a place of comfort without the fear of judgment. I remember that. And besides, you made me laugh. Danell, I faintly remember a drive we took. I can’t remember where, but we had to stop three or four times for… do you remember? Stop. I’m blushing. Danell, we never fought. Most of our time together was filled with laughter and light. It was. Danell, why weren’t we more? We were what we needed at the time, Lindsay. Did we love each other? Yes. Profoundly. Deeply. Completely. I need to cry. Stay with me, Lindsay. Why am I reliving this now? Because you need to start your journey with possibility. My god, Lindsay, you cracked me up; I don’t know where you found the strength; you were incredibly damaged. A few years back, you lost your father and then your mother, your relationship ended, and you took part in the wedding of your first love—and just after your mother died, your beloved cat Guy, died—and then you came to me, a new city, new friends. Danell, you may have saved me. You were well on the way to saving yourself. Keep walking. The devil below us will be finished soon; close your eyes and flash them open. Vancouver? Yes, you moved to Vancouver. I followed a few years later. I found you. I wasn’t searching for you. How did we reconnect? I can’t remember. You hired me to work at the bar you were running. You took away my fear of being alone in a new city. So, I thank you for that. Danell, I remember you were in love with someone else and going to get married. I remember we went out one night, and because several units in your building had been broken into, you asked me to stay over. Did I, stay over? I did. What an asshole thing to do? Lindsay, I had to know? Know? I was getting married. Was I doing the right thing? And…? I can’t answer that question. What are the vibrations? The thundering sounds? Why are the stairs shaking? Lindsay, the beasts, they’ve finished below. They’re coming, soon. We must move faster, and I need to let you go soon. Danell. I need to cry. Don’t; we never did. Run Lindsay. Where are we now? The fireworks, about 10 years ago, a chance meeting. You are with your husband. Are you sick? That’s right, I’m with my husband. And no, I’m well. You were both excited to see me. Did he know? He knows we had something. Why was he happy to see me? Because he knows you took care of me, he knows kindness and empathy live in your soul. I can be an ass… Stop. You glow when you care for others. You need to care for yourself. The two of you invited me to your home for dinner. The memory is making me want to cry. I’m sorry, I declined. That’s okay. Lindsay, you’ve been through far too much. But you know what? You are stronger than you could ever imagine. The beasts are nothing more than demons you need to eradicate… they are not all evil. How many are there? Lots. Run Lindsay. Follow me. Why are their raptors circling in the air? Because they can’t see your resilience. When I found out you died…? Stop. Danell. Were you loved? Yes. More than I ever imagined, I have wonderful children. And then the demons, arrived? I fought them. And fought them. And fought them. I was losing. Evil was eating away at who I was, and then one day, it was time to let go. I wasn’t ready. But my next adventure was calling me. I’m not religious, but I understand there is more…. We only have a minute left before we must say, see you later. Later? Danell. You’ll understand soon, Lindsay. Should I be terrified? No. I can see everything from up here—it’s a bonus of being dead, ethereal. I need you to stay strong. I’ve seen what bottom feeders like Lyler, Soddy, and Jaxon have done to you. They are not the future; you are. I have a future? Lindsay, you have a beautiful one, one where you thrive, one where you continue to give the gift of you to others only if you accept the gifts others give to you. Were you a gift? Don’t make me blush. Sorry. Stop. Lindsay, understand Lyler is the worst of them all because he is a liar… about things vital to happiness and friendship. He’s lied constantly, eyes always shifting. What a… Anyway, don’t hate him too much because he struggles with hearing love from his father. As for you, Lindsay, I know traumas constantly attack you, far too many—that is because you are a lovingly precious human. You deserve whatever you need. Never question the abundance of love people have for you—you might not see it—but it is everywhere; you must accept it… eventually. I’ll try, Danell. I can see the beasts; they are catching up to us. You must go, Lindsay. It’s not goodbye. This is your start. You have lost much. So, your journey upward is going to take some time. There are many moments ahead you must cosset; some you need to let go, and some you need to embrace and hold deep in your heart. Why are you crying, Lindsay? Because I never knew. I couldn’t see it. We never fought. Lindsay, I made my choice. I’m not sure if it was the right one. Danell, it was. Look at the love that was there when your time to go arrived. Your children. Your loving partner. Your calm. Lindsay, go, but before you do, please, try to drink just a tipple less, and eat some vegetables. What? And thank you for keeping me alive in your heart. Our time together meant the world to me; I must say thank you, thank you, thank you. No, Danell, thank you for saving me… again. Run, Lindsay, run. The stairs keep snaking upward, and with each step, the rungs crumble under foot; I’m hoping this slows the beasts hiding inside me. The snake seems never-ending. I’ve run for hours and hours. I’m panting. I need to stop. ↓↓↓ I fall to the ground. My fall takes only a second, but it feels like an eternity. Halfway down, I knew this fall would bring suffering, unavoidable pain. Don’t smash your face into the fractured concrete stairs, slips through my mind. I throw my hands in front of my face. Smash. The pain rushes through me. I’m in shock. I’m holding a cell phone in my hand. Its screen shatters, fragmenting shards into my hand. There are purple pebble marks tattooed into my flesh. My blood pressure spikes. The misery is relentless. I jump to my feet and scream, I’M OKAY. People I don’t know rush past me on the stairwell, going upward. ↑↑↑ I hear a voice; only one person has stopped. Are you okay? I’m in the entranceway of Carlos & Bud’s. Are you okay? "Jason?" More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
A Billion Dollars Scene
Natural Beauty + Wild Berries
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
5th
Writing Tips
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 3. Jason
Why you? Why now? Why did you choose to die on the same date as my first mother? And my second sister? Why are you laughing, Jason? I didn’t choose to die, Lindsay; death wanted me to come to entertain. And you did. Want a margarita? I prefer Rainier; Lindsay? I heard they have dubbed you Dickie. Yep. Gnarly, right? Sure. Why did we become friends? Because Is it that simple? Sure, it is, dude. Another pop? Would I ever say no? No. Damn it, you are just a kid. You think you’re not. You make an excellent point. Jason, slow down, big boy, you’re already on your third Rainier, and I don’t even know you yet. You will. Why? Because I can tell, we are kindred. Where are you from, Jason? Nelson, the land of the hippie and the land of kids, named Apple. Oh. I’m here because I know one of the owner’s girlfriends, Jana; she’s from Nelson. There is a gaggle of brothers and sisters in Jana’s family, four, five, maybe six, all starting with the letter Jay. J. J. J. J. J. J. One of them died young. The rest, carry the loss with them every day. Jason…? I’m dead, Lindsay. It is fucking sucks. But, like I said above, I think the reaper needs entertaining. Sorry… Don’t be; I kill nightly. My sister, an aunt, whatever she was, died just last year on the same date as you for bleeps sake; you’ve been gone for two; why do I get to see you before her? She wasn’t ready for you? She wanted to get her story, the lies, straight. How do you know? We chatted. Where? Where do you think? I discovered you died because clickbait had the small towns in Canada you must visit before you….? Fucking sorry. Die. It’s okay. I’ve had some time. I’m still sorry, here come the tears. Don’t. I still hadn’t recovered from your waterworks when Gail dumped you. Fuck off. Well, she did. You were a mess. Oh, right, you were there for the aftermath; I remember we were flatmates. How did we become flatmates, Jason? I don’t remember. Linds, you and Wes were living together on Cornwall; I think. Wes had just hooked up with someone and was moving out. I had started at C & B’s — I was your protégé behind the bar. C & B’s rocked every night. And after Wes left, we found a place together on 13th Avenue. So, we became close friends. Jason, I remember something lined up in our dysfunction that brought us together. Sort of like people from Saskatchewan finding people from Saskatchewan or people from North Dakota finding others from North Dakota. Why North Dakota, Lindsay? I’m trying to tap into the more prominent American audience. Wouldn’t you choose California or New York? Shit. What’s Wes doing? Lindsay, he’s drunk; we were always drunk when Wes managed the joint. What’s he doing? Before you got here, he emptied a cleaning bottle, and filled it with Cuervo, he’s now spritzing the guests. Wait, is that Wes lying on the boulevard with a customer? Are either of those, even legal? Is Wes human, Lindsay? Probably not; Wes is my brother, though. Mine too. Follow me, Linds; we have little time left. Wow, we are in Gail’s Volkswagen Cabriolet. Jason, Jason, Jason, wake up. I did. You were sloshed in the back seat. Why did you wake up? Because Gail was playing Dee-Lite’s - Groove is in the Heart. That’s right, and you freestyled it. I can’t remember your lyrics, but you etched a place in both of our hearts at that moment. It was endearing. Even in your drunkenness. The reaper made… shit; what am I saying? Don’t sweat it, I slay nightly. Jason I must ask again, why are you here? Because Danell and I brainstormed-- You know Danell? —up here, and we care about you fucking deeply; we need to push you toward the light. You need to keep shining. That’s why I’m here. Lindsay, as mentioned before, we found each other in our backstories. I loved you, Lindsay. I drank in, your ease. I remember little about our time together. That doesn’t matter, Lindsay. All that matters was when you clicked on the bait about Nelson, you thought of me. I cried. No need. Jason, I wanted to take care of you, but I failed. One of your friends was at the gym. I can’t remember his name; he told me about your accident, being paralyzed. I am a hypocrite; I found out and never reached out to you. Lindsay… stop. I failed our friendship. Lindsay… stop… our friendship was when it was; you didn’t need to run to my pain; you had your own. Jason, why so wise? Because, like you, life has been a catastrophic ride. Nice verbiage, J. You like? Yes. Lindsay, you deserve happiness. If the hairs on my arms could still stand up, they’d be floating off my arms now. Crap, Lindsay, the beasts, I can see the beasts, duck in here. Is this a farewell? Duck in here, now; we will have a moment or two more, thanks for clicking. I can feel the heat of the monster’s breath on the nape of my neck. I duck, just in the nick of time. The beast sprints past me, ardently searching for my demise. I learned ardent today. I’m tucked in this room. I can see the beast’s blood-soaked eyes peering through the slits they’ve gouged in the door with their claws. Don’t breathe. I don’t. Don’t open my eyes. I don’t. Don’t show my teeth. I don’t. Another growl. A slash. Splinters slam into my face. A roar. Defeat. They move on. Where am I? WTF? I’m sitting at Marquis Downs, a horse racetrack in Saskatoon. Hello, Lindsay. Doug Kopko; Doug? Yes. How did I get here? Doug, are you…? Dead, Lindsay? No, I’m not dead? How old are you? We’re 11; it’s 1971. That’s right, I sort of remember, Doug, we were an odd couple of best friends. You’re fat. Me broken. Together one. How did we become friends, Doug? More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
Fore + Natural Beauty + Pride + Ephemeral + Big Bite
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
6th
Writing Tips
1. Getting Started
Before you begin to write your story or novel, write a detailed outline and character backgrounds first. So many unpublished first (or second or third or 44th) novels begin halfway through the book because the writer has spent the first 150 pages giving us the background story instead of starting with THE STORY. Know your characters inside and out, where they came from, where they want to go, so that when you begin writing the book, you already know how they will act/react to events in the story. I love outlines. I read somewhere that Stephen King said writers who like to write outlines wish they were writing masters theses instead of novels. For the longest time, I thought this was true. Now I think he was just exaggerating. You need an outline. Even just the barest outline so that you know the story’s beginning, middle and end. Sometimes, I don’t stick to my outline. The story begins to take off in a different direction, so I chuck the outline. But when this happens, I write a new outline. Outlines are the blueprints of stories. It will also keep you working, since you will see how far along you need to go. In general I write 10-20 page outlines, with a paragraph for each chapter in the book, describing the action that will occur in that chapter. 2. Begin Writing and Don’t Stop Now that I am a mother, I write on Monday to Wednesday from 10am – 3pm everyday at a writer’s office. On Thursdays I do revisions at home and on Fridays I spend time with my baby. When I’m on deadline, which means the book was DUE YESTERDAY, the schedule goes whacky, and I just work ALL THE TIME and try to see my family in between. The three-day writing week usually results in a solid ten to twenty pages. The manic work that happens during deadline crunch can result in anywhere from twenty to fifty pages a day. This is when the novel really happens. Before I had my baby, when I was not on deadline, sometimes I didn’t work at all. I went to the movies, I went shopping, I hung out with my friends, I tanned by the pool, I read a ton of magazines. But that only lasted for a week or two. Most of the time I’m banging it out. Which means I force myself to sit at my desk and write. Now that I am a mother, the time that I am not writing is spent with my child. I try to read magazines and watch TV when she is asleep. When I did not make a living as a writer, I wrote AT EVERY CHANCE I COULD GET. I was a computer consultant at a major bank, but I would say I spent six hours writing to the two hours I spent working on my computer programs. I also spent weekends writing. 3. Cliffhangers are Key How do you write a page-turner? By making each chapter end with a cliffhanger. What’s a cliffhanger? A cliffhanger is when the action reaches a feverish pitch and then the chapter ends with the protagonist hanging on a limb or about to kiss the boy or about to open the secret safe—but not revealing what is inside. It has to keep people reading to find out WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. I got schooled in crafting page-turning cliffhangers because I used to write a serial novel in GOTHAM magazine called “The Fortune Hunters”. My story appeared every month, and every month I would end it on a cliffhanger to keep readers interested in reading the next story, which they would have to wait a whole month for. Apparently, it worked. The serial novel was very successful, and I even sold it as an adult novel. But I have not had time to whip it into shape for publication, so we will all have to wait for that for now. (I even had to return the money!) But writing THE FORTUNE HUNTERS taught me how to write cliffhangers. Also reading Michael Crichton novels. Those taught me about cliffhangers too. And of course, the best advice to any writer is to READ. You can’t be a writer without being a reader. 4. Always Say Yes To Everything Making a living as a writer or an artist means that some years, you can make a lot of money, and some years are very lean. One of my producer friends in Hollywood said that whenever he feels like blowing a lot of cash, he looks up at the Hollywood Hills at all those half-built mansions and reminds himself that sometimes, one hit is all you can get, so don’t get too cocky. The people who started building those houses didn’t have enough money to finish building them. Yikes! All through my writing career, I have taken EVERY assignment offered to me. In addition to big-name magazines, I have written for obscure websites, shopping catalogs, health and fitness magazines, free newsweeklies, blogs, anything and everything. I have written about my family, my sex life, my staggering credit card debt. I have endured humiliation and good-natured ribbing. I have survived to write about it. Did I want to dress up as a man and crash my husband’s bachelor party? YES! Did I want to try out every position in the karma sutra and write about it? YES! Did I want to go around New York and ask men to tell me the length of their bananas and see if they could get women to date them if they wore their inches on a t-shirt on their chest? Um…er…do I really have to..oh well..YES! These days, I have the luxury of being able to say no to things. I would say yes to everything still, but I found saying yes was taking away from my main job of writing the books. Writing books is the only thing I have time for right now. BTW, I only worked with Alloy on the Au Pairs series. Everything else (Blue Bloods, Angels, Ashleys, Social Life, etc.) is mine and mine alone. I just add this because people ask, and that is the answer. But I loved working with Alloy and wholly recommend working with them. If they come calling, say YES! 5. But Don’t Sell Yourself Short Either Never take a first offer. Always try to push the deal to the farthest you can push it. Glossy magazines have paid me $1 a word, $1.50 a word, $2 a word, and at my highest, $3 a word. I’ve heard other writers can command $4 or $5 a word. So it’s possible. And it never hurts to ask. Book advances are NOTORIOUSLY low for first-time novelists. Mine paid for three months’ rent and living expenses in New York, and that was it. (And I lived in a rent-stabilized apartment! Still, it wasn’t as small as some others I’ve heard. I’ve heard unagented writers are offered $1500 for a book. I mean, my god. That’s not even enough for a Chloe Paddington these days!) So you need to push. Ask for more. Or don’t sell them all the rights. Definitely not your movie/film rights. Hold on to stuff. MAKE YOUR AGENT WORK FOR YOU. In the end, you have to be the judge of your work. You know how much it’s worth. Publishers can always say no, but most of the time, they will try to say yes. A CAVEAT: If you’ve pushed and pushed and pushed and they still won’t budge, take the money and do the job. 6. Write what you know, write what you love, but research is fun too Sometimes I have really happy days when I realize I am getting paid to write the kind of stories I used to write in my notebooks when I was a teenager. I used to write soap-operatic dramas modeled on Dynasty, but starring the members of Duran Duran. I know. Very sad. Thankfully, my writing has developed since then. But I still sometimes feel like I’m fourteen and I’m just writing things that I think are really, really fun to write about. I’ve written about fashion shows, sample sales, private school, the Hamptons, all subjects that I am very familiar with. But I’ve also written about surfing, skateboarding, college radio stations, and other subjects I’m not so familiar with. I’ve always been interested in surfing, skateboarding, and college radio, but I didn’t know so much about them so I did research. I love doing research. I love figuring out subcultures and learning new slang. It widens my horizons as a writer. So don’t be afraid to tackle new subjects, writing about what you don’t know can be fun too. 7 .Finally, live a little So many people want to WRITE but they have not yet even begun to LIVE. I think that the reason so many of us YA writers are in our 30s is because at this age, we finally can see clearly, what being a teenager really meant. When you are too close to the experience, you don’t have the objective distance with which to write about it. I can’t wait to be 50 and write about a young mother in her 30s. 😀 Also, a lot of the fun in my books is inspired by the REAL fun I had going to clubs, covering fashion shows, trying to get into all those crazy parties, dancing on tables with my friends, indulging in a lot of boyfriend/girlfriend drama. I went out there and experienced life. I recently read about a young writer who had published her first novel (a teen romance) and she said she had never even been kissed! How can you write about boys if you don’t know what they are like? If you have never even had a boyfriend? I was quite appalled. I don’t want to read a romance from someone who has never experienced love. Puh-leeze. So, get out there. Kiss tons of boys. Fight with your girlfriends. Go to a lot of parties. Spend too much money. Have FUN. Fall in love. Fall out of love. Make mistakes. Wear platform shoes and trip on them. Then, a few years later, write about it. You have all the time in the world to be a writer, but you are only young and can fit into that size 2 Betsey Johnson silver micro-mini skirt once. (Ah, I remember that skirt very fondly. It came up to my upper thigh, barely covering my butt, and it got me in a lot of trouble with many cute boys.) 8.All the Usual Stuff How to get an agent? How to get published? I found my first agent through the WRITER’S MARKETPLACE. Are they still around? Everything is on the web now. Follow their instructions. Be patient. Try again. Don’t give up. Try to have a day job while you’re doing this, so you can still afford to shop at Barneys and get $150 dollar haircuts at Frederic Fekkai while you’re only making $100 an article (like I did). 😀
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 3. Jason... continued...
How did we become friends, Doug? Me fat. You broken. Together one. It’s as simple as that. Our parents let us ride the bus across town to bet on horses when we were 11. I know; how awesome is that? Lindsay—they even occasionally gave us a ride. Wow, I remember. Doug, is it Friday night? Are we sitting at Violet Avenue + 112th Avenue intersection in your home, playing poker? Yes. We did that every Friday night, like a regular date night. Is your mom feeding us? Sure is. I like this memory. Me too, Lindsay. Who won poker? It didn’t matter. Doug, I have to go home. It’s freezing out. Minus 40. Run, Lindsay, run. I did. I ran backward into the wind; I phoned you the moment I got home, every time. You sure did. Were we tight? Come with me over here? How old are we now? Still 11. Are our parents letting us ride the bus downtown on a Saturday night? Yes. Do you remember, we used to go downtown once in a while to Hanover’s Restaurant in the basement of the Sheraton? Fine dining. Two eleven-year-old boys, fine dining. How rich was that? Oh my. I remember. We’d end our meals with cherry jubilees or some flaming banana thing. What a blast. And on Sunday, we retook the bus downtown, back in the day when stores weren’t open on Sundays, to bowl. I remember, we were in a bowling league. Doug, we were best friends. I didn’t know. I still don’t understand. You felt… My turn to say shut it… we were tight friends. Can eleven-year-olds be in love? I think we were, on whatever level is possible at that age. We also used to go to the badminton club one night of the week at Sutherland School. Do you remember you and I used to bring two two-litre bottles of coke each with us to the gym? I must laugh. All the sugar. I still have my teeth. Why are we still alive? Are we still alive? Yes, we were in that realm, and yes, we are now. Whew. Why are you here? Because you are typing this. I’m sorry, Doug; what happened to us? We got older; you became cooler, you… I’m an asshole, the furthest thing from cool. No. It’s not so much you were cool. It’s just you had so much to share. You’re not mad. I was. I cherished our time; it was some of the best times of my life. Some of the best-- Get over yourself, asshole. Thank you, Doug. For what? At the risk of sounding condescending and special; what I’m trying to say is that I’m grateful for you being one of the best friends of my life. I’m glad, I’ve remembered. Lindsay, outsiders make the world spin. Me, You, Shawn Moore. Oh yeah, Shawn, do you remember his house? Never mind. Craig Smale. Jack Adams. Neil Purdy. Jim Rutherford. Carver Farrell. We were all the coolest of the cool because we weren’t any more than who we were. Maybe subtract Rutherford; he was fucking cool. And, of course, subtract me because… Never, Lindsay, you were…. Get out of here, Lindsay. There is a fucking spider climbing the wall, and I have to go; I’m playing poker tonight at home. And Lindsay, you were cool; you just had trouble accepting it. You made people laugh. See you, friend. Thanks for the time. Jason, why are you strangling me? I’m trying to shake Gail out of you. You need to get over her. I should…? Kill me, Lindsay. Is that what you should do? Fuck, I’m an idiot. Wait, Jason, it’s me who’s strangling you. Was it? You ended my job at C & B’s. I had hurt my knee and couldn’t work. So, they gave you, my shifts. Rumour has it you got caught with sticky… and when asked about it, you said I taught you. I was furious when you got home. No, I was strangling you. No, I was strangling you. That doesn’t sound like you, Lindsay. That doesn’t sound like you, Jason. Do you want to keep typing the same thing? No. I’m over it, you? It doesn’t matter. I love you, Lindsay. I love you too, Jason. My heart breaks. Hold it together, Lindsay; you need it. Ouch. Fuck. A claw is wrapped around my leg. Lindsay, quick, toss me the backpack. What? The backpack, I packed it. When? While you were sleeping? I don’t sleep. Here, Jason, catch. I’m going to perish. The claw is slicing through me. Just as time was expiring, Jason pulled a machete out of the backpack, smacked the beast on its back, the foaming beast turned toward Jason; a perplexed look crossed the beast’s face because it smelled Jason was dead. Jason slashed the beast’s throat. Its grip loosened. My wounds instantly healed. Poof. The beast vanished. Five more beasts morphed out of the floor, slowly gaining footing. Run. Lindsay. Run. I run. Jason turns into mist, mouthing I love you, Lindsay; I will see you soon, sooner than you can imagine. I dart up the stairs. The beasts are dogging me. I slide between two parallel doors. Where am I? I’m sitting in a courtroom beside my lawyer and someone who looks eerily like me, only a tad plumper. At the other desk are sit three monsters and their monster lawyer. More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
Spinal Tap - "These go to eleven...."
Bluebird + Attack Squirrel + Natural Beauty
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
7th
Writing Tips
First, a word of warning:
NOT EVERYONE CAN BE A WRITER. Seriously, you guys are scaring me. Some of you are going to HAVE to become doctors. Otherwise, the world will be filled with great stories, but who is going to prescribe me antibiotics when I get bronchitis? I am willing to compromise, though. Here is a fact—and I am not trying to scare you: Only two percent of published writers today make their living solely through their writing. That means only two percent of my peers pay their bills just by WRITING. The other ninety-eight percent are also teachers, firemen, insurance salesmen, flight attendants, secretaries, married to someone rich, have a trust fund, etc. The income they earn from writing probably helps, but they are not able to support themselves and their families on it. Sad, but true. I am not saying that you are not going to be in that two percent of writers who do earn enough money from their books to live on. However, it doesn't hurt to be prepared. That is why I am telling you: GO TO MEDICAL SCHOOL. Seriously. Go to medical school and become a doctor so that if the writing thing doesn't work out, you will have something to fall back on. I did this. Well, not medical school, but my mom made me take typing so I could support myself as a receptionist/secretary. And I'm glad she did this because it took TEN YEARS, post-college, before I started making enough money from my writing to pay my bills. This is very important: You MUST acquire a skill you can fall back on if writing doesn't work out, because it is a VERY competitive business and HARDLY ANYONE MAKES A LIVING DOING IT. And, if you DO go to medical school, you can use what you learn there in your books, like Tess Gerritsen, the medical thriller writer who can ALSO prescribe drugs. Okay, now that you have totally failed to heed my warning: Part One: I have written reams and reams of novels and short stories. How do I get them published? Go to your local library or bookstore and get a book on the writer's market. The one that I used was called Jeff Herman's Guide to Agents, Editors, and Publishers. You want to find the most updated version of whatever book you get, because you are going to be writing to the people whose addresses are listed inside, and you want to make sure they are still working at these places. The book you get will tell you that to get a publisher to look at your book, you must first write them what's called a query letter. This is a one page letter describing you, your book, and why a publisher would want to buy this book from you. Just to let you know, I sent out several hundred of these letters before a single person ever asked to see the book I was trying to sell. Some people say if you get anyone to look at your book at all, you are lucky. I believe that luck is 95% preparation and 5% opportunity. Just to let you know. So basically…you have to make your own luck. So good luck with that. Subsection: Agents You can get a publisher's attention a lot more quickly—and some people believe you can get a much better deal–if you have a literary agent. A literary agent is someone whose job it is to take people's manuscripts and try to place them with the appropriate publisher. A good agent will never charge a fee for her work on your behalf. However, if an agent agrees to take on your work, when she places it, she will earn a 10-15% cut of whatever money you make from the sale. So if a publisher offers you $10,000 for your book, your agent will get $1,500 of that money. You will get the rest. You can get an agent the same way you get a publisher: by finding a book on how to get them (such as the one by Jeff Herman) and sending them query letters. Part Two: I have started lots of stories, but I can't seem to finish them. What's wrong with me? There are several reasons for this. You can choose the one that fits you best: a) It is always more fun to start a new story than it is to work on the one you've been working on for months. This is why publishers don't pay writers their whole advance until they turn in the completed manuscript. Every writer feels this way. Just power through it. b) You haven't found the right story yet—the one you can't let go. When you do, you will WANT to finish it. So cut yourself some slack, and keep trying. c) You did not plan your story out well enough before you sat down to write it or d) You planned it too well, and now you feel like the story is already told. In general, when this happens to me, it is c) or d). I know it sounds crazy, but planning your story in too much detail—like writing a 100 page outline, or keeping index cards on every little thing that's going to happen—can sometimes make it feel like your story is already done. Told. Over. Why would you want to go back and RETELL something that's already been told? However, you have to plan a LITTLE, or your story will lack direction, and you'll get lost in it, then frustrated, then have trouble finishing it. So the trick is that you need to find the right balance FOR YOU between not planning your story enough, and over-planning it. Practice will help. If you write a page a day—just ONE page—in three months you'll have a hundred page story. And in six months you'll have a two hundred page story. That's almost a whole book. So don't think about it like: “Oh my gosh, I have to write two hundred pages.” Think of it like, “Today, I have to write a page.” Trust me. It works. Part Three: I don't know how to get started on a story. Please help. The solution to this problem is very simple: Sit down. Start a story. Finish it. Put it aside. Start another story. There. Now you're a writer. What's that you say? You can't think of anything to write about? Good! Go to medical school! Ha, just kidding. Okay, how about this: Who do you hate and why? Who do you love and why? What's happened to you that you wish hadn't happened? What hasn't happened to you that you wish WOULD happen? Write these things down. There's your story. Oh, obviously you've got to create a plot and change your characters names so they won't sue you. But that's the fun part. What's that you say? The sun is shining outside, and the birds are tweeting, and you can hear your brothers downstairs having a fun time watching MTV, and you would really like to join them? Don't you think I would rather be watching MTV than working on my book? Do you think there is anyone in the world who wouldn't rather be watching Rich Girls or Made than working at their job? No. Probably not. Except doctors. Doctors LOVE their job. Because they are helping people. But when writing is your job, you TiVo Rich Girls and Made and ignore the tweeting birds, because a) you don't get paid if you don't turn your book in b) you have a story to tell and it NEEDS to get told c) on the rare occasions the writing is going well, you love it more than anything else in the world. Except maybe Rich Girls. But there is nothing better than Rich Girls (except The OC of course) so this makes sense. The most important thing of all for you to remember this holiday weekend is this: When you do go medical school and realize I was right all along and you discover a love for medicine and science you never knew you had and you're out there helping people and making a real difference in their lives, and then you win the Nobel Prize, be sure to mention me in your acceptance speech. Love, Meg
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 4. The Law
Jesus, you look spent. I am. Why is sweat pouring off you? Who are you? Do I know you? I’m you. Only younger. And fatter, you are fatter than I am? You are a being fucking asshole. Speak nicely to yourself. Okay, just asshole. How old are you? I’m 62 and a bit. You? I’m you at 59? Why are you here then? This hasn’t happened yet… yet… yet… finally. What? It’s been almost 1,000 days since you, we, I, whatever—were put on the proverbial retirement shelf. What? You got us fired. I did an outstanding job. Those monsters, over there, with the other robed man, they did this to us. What did they do? Canned us. Ended our career life. What? You know why we are here; you sued the fuckers. Hey, why did you call me fat? Because I was. I’m looking good now. Talking with myself is confusing. Are you taller? That’s not how life works, the taller thing. I am looking slimmer now. How did you do it? Stress has had a hand in it. This nightmare has helped, even though; I might die soon. Somebody called ‘THEY’ suggests stress is a killer. And fast food. Fuck off. You love fast food. Don’t love it; it is an addiction, like living. Sit down; you look exasperated. Who’s the guy next to us? He’s our counsellor, lawyer, he’s a good guy. He’s a lawyer. Be kind. I’m looking trimmer. How did I do it? You already asked that question. No. I. Did. Not. Just answer the question. Fourteen million steps did this. But you still eat junk. Only for lunch, asshole. What has happened since I got fired? I don’t want to keep reliving it—it’s been haunting me for 1,000 days. Fuck. Yes. Fuck. I guess I need to let you know what’s in store for you. Are we inside a Toshikazu Kawaguchi book? I wish. Order us some coffee. 400 Bonus Points! I look exhausted. Sit down and spill. Okay, but no more than a couple of pages, around 600 words. It all started… Lyler, the monster in the middle, kept asking what I wanted my future with the company to be…? I know this part; he said our career was safe and then said Jaxon, the first monster over there, would call me. Yes, that's correct. Fifteen times later, the same ‘future’ call, the same Jaxon is going to call. Snap, I mean, damn. Then, he asked me if I'd ever run the struggling Other Office? I know; you said 'no' 35 times. So, move it along; you only have about 500 words before the trial brings me up to speed. I can’t fucking sleep. Okay. Okay. Okay. They didn’t care about my stroke, the sarcoidosis, or the deaths of my family members and friends; hell, they didn’t even care when my mother died or when I had pink eye. Damn, it sounds like they didn’t care about me. 400 words left. And then, Jaxon and the third monster, Sodd, asked again if I’d run the Other Office. I said no because it would likely kill me; I reminded them of the stroke. And then, bam, six months later, we were running the Other Office. One day, Lyler came to the Other Office and made a big scene about finding new business. Picking up the phone. Making a call. Slamming it down. At least five times. I wanted to kill him that day. You will get your chance. You don’t seem happy about the transfer? He snapped. Why the fuck would I be? I replied. Opportunity. He said. I’m 59. I replied. The stress and waking up at three is going to be the end of me. I used to drive fast to get to the office. The faster I drove the more sleep I got. He said. Fuck off. I know all this, I was there. And then, Soddy said, sleep in your work clothes, ready to go in the mornings. That’s what he used to do. That way, he said, you can get extra sleep. About 200 more words. And then, the pandemic hit, you told them it was disconcerting, and BAM, Roger replaced us, a man Lyler had recently asked if he had drug problems. Watch Roger like a hawk, everybody hates him, and I think he’s using. He said. Sounds like they wanted us dead and gone. That’s dark. But it sounds true. After…? A couple of weeks later, Lyler and Soddy called to say they were sorry, but they needed to lay me off. They were lying; of course, they fired me. First, Lyler pulled a page from a George Clooney movie, said they’re sorry, and added he is scared he might have to sell his house because of the uncertainty of the pandemic. And then, Soddy called and said they had to let me go, and they would do me a favour of paying me the one week of holiday pay they owed me; on my, here comes the ALL CAPS: FINAL CHEQUE. And that was that. Fifteen years, generating $78 million in revenue for the fuckers, and good-fucking-bye. Snap. And then? Oh yeah, both of them said Jaxon would call to thank me for being an exceptional employee. Let me guess, Jaxon never called. Correct. I may or may not have written something eight months later, where I called employers who turf employees without the decency of a conversation: cowards. Jaxon didn’t like what I may or may not have written. I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me get the heartache out of the way before I’m called to the stand. Since I got fired, I have aged. I look good. Thanks, me…? The only correspondence I heard from the company after, was Lyler asking me how fast I could run a mile in my prime. He also gave me stock tips. And Soddy, asked me how my summer without an income was going, adding that the weather finally turned nice. Go on, tell us more about what happened to me. I had life-saving throat surgery. They tried to weaponize the surgery against me. One of my closest friends died. I was legally deposed, and their fucking lawyer… The guy over there? No, he’s new; the guy who deposed me almost two years ago suggested I get a job at Footlocker. Since I know you as well as I do, you probably suggested he was nuts, and working at Footlocker at 60 would require moving into your dead parent’s basement to afford it. You know me! And then my sister died, on the same date my first mother had died, and the exact date an ex-flatmate died, Jason. And we had a heart scare: CT Scan. MRI. +++ And then, an ex-girlfriend died. Am I okay? Of course not, but you don’t have a choice. When I told our legal team one year ago the emotional and financial stress was going to kill me, they said, “The courts are doing the best they can. You should feel lucky you are being represented.” Seriously. Seriously, the partner scolded me for being fucking stressed. Damn. And then, on at least seven occasions, my lawyers told me they were laser-focused, and the case was going to be settled toot-sweet. They need to get their lasers checked. I know. I like the guy next to you, but lawyers are fucking lawyers, and ours is chasing ambulances. Our case is simple. They fired me without cause. They are trying to avoid paying severance. They are financially destroying me by delaying the case as long as they can—likely, hoping I die. And here we are. How many words? I’m over by a couple hundred. You know I write, right? I know, I write. So, in the spirit of getting out of this fucking nightmare, I’ve written some stuff that expresses what it’s like to be us, I mean, we, I mean, I. Is that okay? Share away. I want to know what’s coming down the pipe for me. Do it before the coffee cools. Here goes → More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
King Kong aint got shit on me
Hair Goal + When I Was a Watch Face
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
8th
Writing Tips
“My main rule is to say no to things like this, which tempt me away from my proper work.”
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 4. The Law
I Feel Guilty Buying Mac & Cheese I need to eat. I’m turning 62 soon (turned) and horrifically, I’m counting pennies in my head. I’m turning 62 soon and I’m thinking I want to have either Macaroni + Cheese or toss some beans on toast. I’m turning 62 soon. I go to the market and check the price of Mac + Cheese ($2.10) and then the milk it needs ($3.00); fortunately, I have butter at home, a luxury. Why do I have fucking butter? I can’t justify the expense. I pick up the box. I put it down. I pick it up. I put it down. I pick it up. I cry. I put it down. I’m turning 62 soon and I’m feeling exasperated and guilty, conflicted → I can’t afford Macaroni + Cheese. Is it even food? I change my mind; I search for beans. Tears pour from my eyes. Beans are too expensive. I might as well fucking die. I am turning 62, and I can’t afford to eat. What does that mean? It means you’re going to die. I settle on a can of soup. I used to make a fair living building a company for a merchant fuelled by greed. And then, a fucking pandemic hits; I mentioned it was worrisome. A light flashed in the offices of greed, and my career ground to a halt. A Company Owners Smug + Delusional Greed + Paranoia Hey, this man built our company and worked hard for us for a 15-years. He did everything asked of him. But you know what, he’s long in the tooth, and if we wanted to kick him to the curb, it would cost us a pretty penny. What’s that? He said the pandemic is worrisome. Did a light just come on? I know, I’ll use the pandemic as shade and can him. No questions asked; he’s a good man, he might not even notice what we’re doing, and by the time he does, it will be too late for him to do anything about it → No separation pay for him—I will crush him. I’ll use my milquetoast sycophants to pull the trigger. What does it matter if it destroys his life, sends him into homelessness, has him questioning if he can afford Macaroni + Cheese and eventually kills him? I have all the money and power; I’m in control. I’m not an asshole — I am an asshole — I am an asshole? I’ll leave it for you to decide. He deserves to be fucked over. He made me wealthy. I even tricked him into a stock scam. $70K out of his pockets and into mine. Have you decided yet if I’m an asshole or not? Never mind. I know what I am. I have surrounded myself with boring people who are motivated by whatever I tell them. They are spinless. The roids, cocaine, and opiates aren’t kicking like they used to. I’ll take more. My staff used to spend their Christmas bonuses on me by buying me a giant bottle of booze every year. They love me. They’re stupid and expendable. I will destroy everyone who challenges me. I am the money man. I’ve decided. What? You are much more than an asshole. I may be, but you, you are an old man now, and I’ve made you scared of Macaroni. I’m powerful. Pressing On You know what you are. You’re not a good man. You hate your wife + kids → you need cocaine → you need opiates → you need to feign control. You are weak. You are nothing. You may have the money. But you’re dead inside. I must keep pressing on. I’m sent hundreds of books per year. I’m paying my dues. Publishers and authors like the way my mind works. I will keep trying. I need to shift gears. Fuck those who think destroying lives are okay. What did they think would happen to someone they robbed of their last career years? They don’t fucking care. Especially the one who pretended to be a friend. A liar with every word spoken. Shifty eyes. He knows who he is. Hurt in life by entitlement. Good riddance. Nice watch. I get home, heat the soup, sink into depression, and vow never to quit trying. To stop listening to the noise To pay no mind to the greed + despicable nature of those who benefited most from my efforts. In 2009, you said if I wanted a raise, why don’t I go on Welfare? In 2012, you called me ‘the face of your company.’ Then, starting in 2020, you’re trying to destroy me because I stood up for myself. Sorry to tell you, I'm unbreakable. I'm better than you. The soup isn't filling; it's a sodium-filled nightmare; I can't afford. But I must eat. I wish I hated you; I don't have to; because I think you hate yourself. Do you have anything else? Sure do → Bubble Bath + Broken Glasses Time of Death: July 2022 Right around the date of my sixty-second birthday. Am I sick? I don’t think so. However, two years ago, I was issued a death sentence from people who can only be called scumbags. My life was put on hold, my career taken from me, given to a friend of a friend, someone I thought was a friend. How could I have been mistaken? I didn’t want to see the greed, entitlement, and nepotism. Will they care when I die? No. Why am I dying? The money is about to run dry, and I can't bear the thought of being homeless. Or having to put my eleven-year-old cat, Hana, down → because I can no longer take care of her. The Simple Math I can no longer afford life. A harsh reality. I receive $460 Canada Pension (monthly) → life is no longer sustainable → I'm on Pension. Think about that. Yet, I'm supposed to be mitigating the losses of the people who deposited me in this reality. I Turn On The News I can only stand watching for less than a minute. A wave of desperate realization washes over me. The news is not for older people. It is far too fucking full of regrets. Every story about the housing market, stock market, travel, and managing finances is no longer for us → we're on Canada Pension. A story flashes about the rising gas prices. A wave of depression washes over me, as I think, will I ever be in, or drive a car again? Yet, while on Canada Pension, I'm supposed to be lessening the suffering of the people who deposited me here. Yes, deposited, because my life has been reduced to withdrawals; until there are no more withdrawals to be made. On The Treadmills at the Fitness Asylum The two people next to me, who happen to be in my demographic, are talking about the trips they are planning. I want to cry. I murder them because my next trip is limited to how far I can walk in a day. A harsh truth. I keep trying. Back On The News Once you're old, the only thing the news is for is to scare the life out of you. The news screams someone is coming for you, trying to scam you; a random stranger is about to attack you, or a food delivery driver is going to run over you on the sidewalk. I don't want to go outside anymore. I can't escape it; the great outdoors will soon be my home. Sounds fucking grand! |Sarcasm Alert|→ I can't give up; I have losses for the people who deposited me here to mitigate. I keep trying. I have a heart episode. The MRI shows I probably will live long enough to move outdoors, another harsh reality. But still, I now have a cardiologist. I don’t think stress is a good thing. I don't enjoy writing this story. Why? Because it's dark. And because I don’t want to burden others with my harsh realities. I prefer to make people smile. At the pandemic's start, I uttered the words ‘freaked out’ and was immediately thrown out with the bathwater. Fifty-nine years old and a lengthy career; gone, with the clock on my demise ticking. To Date Approximately $300,000 in lost income (including a $70,000 stock scam perpetrated by the owner of the company I worked for). And approximately, $1,000 per month in CC interest → because I can’t afford life. I earn $460 per month Canada Pension. Losing $300,000 at sixty-two → there are no words. If you know me, I try to bring joy to people, not pain. I'm respectful, kind, empathetic, and I never fucking quit trying. I never will quit trying. But my reality is, the clock has been ticking, and the hourglass is running out of fucking sand. I will still try to bring smiles to others, but I must admit, I'm being crushed by the weight of greed. Tick. Tick. Fucking tick. I can't breathe. I need to breathe. Stress is swallowing me alongside depression as they walk in lockstep. I get up every day, a lie (I do). I fight sleep. The sandman hides as soon as my head hits the pillow. I wouldn't say I'm worrying; instead, I'm creating, trying to fight my way out of the quicksand. When I rise, I build my website, pitch my writing, and write. And write. And write. And create images to prompt writing. And I write. And I pitch my writing. A rejection comes. It says I'm talented. Another one arrives, telling me I have an important story that must be told. Both messages finish with buts… For every rejection I receive, I pitch more. Am I delusional? Absolutely not. Tick. Tick. Fucking tick. I can't breathe. I'm dying. || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
Anchorman: Head on a swivel
Home Cooking + Heart Doctor
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
9th
Writing Tips
1.
Neglect everything else. It starts with a simple fact: If you’re not making the time to write, no other advice can help you. Which is probably why so many of the writers I talk to seem preoccupied with time-management. “You probably have time to be a halfway decent parent and one other thing,” David Mitchell, the author of Cloud Atlas, told me. That can mean mustering the grit to let other responsibilities languish. As he put it in short: “Neglect everything else.” Many authors need to put blinders on, finding ways to simplify their experience and reduce the number of potential distractions. That might mean consistently keeping a single two-hour window sacred, as Victor Lavalle does, morning time he safeguards against the demands of parenting and full-time teaching. For others, it means finding ways to ward off digital derailment. Mitchell does this by setting his homepage as the most boring thing he can think of: the Apple website. Ultimately, the literary exercise is about finding ways to defend something fragile—the quiet mood in which the imagination flourishes. As Jonathan Franzen put it: “I need to make sure I still have a private self. Because the private self is where my writing comes from.” 2. Beginnings matter. Everyone knows that the opening line is a crucial invitation, something that can make or break a reader’s interest in a book. But far less attention has been paid to the role first lines play for writers, leading them through the work’s dark, uncertain stages like a beacon. “The first line must convince me that it somehow embodies the entire unwritten text,” William Gibson told me, a radical, koan-like conviction that nonetheless seems to be commonplace. Stephen King described spending “weeks and months and even years” working on first sentences, each one an incantation with the power to unlock the finished book. And Michael Chabon said that, once he stumbled on the first sentence of Wonder Boys, the rest of the novel was almost like taking dictation. “The seed of the novel—who would tell the story and what it would be about—was in that first sentence, and it just arrived,” he said. 3. Follow the headlights. It doesn’t matter if you’re the kind of writer who plans meticulously: Give yourself some leeway in the early drafts. Throw out all your plans and assumptions, and make room to surprise yourself. Andre Dubus calls this following the headlights: it’s like driving a car down a dark, unfamiliar road, simply describing as things become visible under the beam. “What’s on the side of the road?” he asked. “What’s the weather? What are the sounds? If I capture the experience all along the way, the structure starts to reveal itself. My guiding force and principle for shaping the story is just to follow the headlights—that’s how the architecture is revealed.” Dozens of writers have told me some version of the same story. “The writing I tend to think of as ‘good’ is good because it’s mysterious,” Aimee Bender said. “It tends to happen when I get out of the way—when I let go a little bit, I surprise myself.” 4. Sound it out. Of course, all this is easier said than done. In the absence of a concrete plan, how to know when you’re headed in the right direction? For many writers I’ve spoken with, the answer seems to lie in the sound of the words. “Plot can be overrated. What I strive for more is rhythm,” the late Jim Harrison said. “It’s like taking dictation, when you’re really attuned to the rhythm of that voice.” George Saunders described a similar process, explaining that sound shows him where the energy is, revealing which aspects of the story are important, which lines to follow. It can help with revision, too. Many drafts in, when he can no longer see the work with fresh eyes, Jesse Ball told me that he turns to his ears. “Sound gives us clues about what is necessary and real,” he said. “When you read [your work] aloud, there are parts you might skip over—you find yourself not wanting to speak them. Those are the weak parts. It’s hard to find them otherwise, just reading along.” 5. It’s supposed to be difficult. One of the things that’s surprised me most is how much the process—even for best-selling and critically acclaimed writers—never seems to get any easier. Khaled Hosseini’s piece in Light the Dark is one especially poignant testament to this: material success doesn’t blunt the pain an author feels when the words just come up short. But writers seem to be masters of deflecting existential despair, the malaise that takes hold in the middle of a taxing enterprise. I’ve covered this in more detail in an essay for The Atlantic, so one example in particular will suffice here: Elizabeth Gilbert’s concept of “stubborn gladness,” a term she borrows from the poet Jack Gilbert. It’s a promise to take things in stride, to remain cheerfully engaged no matter how difficult things get. “My path as a writer became much more smooth,” she said, “when I learned, when things aren’t going well, to regard my struggles as curious, not tragic.” 6. Keep a totem. Charles Dickens famously wrote with a series of porcelain figurines arranged across his desk, characters that kept him company as he toiled under punishing deadlines. It’s not as strange as it sounds: Many of the writers I talk to keep a totem—an object of special significance, whether it’s a small trinket or printed slogan—nearby as they work, something that serves as a source of inspiration or a barrier against despair. Jane Smiley described pasting the phrase “Nobody asked you to write that novel” above her desk, an empowering reminder that creative hardships are voluntarily chosen. Mohsin Hamid keeps a Murakami passage taped to his printer—lines that link creativity and physical exercise, ones that encouraged him to build six-mile walks into his daily writing regimen. And Russell Banks keeps part of an old gravestone in his office, inscribed with the epitaph “Remember Death.” There’s nothing more inspiring than the awareness that time is short, and that the ultimate deadline is soon approaching. 7. Find the joy. Ultimately, the writers I speak to seem committed to finding the joy within their work, even if that means looking in the most unexpected places. “One of the things that aids me, and which he helped teach me, is this: fundamentally, I do not believe in despair as a real aspect of the human condition,” says Ayana Mathis. “There is great confusion, there is great pain, there is suffering, all of those things, yes. But despair? I don’t believe in despair, and I don’t write from despair. I write from difficulty, absolutely. I write about people who are in great pain, who are desperate and sometimes even miserable. But despair, to me, means an absolute absence of hope. It is a nothing. There is always hope for betterment.” But it’s not just leaving room for hope and levity on the page. It’s about retaining one’s own capacity to find joy within the process, making sure the work’s difficulty never fully squeezes out delight. “The joy of being an author is the joy of feeling I can do anything,” says Neil Gaiman in Light the Dark. “There are no rules. Only: can you do this with confidence? Can you do it with aplomb? Can you do it with style? Can you do it with joy?”. Find the joy, and when you do, there are no rules.
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 4. The Law
I'm back. I sent out three proposals. A book arrives in the mail. One book. Two books. Three books. Ten books. Umpteen books. Major publishers send me books because they have deemed me an Influencer + they love my thoughts on books, as do the authors of the books I share my thoughts on. I can't eat the books. I'm dying. When I speak, I sound successful. But still, two years after being canned, all the money is gone. I'm fucking turning destitute. I go for a walk. My mind races. I snap photos. A friend of mine is approaching. I look the other way because I feel embarrassed, unwanted, and like a failure. I'm not a failure. Steve sees me; he's happy to see me. We hug. Our conversation is pleasant. I tell him it's been twenty-seven months since I was canned. He asks if I'm working. I tell him every day, harder than ever, writing, creating, and sending out proposals. He tells me London Drugs is hiring. I suggest, if I don't go for it now, by pursuing my creative future, one hundred percent → well, if not now, fucking when? If I don’t pursue my passions (at sixty-two); what’s the point of living? Steve nods in agreement. He realizes his words hurt me. My heart sinks. I'm dying. I'm fucking broke. I keep trying. I spread butter on the pages of a book sent to me. Broken Glasses My original mother died on December 12, 1987. (long story) An ex-flatmate of mine died on December 12, 2019. My last remaining sister, who wasn't really a sister, unless she really was my sister, died on December 12, 2021. I'm dying now. On the day my sister, who wasn't… died, I met with friends for a few hours. Somewhere on my way home, I lost my prescription glasses. Devastating. That's okay; I had a backup pair, only suitable for reading. If I wore them every day, stuff like walking → the world turned into a drinking and driving advertisement → so, I chose to live life while not reading, in low definition. It fucking sucked. Buy some glasses. The money is running dry. So, I can't justify it. One. Two. Three. Umpteen Books Arrive. It's now April 2022. I've been walking around in a foggy depression for five months. On this day, I escape my home after sending out proposals, to go read. I forgot my glasses. That's okay. I bite the bullet; I buy a pair of reading glasses ($17). The great thing is, I wear them daily. I could see again! The world became brighter. I'm dying. June 1, 2022. I am meeting with a friend. While chatting, I pull off my glasses. I hear a snap. The arm cracked. Shit. I wanted to fucking cry. I have glue at home. Maybe I can fix them? I pick up the glasses, and the left arm breaks off. Tears start scratching my eyes. I feel sick. I can't afford to see. I'm scared. Eat? See? Breathe? My stomach turns. I must-see. I now understand why people are holding glasses together with tape. When they do, they're judged poorly. And they’re fucking poor. My friend says can't you get new prescription glasses? I consider sniffing the glue. Not to worry, I will never give up. I'm smart. I'm turning fucking sixty-two in July. I'm dying. I can't catch my breath. I bought the cheap reading glasses; I couldn't fucking afford. If I give up writing, I'm already dead. That's what London Drugs is, death. I'm not qualified to work there. Steve’s words lacked context. A fifteen-year career gone; severance never paid. Paraphrased from a book I’m reading (sent from a publisher) I'm an Influencer. It’s like being a sixty-two-year-old intern. In the book, a lawyer decides to chase her dreams instead of working as a lawyer for a large firm. She wants to make a difference. She says she doesn't care if her client is being sued by a former employee for wrongful termination because… because “our” client is a scumbag. She continued to say that they were going to court because her client refused to settle (strategizing to destroy the employee financially), even though the client could easily pay the amount the ex-employee is justified in asking for. Does the book mirror my life? I've been called by a ‘legal hitman’ → a failed writer who has no business chasing my dreams. I'm fucking turning sixty-two. The ‘hitman’ said I should have been pursuing a career in the industry; I was just tossed out from, with the bathwater (fired from): to mitigate the losses of those who tossed me out. During a pandemic. As I am about to hit sixty-two. After a heart MRI. As I'm receiving $460 per month on Canada Pension. Yes, PENSION. Imagine Interviewer: Why did you leave your last job? Me: I can't talk about it. Interviewer: Why didn't they find you valuable enough to keep? How are your great grandkids? Me: Thanks for allowing me to waste your time. I’m going to go repeatedly smash my head into a wall. I will let myself out. I never felt old before, but now I do. A fact solidified when I called my cable provider, and first, the technician on the line wouldn't believe I was a man because my name is Lindsay. And then, she asked if there was someone younger in my home, she could talk to about my connection issues. Seriously. I can't breathe. I'm dying. I believed if you always did your best, were loyal, and worked hard, it would count for something. It didn't. The place where I was employed did not care when five people in my life died (including my mother). (long story). Not a single day off. They didn't care when I had a fucking catastrophic stroke. Not a single day off. Nor was it suggested. They, without question, didn’t care about me when they got rid of me, without paying me out, using the pandemic as shade. I turned sixty. I turned sixty-one. I’m turning sixty-two soon. Depression is assaulting me. I keep trying. And writing. And pitching. And reading. And desperately trying to breathe. I can't eat tomorrow because I chose to see. Every asshole out there who believes homeless people aren't trying → fuck off. Food? Die? London Drugs? I live in a world where COVID is far more compassionate than the people I used to work for. || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
A Fresh Picture Daily
Legally Blonde - endorphins
Ephemeral Art + The Stairs (Original LW Art)
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
10th
The Stairs
The Stairs is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. 
The Non-Linear Path of A Waking Nightmare
Each of us has monsters lurking inside us. 4. The Law
Bubble Bath I must believe everything will fall into place. I suffer from debilitating insomnia and depression. I don't anguish over my efforts. They are undeniable. I work at my craft at least twelve hours a day. Failed writer. No business chasing your dreams. Trying to thread a needle at sixty-two…the thread is thick; the eye is shrinking. I will keep trying. Throw in broken glasses. I will keep trying. I keep trying. I Draw a Bath When I was a little boy, maybe six, a year after escaping (?) the clutches of a home where unfit mothers were sent to birth illegitimate children. By this time, I've known the people I am being cared for by for about one year. My first memory is of my three brothers (?) chanting, “Lindsay, you're not one of us,” → when I was five. A story for another time. Anyway, I loved bath time. We were a struggling family, so we didn't have the luxury of a bubble bath. My baths were usually just tepid, hard water, without soap. I still loved it. One day, mum bought three bars of Zest. Bath Time. I hopped in before the tub filled. I grabbed a bar of Zest, and, with my right hand, started rubbing it frantically on the bottom of the tub. A soapy skin floated to the surface. When I got the Zest worn down, I held it under the tap. If I was lucky, a few bubbles formed. I was blissful. I loved my baths. Except for the time, one of my brothers (?) threw our cat into the tub with me. At least that wasn't as bad as when the same brother encouraged me to stick my dinner knife into the wall outlet. I hop into my bath. The water is steamy. I pour a heaping helping of bubble bath into the water. The tub fills with glorious bubbles. I'm in heaven. New glasses. Trying. Trying. Trying. For a moment, I feel at ease. Everything will work out. I was a model employee. Karma will take care of me. My calm ends. Tears roll down my cheeks. Despite being birthed illegitimate, I've survived. I worked hard. I never gave up. I've earned having luxurious bubble baths. I think that's the reason for the heaping helpings. I continue to cry. I'm turning sixty-two, soaking in a bubble bath, with the tears pouring from my eyes. And yet, the SCUM floated to the top, SCUM that threw me out with the bathwater. Why am I crying? Because I never quit trying. I can't afford the cheap glasses I bought. Two years and my life savings have run dry. Life on the street will be a death sentence for me and for my eleven-year-old cat, and my relationship. The tears won't stop. I did nothing wrong. The SCUM rises to the top. If I lose everything, they think they will have won. What does it say about a company when their most senior employee ends up homeless? I'm not the only person who’s been deposited in a soap-less tub. I will never give up. I have written over 240 ‘THOUGHTS ON BOOKS’ because I’m a respected Influencer. I butter another book. Who am I kidding? I can’t afford butter. Time of Death Jesus, that’s harsh. Thank you for fighting for me. Are you okay? No. Can I give you a hug? Thank you. I call to the stand, Lindsay. Which one of us? The older, slimmer one. Fuck off. Do you swear to tell the truth, blah, blah, blah? Yes. Take your time. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, I just want to be treated respectfully and be given what I’m deserved. No further questions. Cross-Examination Can you tell the court what your duties at the company were? One. Two. Three. Four. Jaxon called me to go to a client’s site because there had been an alleged sexual assault by one of our employees. He wanted me to handle it because he felt I had life experience and his other managers, who did far less than me, were too immature to handle it. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Jaxon and Soddy tasked me with writing our safety manual and attending safety meetings. Eleven. Twelve. Jaxon and Soddy had me travel with clients to sporting events in other cities, and to Edmonton to help with that branch’s day-to-day operations. Fourteen. Fifteen... and they even had me plan the company Christmas parties. Were you any good at your job? I was outstanding. Fifteen years, I never missed a day, was never late, and did everything I ever asked of myself. In fifteen years, I never even had a performance review. I was a champion. The face of the company. They claim you only made sales. You claim to be a lawyer. Order Sorry, your honour, Geez, my business card even says Supervisor. You seem to have trust issues; can you expand on that? Did you just crack that window open? Trust issues. Fifteen years, doing more than the other managers, Jaxon wouldn’t put me on the payroll for the first six. I pressed him. He said to pay me what I’m worth, he’d have to give me a substantial raise. I told him to do it. He replied, “If you want a raise, why don’t you go on welfare?” That same year at the company Christmas party, he asked me about a guy who used to work for the company. The guy he asked about is gay. I’m not friends with the guy. When I told Jaxon, he said, “I thought you guys were on the same team.” As for Lyler, in 10 years of eating together every Monday, he never once looked me in the eye. And besides, he asked me repeatedly what I thought my future with the company should be. As for Soddy… he’s nothing more than a sycophant. Why didn’t you get a job at Footlocker? Why didn’t you find a job in the same industry they fired you from? Let’s see, the pandemic, I’m getting older, and they blocked me from working in the industry. That sounds like an excuse. Your firm, ordered by my ex-employer to block me; you fucking know that. You need to mitigate their losses by searching for employment. I’m 62 now, and there are no careers for me; remember you blocked me, and besides, I’m a writer; I’m pitching 18 manuscripts right now, and I have sent out 100s of proposals. Yay. Go me go. Order. I demand order in the court I need to cheer for myself, future me, your Honour. He’s battling Depression. I think him—me—pitching 18 manuscripts while aging and struggling with the monsters over there, and the beast that is Depression is a testament to who I am—going to be—and always have been. I’ve, he has sent out over 400 proposals. Wow. Fucking failed. They’re faces are failed. Wow! Thanks, judge. Which one? Me, 62-year-old me. And him because he, too, is me. The wheels of the bus go round and round. They sure do, but justice moves at a fucking snail’s pace. Aren’t you nothing more than a failed writer who has no business chasing his dreams? Did you just tell a 62-year-old to give up? Sure did. Are you even a lawyer? I ask the questions here. No further questions. I’m sorry for what we are putting you through. Did their lawyer just apologize to 62-year-old me? Sure did. Fucking monsters. 62-year-old me, I watched the monsters. They were shifting in their seats the whole time you were on the stand, and they stared at me, trying to intimidate me. They can’t scare me. And then, the more you talked, the more their scaley skin peeled away, revealing who they really are, greedy cowards. I know it must suck to seek the approval of your father, who you will never become. Daddy issues. Daddy issues. 62-year-old me, in the last 1,000 days, did we find out who our father is? No, but we found out we are 48% Norwegian, and we found a first cousin. So, we might find out who our father is for the third time. The first one? Arghh… My Lawyer I call you three monsters to the stand. Do you swear to tell… Why are the three of you laughing? What happened? Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Lie. Huh, no further questions. Don’t you mean: Thanks? I don’t want to lie. Defence, would you like to cross? No. Quit growling; you’re not scary when you are out of your costumes. Order I have my verdict. I find the three monsters to be guilty of being greedy fuckers. I order them to pay three years’ salary plus damages for what you’ve done to these two men, man. The older one may be slimmer, but I can feel the pain emanating from his soul. But… Shut it, Monsters. My verdict is my verdict; you must pay. The courtroom is quaking. Thousands of monsters are clawing at the outer walls. They can’t enter; it’s a court rule; however, nobody has made it home after leaving. Once outside, the monsters ripped to shred every plaintiff while they basked in their moment of victory. Not today. As the gavel came down, A vapour filled the room and POOF, Jason was before us. Jason? 59-year-old me, you know Jason? I’ve been up here for a while. 62-year-old you, toss me the backpack. Jason slipped his ghoulish hands inside the pack, pulled out a baseball bat, and began violently bludgeoning the three monsters. Smash. Smash. Smash. Smash. Four thousand smashes. Four thousand-one, an extra one for the coward… Four thousand-three. But the bludgeoning wasn’t to kill. Instead, it covered the monsters in a beacon—that would lead everyone they ever exploited and killed through greed, and their families, to them, for them to get revenge. This beacon soared into the universe, calling the exploited and their loved ones to the monster’s home, waiting for the monsters to return so that they could inflict suffering and pain far worse than death itself. Did you do that, Jason? Yeah, I’ve had some time to practice curses. Lindsay, you need to run. What about the monsters through the door? 59-year-old me, what are you doing? I’m entering you; my time here is done. A chill rushes through 62-year-old me. Follow me, Lindsay, there’s a back door; we must go now; now that the case is resolved, it won’t be long until the monsters break in. Run. Lindsay. Run. Jason opened a back portal A dense fog filled the realm. A plank stretched downward for about 100 yards. Go. Lindsay. Go. Thank you, Jason. I owe you, farewell for now, my friend. With every step I took, the plank narrowed. A few steps ahead of me, two massive sanders were whisking back and forth along the sides of the plank, shaving it away. In the first twenty yards, the plank had narrowed from five feet wide to four; At forty yards: three; At 60 yards: two; At 80 yards: one… My foot slipped off, and a fiery abyss with an infinite number of arms reached upward, trying to grab hold of me and pull me into the unknown. I miraculously regained my balance. 90 yards, and the plank disappeared before I sprang into the air, clutching the wall on the other side. The arms of five monsters latched onto my ankles. I kicked and kicked and kicked frantically, crushing the faces of the monsters, and causing them to fall away, shrieking to their deaths. I pulled myself upward. I cried. I lay on his stomach, exasperated, backpack in hand. I rolled over and rubbed my eyes. When I opened them and the phosphenes floating before me finally dissipated, I looked up and, to my dismay, uttered → Tim K, John G, Bern P, Scott F… fuck. || More to come...
I want to make a difference in this world!
Fresh Art
Borat's dead wife.
The Stairs + A Murder of Crows (Original LW Art)
books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
| |||||||||||||||||||
