What I'm Not

I'm not a writer dying to be published. I already am. I am self-published and proud of it. Nobody forced me into it and I knew it would not be quick and simple. My biggest fear was never having anything read that I had written. I wanted my voice out there so I put it out there. I'm never going to apologize for that. I'm not a writer who is longing to be published to the esteemed New Yorker. I'm not a writer who feels that exclusivity is a bench mark and that rejection is a totem of climbing success. I'm not a writer concerned about how many degrees you have. You want to impress me? Turn a blank page into something creative.
That will impress me. 

I'm not a writer who toils for years on the perfect modern american novel. I used to think that was what a writer was supposed to be all about. I was highly misinformed. I'm not a writer who will tell you to quit or that there are too many books out there in the ether. I've read amazing stories and have been wowed in many unique ways a thousand times over. Sure there are a lot of books out there. But yours is not out there yet and it needs to be. I'm not a writer who will settle for the notoriety of having written something. I want to support my family writing interesting stories to the amusement of the masses. That's what I'm all about. And I happen to want to write a lot. 

I'm not a writer who will write the same predictable story again and again. I am always striving to write something different; to venture further away from my comfort zone. in doing this I've discovered that approaching each story with a different eye gives the material that much more vibrancy and life. Never be comfortable. Always be willing to change and try something new.

I'm not a writer who believes that you only have one good story in you. Count up all the times you've played the 'What If?' game in your head. I bet it was more than one time. I'm not a writer who will buy reviews, no matter how tempting that might be. You wanna review something of mine? Fine with me. If its a five star review, that will put a smile on my face for a while but it will do nothing for me in the long run. If its a 3 to 1 star review filled with constructive feedback I may brood over it for weeks but in the end I will dust myself off and try to win you back with the next title. I'm not a writer who will offer you runaround advice on how to write. I'm gonna give you exactly what I learned and when I learned it and tell you straight out that you might find a different formula but so long as words get on the page, you've done something right. I'm not a writer who will slow down and take it easy. People have been telling me to take it easy my whole life. If I wanna fill up my tank and take a journey through a landscape of words leaving behind a lengthy back-list of written works in my wake then who are you to tell me to slow down? 

I'm not a writer who will compromise on story. If a story is engaging and rips an emotion from you, then that story has become a part of you and I believe that someone else needs to experience that same visceral feeling. I'm not a writer who believes this is art. This is work. A lot of work. And you know what comes after all that hard work? An income. If you've published hundreds of short stories to countless magazines and in the end you are dirt poor, you need to start selling your stories on the streets. Maybe then, through stomping those streets, you'll see how much more profitable and rewarding it is to talk directly to readers about your stories. I'm not a writer who supports these "Get Rich Quick On Kindle Scheme" ebooks. They are taking advantage of you and are simply driving up their sales on the backs of desperate people. I am not a writer who will ever write a How-To Book on writing. A memoir of writing, perhaps that's in the cards. But how can I possibly tell you how to write a book when I myself am constantly learning new things?

I am not a writer easily dismayed by dwindling sales or lackluster feedback. You ignore me, I'm just going to keep showing up. I'm not a writer who is going to charm you. At the end of the day, if you are driven to read something of mine and want to talk about it or the act of writing itself, then you have my full undivided attention. I'm not a great writer. I would say I'm a competent one. I've weaved enough story ideas that when I explain them to people, they scoot forward and are nearing the edge of their seats. That's why I do this; for the thrill of connecting with readers.

I am not a lot of things. What I am is a writer with heart. And if you've just read this and feel inspired to start writing yourself, then I bet that you have some heart too.

Walk Like An Addiction

For the past 13 years, I have been chasing the dragon. It’s a hard drug. One that many people try to gain but some fizzle out with less than nothing to show for it. I began at the age of 14. A young age. I was unsure and always stumbling. I charged forward, trying to chase some semblance of an existence where I could cling to my addiction while still maintaining a healthy, sane life.

          In the beginning I tried jokes. I aspired to be a comedian, learning the greats…also a bit of the weird icons of my youth. Eddie Murphy, Andy Kaufman, Richard Pryor. I studied all of them. While I lacked the physicality of Jim Carrey, I tried blunt force trauma with my humor. A dash of deadpan, a bit of bravery and I was on my way. I even went as far as perfecting the Eddie Murphy laugh and the simple action of joke and punch line. My segments were normally done in two acts.

          No problem, I told myself, I’d get discovered eventually.

          I was basing this pipe dream on one twenty minute act I had done at a talent show when I was eleven or twelve years old. That’s when I was first introduced to the drug.

          I stumbled, naturally, twice, taking the audience of about fifty or so by surprise by coming out with it and saying, “Oh boy…am I nervous.”

          My quips were met with respectable chuckles but what really floored them was my ending joke. No, I did not wow them with my puppet act which only lasted five minutes or my quick-thinking distraction of pointing my parents out in the audience. But what really let the dam burst wide open was when I said, somewhat abruptly, wiping the sweat from my forehead, regretting wearing a small suit with slicked back hair, “Man, how many times am I gonna be nervous already? Usually they have a glass of water up here.”

          That’s when it hit them.

          It started like a wave.

       One kid, my brother’s friend, fell out of his chair, clutching his stomach with laughter. My father, by the end of taping remarked, clear as day into the microphone of the camera, “I almost pissed my pants.”

         But even after, the drug would not do it for me anymore. I didn’t let anyone know I was taking it.

        Later on in life, I turned, while intoxicated on the drug, to a new way to unleash my eccentricities on an audience. I turned to magic. Even then I was unsure of myself, feeling darkness in the pit of my stomach whenever I tried to abuse the drug.

         One night I foolishly did a practice run of a magic act for my sister which I would perform at someone’s birthday party. Don’t ask me whose house. I have long forgotten that. You would too. I started this sentence with foolishly because anyone would be considered a damn fool for revealing anything to their sister. The sibling rivalry we endured over the years reached epic proportions. But no match was won so brutally on such a bitter night then when my sister, in the middle of a group of kids nearing fifteen in all, loudly proclaimed that the act was flawed. I quivered in my top hat, was shaking with uncertainty as I started my program.

          With each trick she gleefully pointed out all the secrets of my act. I’m talking every…damn...one.

          “The cards are marked!” she cried. “The tube has a mirror, the plates are an optical illusion, there’s a hole in the back of the deck, a string is attached, etc.”

          And on and on it went.

          I was down to the last two tricks in my bag but, in a fever of hate, packed up my briefcase and foldout table and stormed out. I circled the block, dragging the table with me. It made a horrible scrapping sound on the road. It echoed my distaste for such a mean trick. I thought I would get the drug that night, but it couldn’t be found. I had misplaced it.

          As a film director, I carried this burden. I guess I was well in line with everyone else because at that time, in my teens, all the would-be artists were taking drugs.

        Then, like most of my phases, I fell out of it. The drug was there, pedaling around inside my head, but there was still a void.

         It was the month of being a sophomore that I was struck with four ideas. If I remember correctly, these four ideas said something to me in the computer lab on the third floor of my high school that day. They said that they could not be filmed. Sure, they could, but with my budget, a film would not do them justice.

          So I wrote.

          I wrote and set the four ideas aside.

          I wrote a list of more ideas.

          I began writing a novel.

          I began showing people the first twenty pages.

       Now I knew the name of the drug I had been chasing all these years; Awe. I wanted to shock, entrance, hypnotize, command, terrify and juggle with people’s imagination. It was the drug of Storytelling. It was a drug so sweet when you get a taste, that you always go back for more.

        Yes, I have seventy or so ideas waiting to be written, but something tells me, when I’m in my seventies, I will well have surpassed that number in stories. What I’m trying to tell you, friends, is that Storytelling is a very powerful drug. One which I hope to never recover from. For I am happily hooked on it.