Let me tell a story about caring for and feeding your writing. 

"Wanting It" is one of my favorite stories to date. Like Ramsey Campbell, what keeps me going is the idea that I haven't yet written my best story, but "Wanting It" makes me a proud papa. I'm working with a student who struggles with writing because he wants it to be "perfect" the first time. It never is.

"Wanting It" began life as a feeling more than an idea. I wrote it during spring, 2010--several hundred thousand words and more than three years after beginning my writing journey. My heart ached. I was missing something, but I couldn't put my hands around "what" was missing. "Wanting It" began with longing, and there were tears when I wrote the story. It's biographical without telling details from my life--other than the protagonist's first name. Thanks, Tim O'Brien, for that trick.

I edited and polished and sent the story to Ken Wood at Shock Totem on April 26, 2010. I'd come to a place in my writing where I knew stories needed to start at the top no matter the odds. I found a rewrite request in my inbox on June 17. I read Ken's email several times. I looked at my story. I tried to find the "confident writer" he described hearing in the last few pages. I did what I could to tighten the story, had three friends read it and provide feedback, and sent it back.

The good people at Shock Totem liked it, but liked parts of my first version better. Ken and I began a back and forth discussion about what to change, where to change, how much or how little to change, keep, crop, blend... We exchanged several messages about what to call a guy's butt--not because we didn't know, but what would the narrator say? Ass? Rump? Buttocks? Yes, we had that conversation.

After months of writes and re-writes, Shock Totem #3 came out with "Wanting It" in the line up.

But "Wanting It"'s story wasn't over. It still isn't. The story garnered some nice reviews, including this one from Joshua Jabcuga (Bookgasm):

"I was genuinely moved by Polson’s entry, one about nostalgia and memories, and as some of us know, these ghosts of what-was or what-can-never-be-again can create the most haunting experiences of our lives, the kind that no amount of beer can drown, no pill can numb, and the type where no amount of distance or time will help us escape from it... horror at its finest."

Horror at its finest? Thanks, Joshua. Thanks Ken and the Shock Totem crew. "Wanting It" went on to land an honorable mention in Ellen Datlow's Best Horror of the Year volume 4 (my name was even mentioned in the year in review--this small town kid is humbled). Yes, hundreds of stories receive honorable mentions each year, but the four I've garnered mean so much to me. They're my own little black ribbons.

So what do I tell this student?

Keep writing. Nothing is ever finished. Ever.

(And if you've never read a page of Shock Totem, start now.)

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This really is a bread recipe, not some hack or spam post. Enough folks have asked for this recipe, I thought I'd share--especially now, during the cold winter holiday season when the smell of baking bread is the only thing that keeps me going some days. This is my favorite yeast bread (maybe my favorite thing to bake, hands down).

Grandma Joy's Refrigerator Roll Dough

Start with:
1/2 cup warm water
1 package yeast (I always use rapid rise)
1 tablespoon white sugar

Stir yeast and sugar in the water to dissolve. Let this react for about 5-10 minutes until the yeast foams. While you are waiting...

Combine:

2/3 cup white sugar
2/3 cup melted and cooled butter (or margarine; I prefer butter)
2 cups warm water
1 teaspoon salt
2 eggs

Add the yeast mixture. Then mix in 6-8 cups of flour. You want to use a majority of white flour because whole wheat flour will not rise the same as white flour. I usually use 8 full cups with 7 being white flour and one whole wheat for good measure. I always use unbleached/enriched flour.

Knead for 5-7 minutes until smooth and elastic. Kneading can be a real cardiovascular workout. Here's some good technique to try:

Let the dough rise for about an hour in a lightly floured bowl. Make sure to cover with plastic wrap and a towel. When doubled, punch down and divide into two lumps. I always place them in lightly floured gallon freezer bags and send to the refrigerator. When you are ready to use the dough, you can make all sorts of goodies--from dinner rolls to donuts. One of my favorites, of course, is the good old fashioned cinnamon roll. Shape, cut, etc., and let rise for a while (the longer you wait, the more puffy/air-filled the dough will become, but you run the risk of it falling or drying out). Bake for 15-20 minutes in a preheated 350 degree oven. If you like soft crust, brush with butter before removing from your pan to cool on a rack.

And just how does one roll out cinnamon rolls?


Much better than that crap from a can or impotent frozen rolls. Just my humble opinion. Enjoy!

*I didn't make the videos, but I did make this:

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Remember when Garth Brooks pulled that stupid Chris Gaines stunt?

If you don't, don't worry. In the days of my youth, when I was trying like hell to figure out what it means to be a man, Garth Brooks dominated popular music. I was never a fan, but no high school dance was complete without "Low Places" being played. This is a snapshot of a moment in time, part of my generation, and part of something I'm not sure future generations will have the chance to experience.

Insomnia and I have been wrestling a bit of late, and last night, while watching one of the more horrid (and not in a good way) episodes of Hammer House of Horror on DVD, I started thinking about the fleeting nature of fame in the 21st century. Andy Warhol is my prophet.

Garth Brooks had a solid decade of serious, multi-million-selling fame. Me? Never a fan, but plenty of people loved the guy. He became so famous he could have a bizarro out-of-body experience and pretend to be someone else (Chris Gaines) and the dude still sold billions of albums and won a shit-ton of awards.

This isn't all about Brooks. This is about now, the 21st century, and the lightning strike of fame. Fame is nothing of which I want a part. I do not write for fame, I do not tell stories to become famous, I have no desire to attach "best-seller" to anything I do. I am a writer, I am a story-teller, and I do like to create the best I can.

But fame? Never heard of it. And, like the old grey mare, she ain't what she used to be--at least I suspect she ain't--er, isn't. Remember the guy who wrote the Pride and Prejudice and Zombies mash-up? I don't. But hey... I could Google him*. How about the band which had that song which was popular a year ago? No idea who we're talking about.

Maybe fame has always bounced around, leaving us only with the big names which last for time immemorial. Maybe fame has always worked this way. Maybe I'm just a crabby, sleep-deprived, middle-aged hack. Maybe.

But fame does distort reality. Fame makes a guy like Garth Brooks, king of the popular music world (in the U.S. at least) in the 1990s, think Chris Gaines was a good idea.

I pray I'm never famous.

*Okay, so I looked him up. I guess he wrote the screenplay to the recent Dark Shadows movie. That sucked, too.

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Friday was one of those strange days in which two stories of mine were made available on the same day after months of nothing. If you missed "13 Pieces, Also the Dark," don't be surprised. I pimped "Digging Deep" with more gusto because it was the featured story at Every Day Fiction.

Today, I want to tell you about "13 Pieces, Also the Dark" which is available to read as a free PDF download from Black Frost Media. Please read it--it costs you nothing more than a few minutes of your time, and I am forever grateful for each reader.

And now, the obligatory spoiler alert...

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The title of this piece, I'm somewhat ashamed to admit, is an un-abashed knock-off of Kij Johnson's "26 Monkeys, Also the Abyss". Please know the story, other than an experiment in style and the titular hack, has nothing to do with Johnson's. I like to experiment, and that's how this piece started.

The narrator is a voyeur, at first describing the slow death of his neighbor and the comings and goings of said neighbor's children. If any of you dear readers remember Gary Sump, you'll note this isn't the first time I've written from the POV of a voyeuristic narrator. As the story progresses, however, the reader learns the narrator's past and what he suspects happened in the house across the street.

As a guidance counselor (and English teacher when I wrote "13 Pieces, Also the Dark"), I see into the lives of my students--tiny little peeks--and construct their realities from these fragments. Maybe that's what bubbled to the surface with this story; the "pieces" are the bits from which one can fashion a whole life story.

Of course, in my tale, the pieces are also, quite literaly, the parts of the dying man our narrator helps carry away in the end.

I wrote this one before my self-imposed hiatus, and upon re-reading it a year+ later, still felt a good amount of discomfort. More maybe than "a good amount". And that, dear readers, is what indicates, to me, a fine story.

Please give "13 Pieces, Also the Dark" a read if you have the chance. I'd love to hear what you think.

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"Digging Deep" is up at Every Day Fiction today. I think they're switching servers tomorrow, so it's only appropriate the last story before blackout is about death. Sort of.

Let me tell you about "Digging Deep". 

Here be spoilers.

Read the story first, if you would.


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I wrote "Digging Deep" shortly before Aimee died and submitted it one time before my hiatus and return to writing. It is a story about death as I mentioned above, but more. It is a horror story, but not a Horror story. "Digging Deep" talks about Truth like I hope most of my work does. Although I've capitalized it, this Truth is human-truth, not God-truth. I'll leave that for the theologians.

I want readers to understand what moves the narrator. This is a story of big revelation rather than big events. It's not about what happened to the mummified remains the narrator helps to exhume or the horrors which might lurk on the English countryside near his home. No, it's about real horror--horror any of us can feel.

On one level, there's the horror of losing a child (or any loved one). You see, the narrator feels the connection between his daughter, Ellen, and the awful things they dig from under the standing stones. The braided hair sets him off.  My grandmother buried both of her children--my Aunt Norma Jean (who I never met because she died at 21, decades before my birth) and my father (brain cancer shortened his life). I look at my own kids, those with whom I share genes and my stepchildren, and can't imagine--don't want to imagine--such terrible ends for them. I fiercely love Kim, and the thought of anything, anything happening to her abhors me. Anyone who loves so fiercely can feel the inevitable pang of death. So yes, death stalks the narrator as it does all of us.

But that, dear readers, is only a bit of the story--even for a tale just shy of 1,000 words, there's more.

"Digging Deep" is also about the horror which comes when people become little more than objects. The mummified bodies, once living, breathing people (again, the braids), are now objects for the university men. Waxy broadens the theme when he talks about the barmaid, saying, "Wouldn't mind a roll with that one," making her little more than a sexual object. For the poor narrator, Ellen becomes a thing--both an object for the "university men" and, by extension, a sexual object for men like Waxy--as he connects the dots between the three. In the end, especially in the end, death leaves each of us nothing more than objects.

Yes, that latter bit is implied. It's what the story means to me, now, nearly two years after originally writing it. But the truth--and the truth of all fiction--is that any reader's reality is just as valid as mine.

I've written the story and now it's time to share.

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So I'm thinking about starting a publication...

I've always been a "pay it forward" guy. As a writer, where would I be without publications to which I submit my work? Where would I be without awesome editors who took the time to glance at my stuff, sometimes read it, and in some rare instances publish that work?

With all this in mind, I'm considering another publication. This is all groundwork and nothing is chiseled into a Lovecraftian stone monolith at the bottom of the ocean. If you have a few moments, please take my survey and feel free to share it with other writers. 

Publish This! (a survey for writers)

I'll collect surveys for the next month and share the results on the other side. Rumor has it flying monkeys might bring you a cookie.

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Black Ribbon: (noun) an award for stories which inspire me and make me say "Damn, I wish I had written that."

H.P. Lovecraft is better known for Cthulhu and cosmic horror, but my favorite tale of his "The Rat in the Walls". Yes, it begins with his trademark penchant for just a little too much exposition, but I think it works here. The ending--despite being told in the 1st person--chilled me the first time I read it. I literally shuddered and then lost myself in awe of an author being able to conjure that chill with words.

On 16 July 1923, I moved into Exham Priory after the last workman had finished his labours. The restoration had been a stupendous task, for little had remained of the deserted pile but a shell-like ruin; yet because it had been the seat of my ancestors, I let no expense deter me. The place had not been inhabited since the reign of James the First, when a tragedy of intensely hideous, though largely unexplained, nature had struck down the master, five of his children, and several servants; and driven forth under a cloud of suspicion and terror the third son, my lineal progenitor and the only survivor of the abhorred line...

"The Rats in the Walls" is readily available to read online and a free audio version can be found at Voices in the Dark.

"The Rats in the Walls" read by Sean Puckett at Voices in the Dark (mp3)

"The Rats in the Walls" by H.P. Lovecraft text at DagonBytes (online reading)

"The Rats in the Walls" by H.P. Lovecraft PDF

There are more Black Ribbons to come. What do I need to read next?

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Once upon a different life of mine, while I was a student in Principles of Learning (Pscy 475) way (WAAAAAY) back in my days as an undergrad at Kansas State University, the professor discussed motivation with this simple anecdote:

A young girl, proficient at cello, loved to play her instrument. She practiced all the time. Her parents, seeing this as an opportunity for reward, praised their daughter and started paying her for practice time.

She lost her love and stopped playing.

No, this isn't yet another blog post in a sea of blog posts on the Interweb^TM about the evils of money. Money is not evil. This is simply a discussion about motivation.

As I've started writing again, I've had to ask myself, "why?" Writing takes energy and time and sometimes sucks emotional well-being*. Writing is not easy and the "rewards" are never guaranteed.

Look, nothing I do in life comes with a guarantee. If I do X, I'm not always going to have Y. Life simply doesn't work that smoothly, simply, or, unfortunately, with such logic. I do know this: back in 2011, especially in the fall as I anticipated the birth of Elliot, I felt compelled to "get paid" for my writing.

Yes, I believe and always will believe writers should be paid for quality work--but I've also learned the pay, even professional rates, is never, never commiserate with the amount of time/effort expended on a project. And some non-paying markets exist where the readership carries more weight than any amount of money I could gain for some made up nonsense (i.e., fiction). Pay never correlates 100% with quality--but there is a correlation.

I'm talking about cashing in, making a pile of money because I "had to". Writing for pay has never been my sole motivation. I don't seek professional publication venues first and then down through semi-pro and token paying markets because I need the money or even want the money--what I want is to be able to tell stories which can be and should be published in those venues because they are good stories. It's a difference in motivation, however subtle, which guides me.

I lost sight of storytelling in 2011. I lost sight of storytelling and chased dollars. Things were not good at home. In early 2012, Aimee committed suicide. Chasing the wrong motivation brought stress and a sour taste which just didn't hold up as I rebuilt my life. Now, on the other side, I'm so happy and never want to lose sight of the important stuff again.

Kim and I often talk about things "serving us". Why expend energy if something doesn't serve you? It's a slightly different spin old "do what you love or at least get paid for it" adage. And making sure something serves us is my prime mover these days. I don't need the stress of trying to make writing pay the bills. I do need the rich intellectual stimulation and personal satisfaction which comes with a story well-told. This serves me, and in serving me, it serves Kim and strengthens our relationship.

This is the motivation, folks. This is why I write: to tell stories, grow my heart and mind, and do it for the love.

*Because, despite my claim that they don't in my previous post, rejections do bother me. They bother me enough to write better stories and work harder next time.Thank you, Doug Murano, for helping me remember the value of rejection.

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Here's the thing I forgot about writing and submitting short stories (or any kind of fiction/poetry): waiting.

I remember rejections well, and the oldest wounds, the first ones I suffered back in 2007 when I first began this journey, healed so well--I have a nice, thick layer of scar tissue. Rejections haven't bothered* me in a long, long time. They are part of the game, and if they bother* you, stop submitting.

But waiting... man. I forgot about the waiting. Some markets are lightning fast, especially a few pro-paying venues like Nightmare and Clarkesworld. But chances of appearing in those venues is slim. I'll submit to them when I can (i.e., I have a story which might, just might slip by the first round of reads), but they are the whitest of the white whales. Most publications have wait time well over a month or more.

Tick... tick... tick...

And then the inevitable rejection letter--or, sometimes, an acceptance.

Here's what I know now: I'm writing and submitting because I want to tell stories. Lots of stories. Big, semitrailer truckloads of stories. And some of them will be good.

Aaron, you say, you could just post your stories here. You could just upload them to Smashwords and Amazon KDP. 

Yes. I could. But I want to tell the best stories I can--and the submissions process has been good to me. I've learned and become a better writer because of the wait, the rejections, the occasional feedback from editors, and the sweet taste of acceptance. I've become a better writer because I've worked with editors. I've become a better writer because I try to listen to advice, sort the good from bad, and take what works back to the word processor with me.

So I'll take the wait. I'll keep writing. This is what I love: writing and telling stories, the best stories I can. This is the path I've chosen because of how it fills me, not because of any reward on the other side.

Dream on. Like this guy (and listen to an amazing interview on NPR):

* Edited to add... Here's what I mean by "bother": if you get physically ill, want to throw a tantrum and/or respond in a negative way to a rejecting editor, or find that rejection affects your ability to write (after the requisite "rejection hangover") then you need to find another creative endeavor in which to engage.

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Free can be pretty creepy, I suppose, depending on what is being given away. This Friday, it's written words from yours truly and several other authors,  Bob Eccles,  James Garcia Jr.,  and Michelle Ann King thanks to the wonderful  Milo James Fowler.

Here's what I can give you today: a free digital copy of Loathsome, Dark and Deep. Go to Smashwords and use code SW24Q to grab a copy for zero money.


You also have a chance to win a paperback (yes, actual dead trees!) copy of The Bottom Feeders and Other Stories signed by yours truly. I hear it makes great kindling or a shim to hold wobbly table legs steady. You might even want to read a few stories. For your chance, simply toss your name in the virtual hat. 


So what, exactly, are you waiting for? Free is free... and I won't even make you read a word.

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Hello, my name is Aaron and I write short stories. Granted, the longest piece I've written was well over 100,000 words (my first "novel" and first piece of fiction I wrote), but after editing and trimming, it landed well within the 70K range. Yes, I cut 30,000 words.  Loathsome, Dark and Deep is only 67,000 words. Nothing else comes close.

I am a short story writer, and I'm not ashamed.

But things make me sad... like the white whale short story markets of yesteryear becoming the graveyard of today. After reinstating my account on Duotrope.com, I noted the following:

Of my reported acceptances (155 including poetry and reprints), 48 of those markets were dead (closed or defunct), including Everyday Weirdness, Necrotic Tissue, The Rose and Thorn Journal... some of my favorite stories had life there. Note those 48 markets represented more than 48 of my acceptances. Everyday Weirdness printed several stories and I was fortunate enough to place 3 with Necrotic Tissue. I loved those publications and did what I could to support them. Thanks to Nathan E. Lilly (Everyday Weirdness) and R. Scott McCoy (Necrotic Tissue) for everything they did to bring my stories and stories from other authors to readers' attention.

Short story venues die. It's the nature of the beast. My own brain child, 52 Stitches, is no more, but it had two years to run. It's time is done. But those which stick around? Wonderful. I'm proud to have a story in issue #118 of Space and Time. #118 people. The magazine has been around since before I was a zygote.

There are white whales I will chase and never capture before their deaths--this, too, is the nature of the beast. But I am a short story writer. I write short stories, and the submission/rejection process has made me a better writer. My stories are stronger because they've had to survive in a world of high casualty rates.

Here's a fear: writing is going to suffer in this do-it-yourself world. It already has. Why face rejections when I can easily publish myself via Smashwords, Kindle, Createspace and the like?* Why? Because, dear readers, without those white whales, even the dead ones, I would not have become the writer I am today. I wouldn't have sold a few stories to professional venues or found myself on any honorable mention lists. Writing short fiction is about the story, the art of words, and making life out of digital nothing. I want my stories to be like my flesh-and-bone children: resilient and beautiful.

Write on, chase those whales, and give some pause and respect when they leave us.

*Yes, I've published plenty of previously published material via these venues. But my first path--and it should always be a first path--was and remains the submissions trail and quest for those white whales.

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Creepy Freebies is in full swing at Milo James Fowler's website. Drop in and see what's available from Simon Kewin, Roland Yeomans, Christine Rains, and Cate Gardner. Good stuff. 

Today, I'd like to share "Jumping In," a story originally published in Slices of Flesh. Happy reading and even happier weekend. 

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Part of resurrecting my writing "career" involves resurrecting my writing to be read. Now that we live in a world of digital words, I've never understood why anyone would take good stories away from potential readers.

Note I said good stories. I've trunked plenty of my tales, including some which have seen print. Even though they were published once, I might not want to claim them as one of my current stable of quality tales.

Way back on March 26, 2012, I wrote this post which explains how many of my collections and stories were wrested away from readers. I'm working to make them available again. And here's the thing--as I republish, I republish at the lowest price point I can. I don't mind 99 cents if it means a reader will take a chance and pick up my stories. This writing thing isn't solely about making money (although compensation is nice); it is about telling stories.

When I started focusing on the money, I started to lose my love for the process. The universe set me right.

I've recently returned Darker Matter: Stories of Strange Futures, These Darkened Streets, The Undead: 13 Stories, and Loathsome, Dark and Deep to the digital world.


You can find them at Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble, and elsewhere electronic words are exchanged.

So yes, I'm cheap. I'm cheap and ready to tell you a story.

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I'm bringing back some old books as part of the resurrection of my writing career. To be a little more accurate, my "career" slept, fairy tale-like for the last year and and some change.

I've recently published some mothballed "collections" on Smashwords, including Darker Matter: Stories of Strange Futures, and These Darkened Streets (horror and weird fiction). I've also brought back my horror/adventure/grim-as-hell novel Loathsome, Dark and Deep (originally from Belfire Press, and until now out of "print").

I write to be read. I'll never understand the purpose of sitting on good stories when readers are hungry. No storyteller should hide in the dark.

When I set to republish Loathsome, I took a good look at the original dedication:

Do I remove the dedication? No. Not exactly. But my life isn't what it was then. There's more to my story than the dark woods I traveled with Aimee. The dedication grew as I have. So now we read the original, along with:


Kim wasn't a part of my life when I wrote Loathsome, Dark and Deep, but she's helped me find my way home. She's helped me find my voice again. And that, dear readers, is the only place I want to be: home, telling my stories.

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Okay, so I've missed writing this blog. I've missed the conversational tone and processing some ideas which have really stuck with me. These are blog entries, not college expository essays. I may ramble.

And today, I need to ramble a bit about free speech. Two things have collided in my brain this past week and I need to process. First, there's David Guth, a professor at the Univeristy of Kansas and all the heat he's received for a recent tweet involving the NRA. The tweet-in-question read: "The blood is on the hands of the #NRA. Next time, let it be YOUR sons and daughters. Shame on you. May God damn you." The second... well this post ("Dear Guy Who Just Made My Burrito") at Medium (New to you? Me too.). It's a funny (and truthful) piece in which he uses the F-bomb. Ubiquitously.

I've wrestled with this free speech issue. When I was seventeen (and it was a pretty good year), I wasn't allowed to buy a copy of Faith No More's Angel Dust because of the explicit lyrics decal. Yes, this was way back in 1992. Remember CDs? Anyone? I was still listening to cassette tapes, too. I was fired up. Angry. How dare some over-inflated political ninny tell me to what I can or cannot listen? This I believe: free speech is important to me personally and vital to the health of a free, educated society.

What steps over the free speech line? What is free expression and what is profane/inappropriate/illegal? Who decides where to place the line?

Once upon a time, I had a student with a large "Freedom of Fucking Speech" decal across his school planner. Really? Let me repeat: Free speech is important to me personally and vital to the health of a free, educated society. I'm not sure which part of that statement is synonymous with "carpet F-bomb when/wherever you'd like". So yeah, Mr. Lucky Shirt's post about burritos is funny, but after a certain number of "fucking chance"s and "fucking empires of sour cream" I shut down and stop reading. If I was still teaching, I would have told my students the offense lies in lazy writing, not a personal issue with the f-word. Is "fucking" the best adjective he could muster? It certainly isn't the most accurate (unless he eats his burritos differently than me).

For those of you who like analogies, I liken using "freedom of speech" to cover for poor writing and the need to "fuck" everything (in writing)  to a man who would buy a Mercedes-Benz and enter it in the demolition derby at the Douglas County Fair. Way to use those resources, dude.

But what about David Guth? I still don't know. He teaches at a university--supposedly a bastion for free speech and intellectual discourse. But it is a publicly supported university (getting at least a small chunk of funds from public tax coffers). People (taxpayers and lawmakers) get their feathers ruffled. It seems to be a matter of tone. If he had posted "What if it is your sons and daughters next time?" instead of "Next time, let it be YOUR sons and daughters." I think the effect might be different. But does it matter? In Twitterland, you only have 140 characters per thought.

And that, dear friends, is why I missed blogging. Ramble on.

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I'm going to visit a friend's student this morning, a young man who has Big Writing Dreams^TM. Once upon a time, I had such aspirations.

Self-publishing via Kindle Digital Platform became a thing. And then money showed up. Fear crashed the party--real fear about Real Stuff (words feel more important when you capitalize them). I had a pile of published stories, a couple of novels with small presses, and "need" to make writing pay. Elliot was on the way, and I was scared sh*tless. Post-partum threatened. Writing needed to start paying, and paying big or I would have to stop. I made some bad choices and worked on some bad novels. I puked a bunch of garbage words all over KDP. I stopped writing to tell stories, but to make money. Love disappeared.

After more than a year of hiatus, I've started writing again. With all of my family/other commitments, I might be looking at a story a month--or maybe a couple of flash. But the love is there. The characters are speaking to me again. Words beg me to touch them.

What will I tell this anonymous student, the one with Big Writing Dreams^TM? Know why you want to write. For me--when I loved writing--it was always about the story and the audience. Once upon a time, I could make words sing and dance and make love to the page, even if it was a dark and slightly dysfunctional love (most of my stuff WAS horror).

I know who I am as a writer, and it feels good. So good. 

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A new Guinness ad and discussions of the forthcoming "Anti-Bullying Week" have collided to dust off the trusty blog. Blog, I've missed you. I have some things to say.

First of all, if you haven't seen the now-viral Guinness ad, take a moment to watch. Go on. I'll still be here on the other side:

A good deal of praise has circulated for this ad on the trusty Interweb^tm, and rightfully so. It departs from traditional beer ads--yes, these are big, tough, men, but they aren't acting stupid or belligerent or sexist. There are no bikini-clad models here. Just dudes playing ball and enjoying beers afterwards.

Now some have suggested it isn't an appropriate or sensitive portrayal of a disabled person using a wheelchair. (See "Just One of the Guys" on Emily Ladau's blog, Words I Wheel By, as an example.) Here's the thing--and this is my opinion based on my life experience--this ad wasn't about disability or wheelchair users. Its intent is to sell beer. Even the famous Nike ad featuring NWBA star Matt Scott from a few years back was designed to sell Nike apparel. Neither of these companies can surely believe they are advocates for disabled rights, can they? Both use a man in a wheelchair to foster emotional appeal because emotional appeal works. Ads sell products--but sometimes they do so with dignity and respect and make us feel good.

I love an ad which can make me feel positive without deriding anyone. Nothing in the Guinness ad puts down the man in the wheelchair--in fact, he says "You guys are getting better at this," before the others step out of their wheelchairs. It's a beer commercial which shows guys being guys without negative stereotypes, oafish behavior, sexism, or other negative "guy" stereotypes. In fact, it promotes something I wish could become a "guy" stereotype: camaraderie. Friendship. Being good to each other--not pity for the guy in the wheelchair (I didn't read pity in the ad at all), but genuinely being good to each other.

Bullying has been on my mind quite a bit lately. It's a large part of my job as guidance counselor and a large part of life for too many kids, boys and girls alike. Beer ads are often bully ads, the cool kids (usually oafish, over-muscled men) drinking the right beer and landing the hot chicks. Beer ads often encourage the worst in us. Beer ads are notorious for being "generally pretty juvenile" as Aaron Taube at Business Insider explains in his discussion of the Guinness ad. I don't celebrate the Guinness ad because it includes a man in a wheelchair. I applaud it because it is about positive stuff--the good stuff--friendship, loyalty, hard work...

For me, the ad isn't about the disability; it's nice to see men who don't have to be ignorant, insensitive, sexist jerks enjoying beer. That is all.
 

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An old Cherokee story was brought to my attention yesterday, one you may have heard. There are several minor variations, but the basic story goes like this:

An old Grandfather said to his grandson, who came to him with anger at a friend who had done him an injustice, "Let me tell you a story.

I too, at times, have felt a great hate for those that have taken so much, with no sorrow for what they do.

But hate wears you down, and does not hurt your enemy. It is like taking poison and wishing your enemy would die. I have struggled with these feelings many times." He continued, "It is as if there are two wolves inside me. One is good and does no harm. He is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. He lives in harmony with all around him, and does not take offense when no offense was intended. He will only fight when it is right to do so, and in the right way.

But the other wolf, ah! He is full of anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.. The littlest thing will set him into a fit of temper. He fights everyone, all the time, for no reason. He cannot think because his anger and hate are so great. It is helpless anger, for his anger will change nothing. Sometimes, it is hard to live with these two wolves inside me, for both of them try to dominate my spirit."

The boy looked intently into his Grandfather's eyes and asked, "Which one wins, Grandfather?"

The Grandfather smiled and quietly said, "The one I feed."

Is there really any question which wolf to feed? Of course I would feed the good wolf, right? Of course. Always. But the other wolf, the anger, envy, sorrow, etc... he's wily. Those feelings will come without wishing them. They come because they are inside me--inside all of us. I feed the bad wolf when I wallow in them, when I let them hold too much of my energy and attention. It's easy to do so... too easy when I'm tired or lonely or hungry... He's quick and sharp, this bad wolf, and he can snatch a meal so quickly.

It is especially easy to feed the bad wolf when it comes to those most dear to us. Those we love most can offer the juiciest morsels because our feelings for them, our emotional investment is so great. We toss anger, envy, resentment, self-pitty and the like in his dish. If we aren't vigilant, he'll snatch scraps right from our hands.

But there's more. There's always more. Maybe, just maybe I can take those scraps which fall to the bad wolf and boost the good wolf's diet with them. I can steal them back from the bad fellow. Any tidbit the good wolf can salvage will strengthen him. Those things on which the bad wolf might feed can serve as food for the good wolf just as well. Better, in fact, knowing they come from a place of love and only exist because of love.

Can you understand jealousy as an expression of love? Can you harness anger and know it only feels so raw because of the bond you share with the person with whom you are angry? How about morphing self-pity into ache and longing--a good, pleasant ache?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

It takes vigilance. It takes effort to make feeding the good wolf a habit. It takes patience and time and commitment. It takes love, but the good wolf thrives on love.

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Aimee Ziegler, my first wife and mother of my children, took her life one year ago today.

These are facts. They are not the only facts which measure her life. One could count the years she coached basketball and soccer. One could number the students which graduated local high schools who benefited from the WRAP program Aimee helped found. One could account the millions of dollars WRAP brought into our community and schools. One could even count the runs she scored in local kickball games.

Each time I'm reminded life must come to an end--each time a loved one dies or an anniversary of a death arrives on the calendar--think of more than endings. I think of now and how precious it is. Lives shouldn't be measured with numbers. Lives shouldn't be measured at all. Lives are for living and loving and staggering blind through a land which is at times strange and scary but all the while littered with love and miracles.

Hug somebody today. Love hard today. Remember with grace and move forward with courage.

Live. 

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I proposed to Kim on Saturday.

I want the world to love her like I do. My best tools are these words--even when they fall short.

So how can I tell you about Kim? Where are my best words?

I hold three of my stories very close to my heart. They were autobiographical in a way (as most good fiction can be). Real events, locations, and people inspired them. I won no awards for these stories (one was nominated and made a very short list), although each has garnered a fair share of attention.

The Battered Suitcase published "Reciprocity"  way back in September 2008. Yes, it's my big fish story, and yes, there might be spoilers. It's a story of struggling to fit in, a story of understanding who you are and trying to find a way for that you to fit with the rest of the world. It's a story which could have been tragic, but ends with a flash of gold.

I remember the idea for "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable" (published first at A Fly in Amber in September 2009 and later, in a slightly revised version, in Triangulation: End of the Rainbow and my collection, The Saints are Dead) coming to me while I shuttled the family to and from church one Sunday. I think we forgot our donated Christmas gift that morning and I had to run back to the house to grab it.The extra doorways and disappearing townsfolk became one of my favorites. The protagonist makes a hard decision in the end--choosing what may appear a rockier path to remain true to himself. It might be a rockier path, but it leaves the protagonist, Andy, an entire town to cover with spray-painted murals. "The World in Rubber" was a finalist for the Million Writers Award and a story which moves me each time I read it.

And finally, one of my most personal tales, "Wanting It" from Shock Totem #3 (2011). This little tale took several revisions and gallons of blood/ink. I'm proud of the way it reads, the feelings it evokes, and the lasting impression in the final lines. It's a story about losing something you hold dear--and how that loss colors the rest of the world. Like "The World in Rubber," I wrote it in first person. It's autobiographical, even if fiction. Ellen Datlow was kind enough to include "Wanting It" as an honorable mention in The Best Horror of the Year  (even mentioning my name in the introduction... me=humbled).

These stories are my children born from some of the hardest years of my life. They each tell truths about love and loss, grief and hope. They're special to me. They're a part of me.

So who's Kim?

She's the magic goldfish from "Reciprocity"; she's every mural Andy paints in "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable"; she's the ghost who comes after the end of "Wanting It" and tells the narrator his dreams are true. She leans close and whispers in his ear.

Who's Kim? Read the stories when you have time and you'll understand.

Who's Kim? She's seen all my scars and called me beautiful.  Everyone on the planet should be so blessed.

And by the way--she said yes.

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 Me at Fern Lake in 2007...

Me at Fern Lake in 2012... Funny how the world tilted a little, but I'm looking for the same thing in the sky.

Guess which one is the more hopeful me. Go on, guess.

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On my last day of high school, a group of senior parents hosted a picnic. The idea was to keep us sober for a few hours, I suppose. I stayed away from booze in high school--read Monday's post and you might understand why--so the picnic didn't make much difference to me. It was just time to socialize. Act stupid. Learn a few more lessons about life before graduation.

Some classmates started a game of two-hand touch football. A tackle happened when someone on the other team touched two hands to the back of the ball carrier. No one got hurt this way, right? The quarterback had a "five apple" count to get rid of the ball before he could be rushed. At some point, while I was playing quarterback, a kid on the other team (let's call him Bob) quickly growled his count, charged forward, and threw me to the ground before I could ditch the ball.

Bob--a classmate since 8th grade--had suffered a lot of insults during high school. He'd been the brunt of too many jokes. I wasn't innocent, but I wasn't the ring leader, either. Regardless, Bob chose me to be the lightning rod for his rage. Nearly twenty years later, I still remember the look of anger on Bob's face when he tackled me--as if he took all the pent-up frustration from the last four years and clobbered me with it.

I haven't thought of that moment in years, but as I sit here, trying to say what needs to be said, it is the moment which comes to me. Two lessons came alive in that moment, two vital lessons I understand now.

The first lesson is fairly obvious and somewhat overplayed: some people will not like me. Bob sure didn't. Maybe he burned through all his anger in that one, fiery moment because we've had cordial conversations since. Maybe he, like me, grew up and now understands high school students do stupid things. Mean things. Reckless, thoughtless things. And while we certainly felt like adults at the time, decision-making wasn't our chief skill. I gave Bob plenty of reasons to be angry. I made fun of him. I'm not proud. But--and this is perhaps the most important part of the lesson--I wasn't the only one to say hurtful things. He simply chose me and that moment. I didn't "earn" it any more than anyone else.

As I've grown older and a touch wiser (I hope), I know it's not just the Bobs of the world who will find reasons to dislike me. We all want to be liked--maybe it's some primal, evolutionary tic--but seeking universal acceptance is a lost cause. It's something I've fought most of my life. I've hurt myself in the pursuit of "likeability". And poor Bob never asked for all the abuse we hurled at him. He never did anything to earn our "dislike" but be who he was.

Now, at 37, I know we all have to be who we are regardless of how others receive us. Polonius might have been a bearded blow hard, but his advice to Laertes is as sound today as when Shakespeare penned it: to thine own self be true. At least when you are true to yourself those who like you--and love you--will do so for you. One must be honest with him/herself before sharing with the world. It's an old lesson, not one I invented, but a good one. If you're honest with yourself and the world still tries to hold you back... that's about them--not you. Keep moving forward past the sea of doubters. You don't have to be like Bob and knock one to the ground, but keep moving forward.

The second lesson which Bob taught me, the most important lesson, is simple, but it's a rare human who can take it to heart. When you want something, really want it, you have to throw yourself at it body, heart, mind, and soul. You have to go for it, dive, hope, and if you land in the dirt, bloodied knees and bruised shins, at least you've lived.

Look, Bob took plenty of abuse before he knocked me down. Life kicked him around enough before that afternoon in May of '93. If he missed the tackle, what was one more trip to the dirt, one more bruise when his ego had taken a beating? But he didn't miss. He hit me, hard. And the look of satisfaction on his face... priceless. Priceless enough that I can close my eyes now, twenty years later, and still see it. Bob was really alive at that moment, really living.

I'm living, too. I'm throwing myself into the tackle, going for it all or nothing, throwing my mind, body, heart, and soul into it. And yes, it's about more than me; it always is. I want my boys to understand how precious life is and not cower from it when bad shit happens. I want resilient kids who can love and laugh and live through all the hard stuff. I want them to grow up with minds that hope, hearts that love, and bodies that wear enough scars to tell good stories. In the process, I suspect each one of them will earn a beautiful soul.

I want them to know that when someone amazing comes along, you love her as hard as you can and you move forward with no attention to those who would hold you back.You throw yourself into the tackle whether you make it or not, all or nothing. Life is too precious not to.

Yes, there's more. There's always more.

Soon.

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Hello again, blog.

The beauty of the internet (and the inherent danger, some may say) is the words put out here can last for a long time. I've heard people use words like "forever" but forever is a long time. That EMP coming from a giant comet will probably take care of the internet some day.

I digress.

This is about my mom. I'm writing it understanding these words might last a long time. They may reach far. They may not. But I'm writing it all the same.

I need the world to know a few things about my mom, especially why I respect her as much as anyone on the planet--even when we disagree. I need to world to know because Mom has been there and helped shape how I approach life.

My father had an "episode" in 1980, near the beginning of the school year. Paramedics rushed him to Clay County Memorial Hospital, and then on to Topeka for tests at a larger hospital. He had a brain tumor, malignant, and the cancer/treatment would slowly eat him away over the next nine years. He died in November, 1989. I was a freshmen in high school.

Mom filled those nine years with patience and caring. She took care of an ailing man--a man who was often out of touch with reality, a man who accused her of many awful, untrue things. A man who made all of us feel just a little unsafe from time to time. We made sometimes bi-weekly trips to Topeka so he could see specialists at the Menninger Clinic. She fought a legal battle, went to graduate school to increase her earning potential as the only salary in the house, and coached three sports to add a few dollars to each paycheck. I rode more buses than I care to count with the middle school girls' basketball team as an elementary student. Still, she rose early on Saturday mornings and made doughnuts for me to munch as I watched cartoons. I always had clean clothes, a full belly, and a warm home. She did all this while the man she married slipped into a grey shadow of who he was.

This is how I knew my mother and father.

She taught me about resiliency and toughness. She taught me how to put your head down and continue on when life hurled unimaginable horror at you. She taught me how to take care of your kids when things were eating away at you. She taught me about love.

She's helping me with the boys, now. She takes care of them when I am busy with my job, when I'm not able to be there, and when I need to be gone for me. She gives me breaks she never received. I've joked that she's my au pair. My nanny. 

We don't always see eye to eye--we don't share the same outlook on life, but she's been there. Always stubborn. Always loving.

My mother never remarried--not yet, anyway. In fact, even though Dad died in '89 and I didn't graduate until May of 1993, she didn't go on a date until I was out of the house.

Mom and I are different people. We've made some similar choices and some very different ones when confronted with harsh realities. We are different people, but I will always hold the utmost respect for her.

I've been blessed to have her in my life. I wouldn't be where I am now without her.

I've been blessed in many ways.

Stay tuned.

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Hey Blog, it's me. Aaron.

We haven't spoken in a while. It's nothing personal--really. It's just, well, I don't need to talk to you as much as I did in the past. I really needed you then. We had so much to say to each other. Some of it was nonsense. Some of it was blood drawn from our veins. Sometimes, I performed open heart self-surgery for the world. I don't regret a moment we've spent together, Blog. I know our time has helped others know me better. I can't hide the words we've shared and I'd never want to...

Please understand this isn't you, Blog. It's me. It's where I'm at in life. When I started you, I was coping with some pretty heavy stuff. We've traveled miles together. We cried together. We shouted at the big, dark night together. We held each other when things were really, really bad.

But, dear Blog, I've grown. I'm not the same man who posted for the first time on December 9, 2007, almost five years ago. I've grown, but you're still here. You'll always be here. You'll be here when I need you again--should I need you again. I hope I won't. I don't want to need you in the same way I had before.

Is this goodbye?

No. Not really.

It's just... time for me to acknowledge my heart is somewhere else. My words are somewhere else. And it's good, Blog. It's so very good. When my words were with you, they had no where else to go. They were homeless and cold and frightened--and that, dearest Blog, is no way for words to live. Now, they have a home. A good, warm home where they can grow and play without fear, without loneliness, without terrible thoughts driving them into dark corners.

So long, Blog, for now. You'll always be right *here*.

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