The Sensations of Christmas

After a long year of emotion and tears, I've made my way once again to the Disneyland Resort in Anaheim, California. We left at seven thirty in the morning, bundled up beneath Chino's fall breeze, and arrived, jackets off, in a surprisingly warm Disneyland. We were forced to bus over to the park, too, due to the massive holiday crowds. Annual passholders have the freedom to visit whenever they want, and especially during the season, so we weren't surprised when the wait times were large, and everyone gets into the holiday spirit, or, at least the idea of it.
     But we managed to dodge the waits. The most popular, E-ticket attractions were our first goal, and minus the space themed roller-coaster, and the famous Pirates of The Caribbean, we made our goals. We were eating lunch when we realized the theatre we were eating in had several more groups of people; leaving, open sidewalks, stores, and attraction lines were filled to capacity. Where did they all come from?
     The rest of the day was spent hunting for a ride, or some place to sit, but every location we spotted was taken and filled. The churro booth--with the infamous eight dollar stick of sugar--had a line that could only compare to a class registration line back at our campus--so sad, too bad, but come back later. My phone was dying, so these wait times were becoming more of a hindrance than a relaxing breath.
     My sister, a mother of one boy, called my brother to let us know she was on her way. The day was over around four thirty, so we hunkered to wait, but there was a commotion towards the front of Main Street U.S.A.. Moving to the front of the park, it was obvious, now: Disneyland was hosting their Candlelight Processional, a seasonal tribute to the holiday season with a reading from the Bible, depicting the first Christmas with a symphony orchestra and a large, boisterous choir. I knew the processions were hosted by a celebrity, so it wasn't a surprise such an event was popular, asides from the music. We crawled under the standing-room rope and waited for an hour to watch the hour long mass and performance--it was worth it.
     Choir performers marched down a darkened main street, candles in hand, filling the streets with amazing songs of Christmas, such as Noel and Silent Night. When they arrived to the train station, the greased-up, make-shift stage, the orchestra sounded fanfares over the parks and played along with the choir's lyrics. Once placed on the staircase of the station, our celebrity narrator, John Stamos, was announced, and he begun to read, stopping several lines to allow a song in from the orchestra and choir. I found it beautiful; however, everyone around me, mother included, was in tears.
     The performance took an hour, and each song built to the final performance of the Hallelujah chorus, rejoicing in the birth. Once finished, John Stamos began to discuss Disneyland, and its impact on him through life, acting, and raising a family. It took an emotional turn, when Stamos stated we were in a tough time at our nation's history, and we need to keep in mind the children in Connecticut, along with those few teachers, who lost their lives, and unlike us, will be unable to enjoy the magic of Disneyland, Christmas, and opening up presents with their families, ever again--I lost it. For Disney, the event was something I would have never expected; we see the animation company as one, while taking note of the tough times in life and growth, stands to an extent distant from touchy subjects, but this felt real. Observing the beauty of Christmas, stories of religion, and taking into mind the worst moments in our nation, giving silence to them in thought, Disney has shown me a new side, that while it might have always been there, I have never fully seen asides the eight minute introduction to the film, "Up." It wasn't just the audience in tears as John Stamos, too, stopped for a moment to calm himself.
     Disney and their theme-parks are not only moving to our nation's change of culture and problems, but adapting to it. Disneyland has always been a special place in my life for how they treat their guests and the holiday season. While expensive, the price of admission, to me, is well worth it, for they continue to hold not only great attractions and shows, but memorable, emotional events that can not compare to any other theme-park in the world. Even if it was crowded, me and my family had a great time, and enjoyed an event that is new to us, but we hope to return to in the future. Also, we never got to meet John Stamos; there were enough women in the audience, screaming, to let us know he, too, would be missed.

(my mother, myself, and my twin brother).

From my family to yours, we wish you a happy, safe holiday, and a glorious new year.

Five Guilty Pleasures

     Even when being regimental, treating my life like a business, I like to spoil myself from time to time. Spending day after day eating oatmeal, working out, writing a certain word limit, and going to bed before twelve gets a little old after a while; I'm only twenty, yet I treat myself like a forty year old jarhead. Everyone needs a little vacation and fun, even if just from your usual routine.

5. Chili cheese fries with pastrami and extra cheese from The Hat, Upland, California.

     While The Hat is a location known by most of southern California, I enjoy visiting the one on Central in Upland, California. It's at the base of the mountain, and like the rest, they really know what they're doing with their fast food. And they should--the pastrami is thick and juicy, with just enough mustard to modify the flavor; the counter has trays of chili peppers and a variety of sauces, free to pick; and everyone works at a fast pace, but keeps a smile on as they assist you. The chili fries are my favorite mostly due to the amount they give you--how many fast-food chains give you a mound of chili and potatoes in a cardboard drink container? Not only that, but you can order it modified, and add extra chili, cheese, or even spill some of their famous pastrami on top. When the weather's cold enough, and I feel a hunger that can only compare to a pregnant woman, I visit The Hat to make sure I'm well fed for hours.

4. Playing my X-box 360 until the morning hours.
     When I first received an X-box 360 for Christmas, I wouldn't let the damn thing go. But with my rising interest in writing, and hours at the Writing-center, I hardly get to play it anymore. I purchased Resident Evil 6, the next edition to the zombie horror gaming title, around October, and I just finished it two nights ago. If I need time to vent, or it's well deserved, I treat myself to gunning down monsters, swinging over Gotham, or just causing mass havoc until I hear the roosters. Anyone else pre-order Grand Theft Auto V?

3. Sleeping in
    Who doesn't enjoy laying in bed under layers of blankets, cat at your side, with the alarm clock shut-off and out of the mind? Of course, I make sure to get up before twelve; while it's fun to sleep a little longer than usual, I do have medication to take. Tuesdays and Thursdays, however, are restricted from sleeping in, since those are the days I work out and need the recovery time. But, let's just forget about Monday's schedule.

2. Barnes and Nobles
     On Friday nights, I drive over to The Shoppes in Chino Hills to visit their large bookstore. While the family is running amok around the shopping center, I just dawdle around the store, picking my way from the magazines, to the graphic novels, then on to the literature. Usually, my time is around an hour or more. It's just a nice, relaxing way to end the week.

1. Playing with the cats using a laser pointer.
     It's seen as mean, or a form of teasing by some, but I'm guilty of making them run up the walls and around the house, going bonkers for a red dot. Animals are a great way to de-stress and know that someone not only cares for you, but needs you to care for them. Just open up a can of cat food, let them curl up on you, have a place high up to sit, and they'll love you! Note to self: buy batteries for the laser pointer.

Spooks, Spectors, And Nonsense

     As the days grow colder, the nights much darker, it's easy to feel that holiday cheer warm your heart. Hot  Cocoa, warm fires, and the pleasing glow of a neighbor's obnoxious lawn decoration. But I'm not here to talk about that.
     Even with the season of giving upon us, my interests still fall into the category of creepy and eerie: the paranormal. A few posts ago, as well as the large discussion of why I write, seen on my blog, I mentioned my interests in ghosts. They're the unknown figures that stand in the hallway late at night; the watchful eye over your shoulder even later at night, or even the hand that grabs you during the day, and turning to look you find no one there (let's at least hope you find no one there. Society's full of creeps these days).
     But it's not the fear that draws me. It's the idea of a possible living, once-breathing creature still roaming Earth, unknown and unexplainable. While that does tie into the fear, it only draws me in further, and forces me to discuss the activities present with others. Of course, that's easier said than done--who wants to talk about ghosts other than that one guy?
     My interests started as a kid at my grandparent's home. It was on the edge of East Los Angeles, and each night there would be the occasional footstep, creak, or even shudder. Of course, our grandpa enjoyed staying up during the night, and he did drink, doing random stuff at random times, but most of the time it wasn't home--all the times I stayed up it wasn't him. Other than that, my time with the paranormal was restricted to television specials on Travel Channel, which, believe me, were far better than some bro's swearing at ghosts and laughing at each other.
     But then I got into acting, which allowed me to travel to well-known, and sometimes old, desolate places. We filmed a deleted-scene for Constantine in the pool of the KnickerBocker Hotel in Hollywood, California, which has reports of Marylin Manroe's spirit appearing all over the hotel in lobby mirrors and upstair rooms. On one cold night I was filmed at the Universal Backlot, and footsteps could be heard where no one else was walking. I was able to visit places I had only heard of being haunted, and it gave me a rush.
     After a few years, my family and I started to take trips to San Francisco, which is such a beautiful, regal city--but it's haunted, too. I've always wanted to go across the bay to the prison, Alcatraz Island, but they would have to pry me away from the island by my cold, dead hands. On the way home from the bay, we always stop by The Winchester Mystery House, a towering feat of architecture built by the blueprints of spirits.

The house was owned by Sarah Winchester, and, supposedly due to the spirits of her father's company, she was forced to build the house in odd, difficult pathways, confusing the spirits.

     Believe what you feel on its construction, the home itself has had many visitors arrive and encounter paranormal occurrences. During the one hour, above ground tour, we were at the part of the mansion that was destroyed during the San Francisco earthquake. Part of the house had crumbled, as well as had a fire, but eventually it had been rebuilt until Sarah Winchester's death--it still remains unfinished to this day. While in that wing of the manor, a fan, plugged into the wall, stopped suddenly, turning off. Nothing else was affected--lights, etc--and upon leaving that spot, the fan started to spin again. Another year, me and my mom took the behind-the-scenes tour, which forces you to wear hardhats and travel underneath the home. It was creepy, but upon reaching a certain room, where the sun should have beamed through the glass, warming us, we all were hit with a solid cold breeze out of nowhere, the room shivering. "Cold spots," as investigators title them, are a sign of spirits entering a room, or being present. The tour continued on, and that spot was never cold again when we came back--as it should, having no air vents or open windows.

     In my own home, I've experience walking in to find my dumbbell weights stacked vertically on my chair; I've woken up to find my bed sheets tugged away and at the other side of the room; I've walked outside my room, late at night, to feel someone sitting in the living room, staring at me, watching me in the darkness before sending me back to my room, still feeling followed. 

     Nothing has happened for the past two years, and I'm thankful for that--I like my ghosts, but not as much as I love my sleep. I've been looking into visiting The Queen Mary, a haunted cruise ship in Long Beach, California, and spending the night in one of their haunted hotel rooms. For now, however, my time with the paranormal is kept mostly to my stories, looking for ways to creep others out and to further understand them. Who knows, by writing more eerie, mind-racing horror stories, I might bring some spirits over to visit me. I just hope they know and follow my sleep schedule.

Finals--Chaos And a Word-processor

     Working in the Writing-Center, it's a lie to say we don't notice the holiday chaos. The computer lab has been at, if not completely, near full capacity; the tables, reserved for one-on-one tutoring, are filled with papers, laptops, and every type of pen and pencil, making the center look as though there was a massive printing deadline at the Campus's Journalism department, but it's not the Journalism department--it's the entire school It's the end of the Fall semester at my community-college, and students are hunkering down, cogs spinning, working towards the end with a final push for the questionably well deserved A+. 
     As another student, I make sure I wake up with enough time to shave and make myself presentable, record and go over the day's plan, review any writing or revision notes I have for stories, and ultimately scarf down a boiling bowl of burnt oatmeal before the clock hits 8:05 A.M..
     The drive is pleasant, and my twin-brother, manning the radio, makes sure there's enough music to keep it interesting. Parking isn't an issue anymore; at the beginning of the semester, the lot, and street, would be filled at 8 A.M.. Once I get to school and set into the greatest parking spot in the world, and situated for work at the center, I have no idea what goes on outside the doors.
     Today, It took me until after my first shift to remember that I had a math final this upcoming Monday and I would need my shift covered; it took me until my final shift to remember I even had a twin-brother. The constant barrage of students, each with their reasons why the paper's due tomorrow, and they are barely drafting a thesis, boggles the mind, and forces us tutors to keep quick and adaptable. We're kind, understanding, nurturing people, and if we weren't then by God we shouldn't be tutoring. It's not just the students, however, caught in this mad frenzy, but we too are affected by this rush.
     Some of us could be on our breaks, or in-between shifts, crumpled away in the break-room, studying or reworking a thesis paper. Others of us dash to the computer-lab on these off times before a computer could be swiped--respectfully, of course--hurrying to type up the next essay, story submission, and lab-report. The winter mindset has befallen us all, and turned the population of college students into ravenous creatures.
     By the time I return home, I'm dead tired, and forced to scribe out around 50 equations of Algebra before I can write. When I hit the word-processor, nothing comes out but dull ideas, unoriginal plots, and dialogue that could make the writer's of the recent Twilight films into Shakespearian poets; tutoring, let alone School, is a mind-numbing, creativity-sucking time of the year. With the holiday season in swing, it's just two more weeks and we'll be home safe and free. The idea of presents, Christmas lights, cookies, and emasculating drinks at Starbucks just thrills the inner young-adult inside me.
     Whatever your profession be--tutor, teacher, professor, writer, student, parent--good luck and enjoy your holidays; be grateful for what you have, the time spent together with friends, and the hard work you put towards your passions and studies.


But don't even get me started on Winter Intercession.
    

Why I Write

Today a bunch of us writers are trying out a little experiment; each writer, listed below with their names and blogs, will post why they write, and how they grew into a writer.

     I grew up in East Los Angeles with my grandparents and younger brother. My parents, living in Chino where I reside now, were always busy with work, and had no time to take care of us. My father was a trucker, and Mom was, and still is, a supervisor for the Southern California Gas Company. We would visit them on the weekends, but during the week it was just me and my twin-brother with the grandparents.
     We didn't have much to do there, and the internet wasn't out. My brother was very much into scary stories, and I was into the discovery and study of Paranormal activity (great kids, right?). The house had its own weird happenings, so on occasion we would stay up, in pitch darkness, and just watch for anything. Of course, we would get too scared to stay up past twelve, and School was something we did, so we would never go past ten at the latest. But it was exciting.
     I grew up with a bunch of kids who, like me, had a huge imagination. They weren't into the Paranormal like I was, but we enjoyed the same television shows. Eventually we got tired of playing these stories on the School's yard, and we moved onto our next big adventure: comics and stories. I wrote the dialogue, stories, descriptions, and dabbled a bit in drawing, but I was never as good as the others in art. These were the kids who spent hours drawing, and could turn out a new masterpiece within minutes (masterpieces, however, were restricted to the use of crayons and markers). We moved throughout our years continuing to create stories together. Eventually we passed on out of Middle School and had to move on.
     After the loss of my Grandfather, and missing the nights we would tell each other stories, my brother and I was asked to move to my parent's home in Chino by the state. We followed, and ended up going to the High School just around the block, but we were horrified. The years of scary stories and Ghost-hunting led to us dressing up as punks, and we were forced to attend a School where we had no friends to compare with. Of course we were the outsiders, but it didn't stay like that for long.
     My brother was known for his crazy ways and long, feminine hair. I gained friends thanks to my imagination and creativity. I joined the Japanese Animation and Art club, and hours after school, for four years, were devoted to Marching Band. I wanted to do theatre, having done acting as a child growing up, but our parents grid-locked us into making music. The years went by so quickly, and I had lost my spark in creating stories.
     After a few years I went into a medical scare--Cancer. I had gained an odd lump in my throat, and the mole on my chest was seen as an oddity to the doctors. They removed both things for testing, but I was traumatized; days were spent in bed, crying, and I was eventually forced onto anxiety medication. I fell out of an abusive relationship at the time as well, the person not helping me in the slightest, so things were grim.
     I started to attend therapy on campus for free. My mother was against it, saying my anxiety and trauma was nothing at all, but I was tired of the nightmares, crying fits, and general sulking that went on. The therapy didn't help much asides giving me someone to talk to, which was good, but I needed answers, solutions, and for my problems to just "fuck off." Then I found a book.
     The Tools, by Phil Stutz and Barry Michels, is what I'd like to think saved me. There I found techniques, tools, as they called it, to help combat my fears. I was amazed that books could do this for me, and while I grew up reading stories, novellas and novels, this was something incomparable. Immediately I talked with my friends, and told them what was inside. I was a missionary trying to tell of the Lord's graces. Then I began to write.
     And I wrote more.
     And I wrote more.
     Things were pouring out, and my grades in English were soaring high. Immediately I wanted to do this; immediately I wanted to write something that could change someone's life, or show them that they're not alone--no one has to go through this alone. I started writing dramas, romances, and even realistic, horrifying thrillers. I was hooked.
     I moved on to the next level of college, where thanks to my professor at the time I met my now mentor, John Brantingham. I awkwardly called him one day and told him I just wanted to writer--to know how to do the things these people did. We met up in his office and I showed him a trio of stories I threw together. He talked with me on what I was doing well, and not-so-well, but encouraged me to continue whether it be through our School's writing club, or the class. Again, I was hooked.
     I now tutor English and Writing at my School's Writing-center. My writing schedule takes over my entire day, as I make sure to write no less than 500 words (my goal, however, is to keep at 1000 words a day). I write and read every day, and make sure not to drop off the ball. If I can't write anything up to that amount, I keep it to a 500 word essay, or journal.
     Literature is a great thing, and in some way has influenced me throughout life. While it also might have saved my life, it's pushed me forward into a new, positive direction, where I can actually see a future for myself (majoring in acting or Italian were some of the silly things I thought of during my first years in College). Moving forward, I want to become an Editor as of this point, but continue to write encouraging, thrilling, or just plain horrifying stories that show the wonders, troubles, and accomplishments of real, every day life.


Below are the links to the other authors who are writing about their appreciation of this wonderful craft. Feel free to visit, and give writing a chance yourself!

John Brantingham 

http://johnbrantingham.blogspot.com/

Kyle Van Sant http://pkvansant.blogspot.com/

Charlotte San Juan charlottesanjuan.wordpress.com

Marta Chausee http://martachausee.blogspot.com/

John Daniel http://johnmdaniel.blogspot.com/.

Cora Ramos http://coraramos-cora.blogspot.com/

Melodie Campbell http://funnygirlmelodie.blogspot.com/

Lesley Diehl http://anotherdraught.blogspot.com

Jim Callan www.jamesrcallan.com/blog

Chris Swinney http://clswinney.com

Stephen Brayton www.stephenbrayton.wordpress.com

Carole Avila  http://caroleavilablog.wordpress.com/

Augie Hicks http://augiecorner.blogspot.com

The Turkey And The Shopping Cart

Before I get started with the main subject, I would like to wish you all a happy Thanksgiving; not only be thankful for what you have, but give thanks to the negative prospects of life on how they shaped you as a person. Be happy to be alive today.

     Thanksgiving has been a well cherished holiday in American history--has been. Throughout the years, the warming message behind such a holiday has changed into a simple meal, preparing the family for a battle of wits: Black-Friday. We all know what it is; we all know that it's a night, that one special night that only comes once a year, where like Halloween, we're given the opportunity to be something we're completely not--barbarians. Shopping carts become bulldozers, hands become talons, reaching for that limited-edition My Little Pony, and our vocabulary reduces to simple grunts, screeches, and profane words of someone's mother. What makes things worse is that Black-Friday is not only a whole day, but has become a part of Thanksgiving, literally assimilating its hours into a night known as Grey-Thursday.
     Black-Friday wasn't just about the shopping; Nancy Koehn states on Marketplace.org, "In the 1950s, some factory managers referred to the day after Thanksgiving as 'black Friday' because so many workers called in sick." She goes on, describing this imaginary sickness as a "bubonic plague," which took over the workplace's population. The police also were involved, as they had to deal with the massive crowds of shoppers: "watching a cop trying to deal with a group of jaywalkers" led to massive headaches (Koehn). Times moved on, and the goliath crowds only grew. The term Black-Friday, however, changed; merchants began to title the day after all the "black-ink" that showed up in their paperwork. The day has become, as Koehn titles it, a national holiday where retail finally comes out of the red-zone and into the black; instead of losing money, retail chains and other businesses began to make money at a fast pace. Black-Friday today is still seen as a holiday to some people, and as our years progress, we begin to see that Thanksgiving is reducing to nothing more than a simple day devoted to a cooked Big-bird.
     Being a part of society, I plan to go tonight to Target and Kohl's (I won't agree to saying "I am going to Grey-Thursday"). This year, no one in my family is interested in video-games or electronics, so I'll be fencing my way through the clothing departments with an unopened umbrella. Referring to tonight as Grey-Thursday stabs me in the heart; while I might have never had an actual, white-picket fence Thanksgiving--we eat our food where we want, and if we're thankful for something, we better darn well know it--it's a sad idea that a National Holiday, something that our country has grown with year after year, is reducing to nothing more than a large meal to fuel us through a shopping-bag massacre. Who knows, rather than get a week off for Thanksgiving, in a few years the days of vacation leading up to Black-Friday will be known as the calm before the storm.

The Sulking, Working, Studying, Preparing, Walking Dead

 Working as a tutor in the writing center, it's very common to get started on a discussion completely unrelated towards the student's assignments. I find myself going on about my own personal writing issues, current events relating to argumentative essays, and even the occasional discussion of entertainment. Last night I talked with someone about "Assassin's Creed 3," which already has a strong following, but a few days ago I brought up "The Walking Dead"--big mistake. I love the television show. AMC has pulled out such a great piece of illustrated literature, and created something that really dives into the human mind once put under horrible pressure. As they say in the show, "kill the dead, fear the living," which completely personifies the series in one clear, concise statement. Because of the drama it presents, "The Walking Dead," and the idea of a zombie apocalypse, is seen everywhere.
     One of my supervisors was walking by me and another student while I was trying to give an understanding of paragraph transitions. I modeled it after T.W.D. (The Walking Dead), saying how each episode ends, and begins, on a strong note that melds together easily. My supervisor turned, her eyes wide, hands in the air above her head, and almost screamed. "Oh god, how could they do that to her?!" She shouted, referring to the death of one of the main characters. The student was startled, and I couldn't help myself but laugh. The supervisor goes to the waiting area, where other students exclaim a mutual understanding. That wasn't the end of it.
     After all my appointments were done for the night, I was put onto Walk-In List duty; I tutor the students who weren't able to schedule an appointment, but wait for an open slot. Tuesday nights are always relaxed, and not many students are in by eight at night, an hour before closing. My supervisor comes out from her office and towards me with that same look of anger on her face: "How could they do it, John?!" She covered her face. I laughed. For the next thirty minutes, we go into a discussion on the literature, ideals, and acting within the show. It's always a blast when your co-workers have mutual interest, no?
     In a society that lives in the new frontier, the internet, there are many ways students, co-workers, or even family can relate to one another. With the belief of the oncoming end of the world (which, I've learned, has already passed on the Mayan Calendar..), so many  people spend their time preparing for the worst: not earthquakes, tornadoes, or floods--but zombies. Television has shows focused on bunker/safety preparation ("Dooms Day Preppers"), weaponry ("Future weapons", or any show that features exploding stuff on the Military and National Geographic Channel), and obtaining large amounts of food for storage ("Extreme Couponing"). To say that our population is a little obsessed is a complete understatement.
     Looking at the obsession, it feels to me that it stems from a primal fear: fear of the unknown. When the apocalypse comes, we won't really know what to do. As humans, we have so many things in our homes and possession that to begin thinking on what to save, and what to trash, would be mind numbing. We wouldn't be able to begin to understand the depression of losing a loved one right in front of us, let alone if it crawled back up and sprinted at you, screaming. As a society, we're not ready for such a devastation--but you can be sure as hell we have some ideas.

Eastmont University

     I've been busy for the past few weeks working on a collection of short stories. My goal every day, when writing in general, is to hit 1000 words or more. Some days this comes easy, while others it can be a constant struggle. Tired of just writing random stories, I e-mailed the editor of Sofawolf Press, a publishing company focused towards fans of anthropomorphic animals.
     Looking into it, I did find the interests of Sofawolf's literature focused on more relationship topics, but as well as a number of drama stories. I was given notice they would be interested in a collection of short stories, if provided with one, so I've taken the helm to write one.
     It's still in the first process currently, and has four main stories, and one vignette so far, but I plan to include more. The word count is up to 19,765. I wasn't given a specific range (though I should probably ask!), so I'm hoping to get it close to 25k-30k words. Once that's done, I'll focus on the editing process, then move on to beta-readers once I'm proud of it.
     The stories take place around Eastmont University, a large campus with no prejudice towards specific breeds and species. It contains stories on love, cheating, revenge, suspense, mystery, and the general lives of students; however, there are strong topics such as prejudice, rape, loss, and plagiarism in school, showing all the dramatic things that happen throughout life. With branching out towards other genres/fandoms, I'm hoping this will only build me as a writer.
     It's no where near complete, but this project is giving me room to grow as I push forward, and even if it's a little different, discussing normal issues with walking, talking animals, it's helping me break my boundaries and experiment a bit. I do wonder, though: could a relationship end over the loss of a thrown tennis-ball?

PS: The title's a work-in-progress, too. Titles would have to be my Achilles' heel.

Beta-Readers And The Art of Tutoring

     Hey everyone! First off, I’m posting tonight in need of a few people. I’m working hard towards getting published, amongst my time tutoring and teaching, and I’m getting nothing but positive comments from my professor. While that’s nice to hear, and is a very good thing for a writer to know, I still need a few folks I can rely on to give me constructive opinions on my writing. 

      I’m pretty divided when it comes to what I write; some days I write more human stories while the rest I focus my hand at anthropomorphic creatures. Furthermore, a majority of my stories fall under horror, suspense, sociology of every day life, and some other genres. You don’t need to be into these genres, but it can help me if you are.
      Obviously I won’t be able to pay you, but I can acknowledge you with gratitude, and I only hope you find joy in helping someone further their career and passion. If you’re interested please note me here with a cover letter explaining any experience, education, or creative background you feel might help. Again, I’m not looking for you to be interested in my genres, or be a fellow tutor of the English language, but it would certainly help. Thank you!

     Moving on now, I'm interested in discussing a bit about my current experiences in tutoring English, a job I've had for just around a month. It's a fun job that forces me to be social in situations I can't control, which to say is very good for me as a person. Most of my days are spent behind this dusty, music screaming laptop without any interaction outside my home beyond the internet. If lucky, I get to hang with friends, and if not--time for writing.

     But tutoring allows me to meet new people, learn their stories, and show my compassionate, creative side to others. I joke with our director, Dr. David Charbonneau, that I care too much some times. He laughs at me and says that's fine, but don't help too much or skip appointments. If only it was as easy to do the former as he says. 

     Furthermore, tutoring strengthens my knowledge more than students I'm working with (genius, as I say!). My professor and some-what of a mentor in creative-writing, John Brantingham(1), brought this up during one of our class sessions. He mentioned that our knowledge is built stronger by teaching someone because we hear it for the second time, an enforce it into our minds. I like to joke that that's a double-edged blade, but sadly it's not a joke, and forces me to make sure my understanding is concise and correct.

     Tutoring is a great way to improve not only as a writer, but as a respectable person in society. You hear so many stories of growth from students, and learn how people deal with society now in its tragic, strenuous occurrences. I've learned so much about people, and feel I will only learn more about society and the human heart as time goes on. My stories will improve; my understanding of life will improve. Not only does this push me further into a career I can enjoy, but I get payed too. That's kind of a plus, I guess.

1.  John Brantingham can be found here, on blogger, at http://www.johnbrantingham.blogspot.com .

In The Light of The Moon

     Sitting with the window open, I want to wish everyone a happy, safe Halloween. I won't be celebrating this year, but I plan to spend the time writing more eerie, suspenseful short-stories.

What Goes Bump In The Mind

     When it comes to literature, of any form, I really enjoy a good horror story; ghost, werewolf, apocalypse,  mutation, or demon stories are my favorites. From those I would have to say Ghost stories play a huge role as to who I am as a writer, and storyteller.
     I grew up in the east end of Los Angeles, California, with my grandparents and twin-brother. Our parents always worked, so we didn't have any support at home, which is why we lived so far from them. Our grandparents raised us for fourteen years, and that came with everything from schoolwork and sickness, to punishments and summer vacations. Of course we saw Mom and Dad occasionally but it wasn't enough for us. Not only weren't we able to see them, but it felt as though our grandparent's home was a much creeper place than it was.
     We would hear the floorboards creaking, footsteps down the hall, and other strange, unexplainable noises (the creaking could have been the house shifting, but it moved across the hallway and living room when heard). Late at night, during the summer, me and my brother would be forced to bed when the sensation of being watched from behind grew too much. It was eerie enough to make us stay up late at night to see what would happen, ultimately running to our room.
     Asides from our childhood, which seems to be a story of its own, I've had several encounters with the paranormal throughout my life: visiting San Francisco, one of the cities I've grown attached to, a trip to the Queen Anne Hotel has given me physical proof that spirits are seen as living energy; walking through the labyrinth of the Winchester Mystery House's upper floors, as well as basement, revealed that people do linger behind after death, and can cause odd things to occur many years later. Even in our own home, we've had things moved on their own, bed sheets tugged away, and an ominous sensation of being followed.
     As a writer I'm drawn to the paranormal because I think it amplifies a fear that we all can agree we have: fear of the unknown. Will it harm us? Do spirits talk? How can I feel comfortable in my own home if a stranger is always watching me? The unknown forces the reader, or person it's interacting with, to understand that there are some things out there that we might not have control over, and having no understanding of it just makes it a bit more startling. How can you stop a murderer if you have no understanding as to how or why he does what he does? How can you escape a paranormal entity if it follows you on end without reason?
     With that in mind, explore what makes you startled, or something that's out of your control and completely a mystery to you. Halloween is the perfect time to understand your fears, weaknesses, and even your strengths. Just know that whatever is watching you from outside the window is there to help you in your creative pursuits--or to watch as you sleep.

        Below are two photos of spirit-orbs from the Queen Anne Hotel in San Francisco, California.

Hook

     When I write my stories I always enjoy starting off right into the story, with some sort of action, reaction, or dialogue that throws us in. Tutoring writing, it's common to work with many different levels of students who are all trying to start their papers off in the same way, wanting to lure the reader in and keep them engaged.
     I always tell them they need to capture the reader's attention, and to write it as though they were reading it for the first time--what would they want to read? My example of a hook, for a short-story, would be the following:

     "Stephanie flung from her bed when she heard a crash next door, through the cardboard thick drywall--it came from the baby's room."

     How would you start off a story? Would you give some background to the world, and paint a picture that the reader can go off of, or do you want the reader snagged in by unending suspense?

"Best Friends Forever" -Short Story

      “Why do we have to put him down, Dale? Why can't he just live with us on the farm?”

      “Because that's what happens to horses, Mitch. Once their leg breaks they're no good.”

      “Just because their leg breaks doesn't mean they're broken!”

      “Sorry, Mitch, but we have to do it.”

       Mitch pulled on the rifle in Dale's hand. It clacked with its broken strap and loose hammer, but still worked well despite its age. That wasn't what Mitch was hoping for, though. He didn't mean to hurt his horse; he didn't mean to try and jump a fence without training, and when Dale came home to find his younger brother's face torn up bloody with mud in the wounds, he learned what had happened. He got all the mud out of Mitch's face.

     “But I need him, Dale!”

     “You don't need him, but we needed him. Without a horse we won't be able to plow the fields, and if we don't plow we'll starve, or lose the farm, even.”

      The younger boy yanked hard on the weapon. “But momma said he would be my best friend forever!”

     “Horses don't live forever, Mitch. I'm sorry to tell you that, but they don't.” With a tap of his foot Dale shoved Mitch to the ground.

     The boy began to sob and with the bruises and scars he looked like quasimodo had fallen from the bell towers. Shades of black, blue, and violet scarred the upper half of his torso. Momma would be upset to see him like this.

     “I'm sorry, Mitch.” Dale said.

     “No, you're not. You never let me have a best friend!”

      Dale flinched with tears in his eyes. “That's not true. Remember when I bought you the fish, and then the gerbil?”

     “It is true, and your stupid cat ate all of those!”

    “What about me; aren't I your best friend?”

    “You never let me play with you, and I can't even sleep in your room!”

      Dale sighed. He looked down at the gun. It wasn't easy taking away a life. The tears, running past his brother's cheeks and bruises, crushed him inside, but with this horse injured, ruined, the only option was to save it from misery and go buy a new one. Papa would find Mitch a new, good horse. He was sure of it.

     “I don't ever mean to upset you, Mitch. You're my little brother, and I love you, but I need to put Maple out of his misery. You hear me?” He said.

     The boy looked down, still crying.

    “He was the best horse for what he was—”

    “Is! For what he is!”

    “Yes, he's a great horse. We can't just let him hurt so bad, though.”

     Mitch sniffed, wiped his face, but screamed when he touched the bandaged, torn skin.

    “Please don't be mad at me, please.” Dale lowered to one knee and placed his hand out. “I love him just as much as you do.”

     He didn't take his hand. Mitch looked into the young man's eyes with a fire that could've burned the house down. His attention turned to the hand, which was wet with tears and mud—the mud from Mitch's wounded face.

    “I don't want him to go, Dale.” He said.

    “Neither do I.”

     The grandfather clock ticked by the door. The house let out a groan as it settled in place.

     A tear ran from Dale's eyes.“Come on; think you can say bye to him one last time?”

     The stables were filled with the stench of manure and blood. Horses, cows, and two of the herding dogs each rested on a pile of their own hay behind the seperate doors. Whimpers escaped from the dogs, and the horses figited and nickered with quick, moving eyes.

     Dale pulled Mitch in past the door as it creaked open. Before they moved any further, the young man nudged the door closed with his boot and lifted the bolt handle on the rifle, loading it.

    Mitch flinched from the loud clack of the gun.

   “Easy there, kid.”

   “Sorry.” He said. Tears still dripped from his chin.

    The boys walked in further, but were stopped when the smell of putrid meat hit them in the nose. It wrinkled their faces, and Mitch began to choke when the sweetness hit the back of his throat.

   “It's infected; that's how it smells when a wound's infected.” Dale said.

   “What does it mean when it's infected?” Mitch asked.

   “Bad news.”

    They turned, and Mitch ran over to a stable door's lever. He lifted and slid it out from its slot, allowing the door to swing open.

    Rested on its side, in a pile of ruby hay, was a colt. The white socks on its feet were torn off with strands of fence wiring clung on. Its body, once covered with brown fur, had been stained black with blood and dirt, with rocks and thorns still poking out from the stomach. The young horse's chest lifted in swift breaths, and it cried out whenever it moved too much.

   “Jesus, Mitch. Where were you riding him?”

   “I saw that show where they jump horses over fences, so I wanted to try jumping him over the garden fence.”

    He winced. “Momma's going to be mad when she sees her roses.”

   “Please, please don't tell her.” Mitch said.

    Dale moved close to the horse, and kneeled down to look him over.

    The colt bucked and thrashed in the hay, and screamed when pain flared through its bandages of flesh.

   “Easy, boy. Easy there.” He said.

    Mitch stayed at the door, crying. He didn't notice the tears falling from Dale's eyes, or the way his hands, glued to the withered varmint rifle, shook with pale knuckles.

   A mare looked over the side of the stable, and winnied out when Dale would move in too close.

  “Mitch,” he said. “I want you to say bye to him, then go stand outside of the barn. You understand me?”

  “Yes, Dale.” He nodded his head. Try to be a big boy, his momma always would say. He walked up to the colt and gave a wave.

    The colt, its eyes wide and frantic, looked up to him with another cry.

   “I love you, Maple.” He said. Mitch turned around and ran out the stable door.

     Dale waited for a minute until he could see over the fence and watch the large, barn door swing open from above, then close. He aimed the gun at Maple.

     The horse looked up to him.

     Dale peered in the deep, black eyes and saw his brother: he saw the days spent feeding the young colt; he saw when Maple snuck into the garden to eat the apples, and Mitch was there to protect him; he saw the day the young horse was born, a day when they had pancakes for breakfast, and Mitch demanded they named him after the syrup.

    “I'm so sorry,” he said.

     Mitch ran from behind the stable wall, crying, towards the horse. “Maple!”

     Dale jumped, and fired a round into the colt's long face.

     Mitch screamed.

   “You shot him in the face!” He fell to his knees at the young horse's side. “You shot him in the face!”

   “Damn it!” Dale said. “I told you to wait outside. Why didn't you go outside?!”

   “You shot him in the face!”

    The small boy screamed when Maple's head flung up and caught his arm in the jaws of its snout. Blood coated his lower arm, and the colt cried out in pain, pulling and tugging on him.

    Dale watched as Mitch was dragged about from the cheekless, deformed creature, screaming. 

The Twelve Steps To Become A Writer

1. Read.
2. Read.
3. Read.
4. Write.
5. Read.
6. Write.
7. Delete
8. Write.
9. Hit a horrible, month long block.
10. Write.
11. Hit a breakthrough.
12. Write some more.

Interesting Writing Methods

     Every once in a while I hear some sort of new, and even strange writing method. By writing method, I mean how people get their stories down on the paper. It's fascinating to discuss this with other writers, because you learn so much about what works and what doesn't for you. Some lead the writer into starting at the very end, then working his way up to the beginning. Another one I've heard is to start way before the action, suspense, or general plot even starts, then erase it to the portion where the story really gets moving.
     For me, when I explain to others my method they look at me as though I'm crazy, or begin to throw questions at me as to why. I attend conventions that focus on comics, japanese animation, and Anthropomorphic animals--society knows such people as "Furries." I've been in several fandoms for a while, and while there are those several folks who are odd, different, or just a little creepy, there's a whole network of artists, writers, bloggers, and musicians that not only push each other, but help along the way. I feel comfortable at times writing my stories with anthropomorphic animals, or other types of characters. It gives it a different touch, in my opinion. Once I finish the story, I either erase all the animal characteristics--make them human--or if it works well I try to figure out what the story's about, and tie in symbolism to make it work.
     It's not exactly the strangest method, but it does make others ponder (having to explain why I use it is always a new experience). Of course, not all my stories use this method, such as adult stories, and I'm trying get into a normal swing of writing. What kind of methods do you use, and how do they push you through your work?

Writing: Getting Started

     Writing always comes off as a difficult, however, rewarding craft. Many youth and students start with the occasional class poetry, short stories, and the academic essay. College seems to focus more on proving your logic and arguments through a series of given evidence and background on the subject. Other classes, more advanced, of course, focus on the analyzation of modern literature, or even the bible, and its effect on the mind and society. These all are things people struggle with when it comes to school--let's not even get started with math--but how would a student even get started with writing? After having attended several classes, and working with students in the Writing Center on campus, it has come to my attention that there's the biggest question of all: "how do I even get started?"
    I started a new position at my College's Writing Center as an english tutor. A majority of the students who visit want assistance on grammar, punctuation, and simply to "just write the damn thing for me." Asides from my work, I spend my Thursday nights in a creative-writing class, led by John Brantingham (link provided below). John spends three hours with students, including myself, to explain the writing process and mind frame of a writer; furthermore, the class forms into a workshop setting, where all students are required to show their best respect to others, be professional, or they will get a swift kick out the door. I can't help but imagine what would actually happen if someone was disrespectful enough. The class has many questions of course, and the students range from basic to publishing in their skills. He explains that Character, conflict, and desire are the three major points of story (Brantingham). From there, a student writer could move the story forward.
    Essay writers are less understanding when it comes to this idea. Academic writers don't want to jump in. They know that in order to construct a strong argument, research and good sources are needed. They are afraid that once they get started, everything will be chiseled permanent into a block of granite. If you tell them to just start, they will look at you as if you just dropped a cat several stories. Essays are planned to the bricks, while fiction is all about what happens next. So, what happens next? Just like John Brantingham mentioned, character, conflict, and desire are all very important. From that point on, in my mind, it's all up to the characters what they wish to do next. Let them run free; let them fuck up their lives. You as the writer must only show us what happens, and the characters are what drives this baby forward. If there's a murderer on their heels then show us how they hide in the closet with their sniffles projected past the door, and if they just lost their wife, well, show us how they fight against alcoholism and understand that they are better than that. Not only does this feel spontaneous, but it is spontaneous--that's life. Even with the use of CCD (conflict, character, desire), many argue that inspiration plays a big part--not so, says others.    
      In his book On Writing, Stephen King describes that "'read a lot, write a lot' is the Great Commandment [of writing]" (151). "I used to tell interviewers that I wrote every day except for Christmas, the Fourth of July, and my birthday. That was a lie...I write every day, workaholic dweeb or not" (King 153). When starting to write fiction, the best way, that I've learned, is to just start writing. Start with the action or drama; start with the tears or fears; start with the arguments, but whatever you do don't wait around for your inspiration to save you. Matching that phrase from a popular video-game, the muse is a lie. Reading every day allows the writer to learn from others: the greats and masters. They play a role as your instructor, and can ease any misunderstanding such as how to write dialogue well. Writing every day allows the creativity to flow; with your mind constantly in creative drive, it's easier to write your next upcoming stories than waiting around for them to come.
     Of course, there are many ways for writers to get their stories down on the page. Outlines and plot summaries, with the assistance of research, help some while others keep away from the outlines like it's a rabies infected hornets nest--I choose the latter to an extent. In reality it's what works best for you and gets you working. Don't wait for the muse to sweep you off your feet; the muse is a gold-digging-hussy, only stealing your precious time. 

Stephen King's On Writing: A Memoir of The Craft--Tenth Anniversary Edition was used in this essay.

John Brantingham's website is http://johnbrantingham.webs.com/    
He also has a blog, here, at http://johnbrantingham.blogspot.com/      
  
  
  
  

     I've had this blog for quite a while, and while it's been empty, I've decided to open it up again after learning one of my professors uses it--which is saying a lot. I plan to use this to discuss my writing, post some short stories, and update where I'm going with literature based events. 

     That brings up the next issue: where are the literature based events? So far I know that there's the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, and my college pays host to an annual spring writers festival as well. They both play host to talented writers, including those who take charge of writing for television, publishers, and newsprint. If anywhere I'll start at my college due to its proximity to my courses.

     For now I plan to keep any short stories I create on the "down-low" as I work towards getting some works published. I've started to send some out, much thanks to the professor whom I've mentioned above, and expect a well polished rejection letter to be sent to me within the next few months. Hopefully this blog will be a way to branch out and expel my works to the masses, and allow me to discuss, if not vent, some thoughts I have on the writing business. 

Here; enjoy this photo of an orb I caught on camera while at the Queen Anne Hotel in San Francisco.