Writing Horror and Leaping from Chairs

          When I was five, or some age around then, my father showed my brother and me one of our first movies, Steven King's IT, starring Tim Curry. I screamed and hid my face, but I also watched in curious fascination. No, I didn't want to become some murderous clown. I like clowns, but I don't like those clowns. What interested me was how such a simple idea could tug on my fears and leave me shaking.
          Writing eerie, spine-chilling prose brings its own excitement, which is just as good as reading or watching horror. Watching IT, I had no idea what the characters were going to do or what Pennnywise was going to do. I was victim to the director's finished product. In writing, I find myself getting just as scared. Why?
          As a writer, one experiences some things for the first time much like the reader. We feel the startles and lures before the reader. We see what it's like to be in the situation the characters are in, deciding whether to take the stairs up or to jump out the suddenly unbreakable window and be dragged into the closet. Readers only experience the end result, which only takes one direction.
          We also experience nightmares like our readers, but ours are much more real: failure. There is not one author out there who does not worry whether his or her work will be the best he/she can do. We are writers because we have a certain amount of OCD in our DNA, but we embrace it with our editing and revising skills. We basically clean a closet until it's perfect for the eyes of others before moving to the next cluttered nook.
          My friend made me leap out of my chair when I was finishing my most recent piece. I had begun to pull out of the climax point, and the character is on her bed, crying. She hears the spiritual force knocking around the house then run down the hall, out the door, and possibly take her SO with it. This ending was one I didn't see coming, and I was worried if it was even the right ending to take.
         A pinging sounded screeched through my ear-bud headphones and into my ears.
         With a quick breath, my body rose from the chair and shuddered, and I cried out. I clicked the Facebook tab (which shouldn't have been open in the first place).
         Christine had sent me a photo of her cats with Santa. He couldn't hold them, so the jolly-man held their small paws. She laughed after a good scolding from me, and she told me to get back into my story.

Campus History That Lives

          Not so long ago, The Conjuring, a film based off an actual paranormal investigation and exorcism during the 60s, came out on DVD. The story is changed a bit just to keep audiences watching as usual, I believe, but the recreations of paranormal activity are pretty similar to the real thing: wall banging, hair pulling, skin biting and clawing, and item throwing can happen. It was just the other night, during a class of mine, that I felt my school might actually be haunted.
          It was a lecture during my Novel course, and I had my yellow legal pad out for me to take notes. We were discussing plot. I tried to think on how I could incorporate certain aspects into my current novel without pulling the fun from the characters.
          The sound of a desk moving came from the room's left corner. There was a projector, table, and leaning poster of Pulp Fiction sitting against the wall, but they hadn't moved.
          It had came from the other room, where the school's newspaper was made and edited. I read the newspaper whenever it comes out, and asides the occasional  grammar error, it's pretty strong. Their room is placed next to the computer lab I was going to use for work, before I changed rooms due to lacking keys.
          The Novel class would go until ten, and I asked myself what if the school was haunted like The Conjuring. Mt. San Antonio College (Mt. Sac) used to be a military hospital, first army then navy, during World War II. Not many students know this, and when they learn, it's a surprise.
          Locations such as Mt. Sac are prone to paranormal activity. The history is right, and the constant construction changes the landscape every year. When a location is changed from what it once was, spirits tend to be disturbed. This is mostly seen in homes and hotels, but if a location is carrying enough emotion in the walls, anything can happen.
          Which is why I wouldn't be surprised if Mt. Sac was haunted. While the desk could have been moved by a staff member, student, or custodian, it's easy to see where energy can be focused enough to yank an object for a couple of feet. The sound of boots clapping down an empty hallway would not be anything too far from real.
          The lecture finished at the hour. I stayed behind to talk with a couple of classmates and our professor. We talked about movies, the ones people have to watch. After ten minutes, I looked at the clock, said goodnight, and walked the empty but lit corridors to a supposedly empty parking lot.

Nanowrimo and the Invasion of the Body Snatchers

          On November 1st, precisely at twelve A.M. when everyone is to be asleep, select individuals are wiped clean of their existence. They are not the same person anymore; their name is a vague look back to the previous person who used to control the body. When they wake up, several hours later, they will get up, wash, and be changed forever.
          It sounds like a thrilling Science Fiction film, but it's Nanowrimo, the latest craze to hit the literary world since hardcover books. Nanowrimo is an annual event where writers promise to finish fifty-thousand words of a working novel draft within a month, and each day is a contest to complete the much needed word count goal. It illustrates the ongoing challenges authors go through while expressing that anyone can write if they sit down, silence everything, and write.
           But writing this much in a day is inhuman, alien even. Students, hobbyist, parents, and others take this challenge and become someone new. Their minds become driven to find the next plot point, the next story direction. Their fingers wriggle out in a flurry of typing. Even when away from a keyboard, the victim cannot control his or her hands as they wait to cling to a writing device. The host becomes, dare I say it, an author.
          Nanowrimo is great because it sets a goal for these new authors. Its no weaker than a manuscript deadline an editor might give, nor is it weaker than one an author would put on himself alone. Individuals can finish fifteen-hundred words in an afternoon and say, hey, I'm really doing this.
           Being an author is very difficult. While society might dictate that writing is simply play, it's not. We are paid little money, with little hope, to play the lottery with ourselves. Will this turn out as great as I thought? Who knows. Will I make it big? Why is this even a question? We writers write because we enjoy it, love it even. The rush of words coming from what feels like nowhere is cathartic, and we have to constantly fight ourselves for free time, something that is a luxury.
          That's what Nanowrimo gives us: a helping hand. You must get through your first draft without looking back, you must write this within thirty days, and you must enjoy yourself. That's it. It will not make you an award-winning author, nor will it make you the next Stephenie Meyers. However, it will change you, make you into a new being that's determined, creative, inspired, and perhaps even a future author.
          If you start talking about a spaceship or next big invasion, however, you're on your own.

Using Journalism as a Form of Character Creation

          It's been a while since I last posted here. School is in session, and work has me making sure students are on their game most of the time. This leaves little room for me to write anything out of my Novel course's required chapters (the class being taught by John Brantingham himself).
          When I'm free, however, I do find the time to draft short non-fiction pieces. I'm a huge fan of travel writing and watching a landscape come to life with just a few words. It's magic--the same magic which brought me into writing creatively. Even without traveling to my favorite city up north, I can at least describe it.
           There's another purpose to being a fictional reporter. As a writer, I find myself constantly squabbling over how important it is to give a strong, detailed character illustrated by his or her actions. The mind can only see so much, so I have to put the character to work, just so everything becomes clear to the reader. In a recent, featured article in The Writer, Patrick Scalisi discusses how a writer can form stronger characters just by treating an exercise as if a professional, journalistic interview. It doesn't require the author to be a professional in journalism, as Scalisi argues, and it allows the writer to express any ideas while letting the character have his or her way.
          Interested in non-fiction, I decided to give it a try with my latest character, Paul, a narcissistic cheater living two lives.. The interview piece is short, but I was able to see more so on the first layer of my character, Paul Greer, while understanding what he has to hide deep inside. Here's what came out:

          The ferry roars into the docks and when settled, its gates open to let out dripping tourists and locals, each with cameras in their hands. Their ponchos glisten against the muted background of San Francisco's bay, and I watch them peel the layers away until they stand in jeans and sweaters.

          One man stands in a polo-shirt and pair of slacks. In his hand, he has a cell-phone and pair of bug-eyed sunglasses.

           Paul Greer works in Los Angeles as an attorney and public speaker. For him, traveling up north is just another day to add to his resume. We sit down on a bench in front of the clock tower standing over Market Street, with sandwiches in our hands, warm.

           “My trips are usually centered on wealthy businessmen, divorcing families, land owners.”

           “Do you ever feel the drive's too much?”

            He smiles and I can see lettuce stuck between his teeth. “It's worth it.”

           For him, the cool winds overlap into his burning world down south, where his family lives and works without him. He brings them food, souvenirs, and portraits they cannot get unless they spend the salary on traveling, something he says is an arguable approach.

            “My wife has a kid, and there's another one on the way.”

           “Does that upset you they'll be growing up only seeing you half of the time?”

           “We get used to it, and my son knows a trip means toys, bread.” He takes another bite out of his sandwich. “He's fond of those shaped bread loaves, from Boudin's.”

            As we're talking, a group of students rush to a halted street-car, the F-Line. The bell rings and the back door opens. Passengers get out, and Paul watches. We wait for the door to close and the tube of chrome to screech away.

            “I never get used to this city. I call it the city of love, and each drive up here is a new experience, new dream.”

           My sandwich begins to get cold as a pelican waddles up, head turned and eyes watching me. “What does an attorney dream of?”

           He holds for a second when the bird moves up, and his right foot lifts, scaring the pelican away.

           “I've asked the same thing with the Boogeyman, and I still haven't found an answer. I go where the money is.”

           “And is the money always in San Francisco?”

            He nods his head, bites the steaming pastrami once more, and doesn't wait to speak. “Sometimes,” he says. “Sometimes.”

John Brantingham is an author teaching in Southern California. His work can be found at johnbrantingham.blogspot.com.

The Writer is a monthly publication, which can be found online at Writermag.com.

"Character Profile," written by Patrick Scalisi, can be found here, http://www.writermag.com/2013/09/30/character-profile/

 

Things That are Warm in the Night

           My twin-brother opened my door and told me that there was something wrong. He looked surprised, and even if it did jolt me, I took a second before turning my chair to look at him. He was dressed, and the light from his room glistened in the hallway's mirror.

           I asked him what was wrong, and he told me that something turned the fan on. Both him and his girlfriend were in bed, napping, and it just turned on without anyone pressing the button. It was his girlfriend who woke up first, then she turned over and shook him awake to see.

           Electricity can do that, though. If the device is used repeatedly after some time of service, energy can move through and power the device without having to be turned on. Think of it like a congested highway tunnel emptied of the rush hour crowd, ready to be used by locals.

           I did think of the times I felt someone in my room, however. Also, after returning from a trip to the gym, I found my pair of dumbbells stacked on top of each other, waiting for me on my desk chair. My blankets have even been pulled from me one night, too, but that's just what it felt like. It could've been me kicking them down.

           So I didn't say anything, and I just listened. When he was finished, I let him know to tell me if it happened again. The fan would turn on one more time before they left to his girlfriend's home, startled.

           It's always best to be a skeptic when anything supposedly paranormal occurs, whether at home or not. The fact that something as such happened is interesting, but nothing too much to raise an eyebrow for. Years of being a paranormal junkie have desensitized me to the littlest things, such as when I went to a haunted tour in San Francisco, and when the tour guide said we might've caught orbs, I simple shrugged and said, "it could be dust."

           He wasn't too happy that others grew discouraged.

           I've gone into my brother's room to see if the fan will turn on for me. It hasn't yet, but when he's gone and the Xbox is open for me to play, I'll go in and sit for a while, with Minecraft on the screen, waiting to see if the fan will turn on without one press of its controls.

Summer Travels

          Napa, California, was something more than what I expected it to be. At first, I had heard it was where tourists visited to taste wine, get drunk, then regret it and move on back towards their work schedules and lives. My friends made it sound as though it was a location filled with older people three-times my age and up taking photos to show their grandchildren. My grandmother had planned it, and while she is older, I didn't take what my friends had said and applied it to her. Instead, I went with an open mind, a legal pad, and a plan.
          My brother decided not to come with us, but that didn't stop the rest of us from enjoying ourselves. Of course, there's the wine, which starts at downtown Napa and leads up north past where he had stopped, a winery built within a renaissance-esque castle.

          But I wasn't there for wine. Instead, I was there with the opportunity to tell others I had been there, something much like the idea that it's more fun to have written than to actually write. I did taste wine, but it was too dry for me, and when I did find the wines I enjoyed, the one slipping my glasses gave me two bottles and a wave of the hand (I think my grandma bought three).
          Wine is not the only taste of Napa, we learned, as I had spotted a diner filled with people out the front and down near the curb. Stopping, we had lunch and the burgers, much to my expectations, were amazing. As a write, I would make up some excuse to return and draft a novel, or an article such as this. But I would return in actuality to this very stand, and I would have another of their delicious bacon-cheeseburgers.

          Throughout the trip, my legal-pad sat in my Mickey Mouse labled backpack, and stories bled out of me unlike anything I had experienced before. Driving up the 5 at the start, I thought of a man driving home from a business conference to a static-filled radio; however, in the static, he hears the world ending and his loved ones dying. While trying to find our hotel, I illustrated the conflicts faced within five pages and thought of a gas-station attendant too bored out of her mind that she helped us. I sit here now remembering these incidents and tales, and it feels as though I could push them out as one reads this.
          We left Napa only after a short stay and traveled to San Francisco, a city too close to my heart to forget. It's a different world in that several different cultures blend into one fondue of creativity, openness, and passion. Walking down the streets and seeing the filled cable cars demonstrates the passion these people hold while going to a Giants game. Visiting Milk Plaza and seeing a district built on rights and freedom is eye-opening to say the least. The music's not bad, either. In this way, traveling is an amazing way to see what's out there--artist, writer, student, or none.

          I travel with my family every summer, and even though some rides can be rough, the ability to capture an entire destination in words and pictures is astounding. Growing up, I never had the chance to see outside the walls of my family's homes. Now, as I travel to conferences, conventions, and possibly haunted locations, my life is able to become something much grander than what I had ever dreamed. Writers, spend some time out in the world and see what's out there to inspire you. Artists, visit the oceans, mountains, and sunsets, and capture it all in paint, sketch, or photography.
          Families, don't bring your six-year-old to Napa and ask him why he won't keep quiet. He won't, so just go with it, and write it down.

Summer Time Blues: The Itch of Music

          It was 2010 when I had last marched. When I moved to Chino in 2006, my new high school was known for its award-winning marching band, and my parents wanted my twin and me to join immediately. Music became a part of us, and I sit here in my room thinking back on when I marched in a Drum Corp, an elite group of musicians working only towards the best--that was in 2009.
          The corp and I were in Wisconsin, and the streetlights had just turned on out in front of the school where we were rehearsing and housing. Crickets, frogs, and unseen creatures orchestrated the darkness, but our arc of standing musicians kept us confident.
          I held one of the larger horns, an instrument somewhere between a trumpet, tuba, and trombone--the euphonium. For my size, I was able to carry it well, and I felt my playing gave one of the better sounds in my section. We were a small corp, so there wasn't much competition if there was competing.
          Our instructor moved in front of us holding a plastic block and a chiseled and chewed drumstick. His eyes moved over us, and with a hit of the block we swung our horns up. He hit the block again, counting, and we began to play.
          Notes echoed out into the empty streets behind, bouncing from the trees we were aimed at. The sounds of nature had died as we grew louder, and to us, nothing was more important than perfection. Our twelve-hour days were nothing but back-to-back playing and running. Our legs were the gears working to form symettrical and intricate shapes to the sounds of drums and our horns. We were tired, but we wouldn't go take anything but the best.
          At the far corner of the arc, however, a trumpet player threw down his horn from his lips and slapped his neck. Then, he slapped his arm.
          I could feel the entire arc stop at look at him even as we continued to play to the beaten counts.
          Then, a mellophone player dropped their horn and smacked their leg.
          A tuba flinched and nearly toppled over.
          Two more trumpets spasmed and turned their heads. Finally, the beat stop as the conductor cried out and dropped his stick.
          For minutes, we passed around a silver can of bug spray. The mosquitoes buzzed in our ears and dug their sharp faces into our warm skin at any point they could find. I had placed my horn on the ground; the bugs forced me to move like a schizophrenic boxer, scratching and itching. We never went on, and it was decided to just go in and rehearse in a gym somewhere. When we found no such thing, the directors simply scratched their swollen pockmarks and called it a night.
        
         California is much different in that our evenings aren't so hectic with insects. The news mentions something about mosquitoes once or twice every two or three months, but bug spray sales suffer in comparison to other states.
        I've aged out, finally, and the music has died in me from where it last was. My parents still bring it up, the music, and I can find my mother watching old videos of rehearsals, performances, or going through a stack of photos unrecognizable to me.
       In my top left drawer, beneath the stacks of legal paper, pencils, and dried up sticky-notes full of ideas, I have a small black box. It's dirty, and the sticker label on it is warn out with a crust of dirt and oil. Sometimes when feeling down, however, I open it to find a glistening silver mouthpiece with one dent on the lip and grease stains at the stem from where my horn once held. That's when I feel the itch the most.
     

The Top Six Recognizable Cars in Film and Television History

          I'm not much of a car guy; of course, when it comes to transportation, cars are important. Growing up, however, they didn't interest me other than their purpose. Instead, I grew up around film and media: I worked as a background actor and appear in such films as Seabiscuit, The Terminal, and in shows such as The Bernie Mac Show, JAG, Gilmore Girls, and more. In the movies, cars are much more than transportation--they're characters.
          Rather than go on a huge discussion on which cars do what in every single film, I've comprised a list of the top 6, ranging anywhere from the past to modern day.

Number 6: The Dukes of Hazard

          Whether its the bright orange and contrasting 01, or the infamous horn that can be found anywhere from ringtones, television, or actual novelty horns, The Dukes of Hazard's General-Lee is one of the more recognizable vehicles in film and television history. Even in video-games such as Grand Theft Auto, cars reminiscent of the Duke boys' ride can be found. This here vehicle is nothing but mischief.

Number 5: Bat mobiles

          New or old, Bruce Wayne's vehicles are a must on any car and film lover's list. Sleek, sexy, or ust plain obnoxious, we all grew up watching at least one of these stylish forms of transportation blasting through Gotham after the Joker, Penguin, or Riddler. My personal favorite is the tumbler from Nolan's Dark Knight trilogy. Which is yours?

Number 4: Simpson car

          Over hundreds of television episodes and one feature length film, The Simpsons' car is familiar for such scenes as the infamous introduction, Marge driving away from Homer, and road-trips to Krustyland. In close distance with this vehicle is Homer's famous pink car, but let's not say we would ever forget that bent antennae.

Number 3: 007 Aston Martin

          Need I explain? Sexy women, metal teeth, deadly bowler hats, and one thrilling game of poker; 007 is known throughout the world, and his car follows right with him. Whatever you do, however, don't blow it up.

Number 2: Ghostbuster Car

          Is it an ambulance? Is it a hearse? Whatever it is, it's not afraid of any ghosts. The Ghostbuster car is #2 for its gang of humorous doctors and scientist. Yes, it is a big twinkie.

Number 1: Back to the Future DeLorean

          Doc Brown's famous time machine is at the top with its twin-wing doors, blaring lights, and flashing flux-capacitor (whatever that is). Dreamt up after a toilet-hit to the head, the DeLorean can be found all over 80s memorabilia and the Universal theme parks. Today, actual working DeLoreans matching the film's are made and sold by private makers, pushing this vehicle to the top of the film-nut's list of wanted chariots. ow, can someone explain what a Jiggawatt is?

          ow, these are only six vehicles out of hundreds of movies. There are many more recognizable cars such as the Munster's mobile and Kip from Nightrider. The question is simple: which is your favorite and why?

Handling Rejection: Advice for the New Writer

          When I first started writing, rejection was a weight in my stomach that never went away. Even today, it's still there, and with each story I send out, the weight grows stronger. But that's not what writing's about, I tell myself.
          Yes, rejection is a natural part of the writing process. Some stories work with some magazines, and other stories need to be placed somewhere else--that's how the business works. However, we write because we have a story to tell, something that someone out there must know. For myself, it's the common struggle that minorities face every day as they work towards equality or a higher form of understanding. To others, it might be an action filled, horrifying tale of what happened during vacation. Now, in what part of these is there rejection?
             It's crazy, but being a writer is all about, you guessed it, writing. Publishing is only a gold coin that adds flavor to our passion, so if one magazine doesn't accept our story, we can look at the story for what it is, maybe revise it a bit more, then move to the next magazine and see where it goes--that's it.
          Writers carry such a burden with rejection, however, because it's their work--their children. To see our offspring be rejected is hard, and it does hurt. Writers need to remember, however, they are not being rejected as a person.
          In Catch! A Fishmongers Guide to Greatness, Cyndi Crother and the World Famous Pike Place Fish crew discuss that when working, they carry a short motto that allows them to remember everything's not as bad as it seems. Their phrase is "it's all over here," meaning that whatever negative ideas that are thought are not from others, but from ourselves (16). When I first started writing, I felt that I would never get published. At the time, I felt that in order to be a writer, I needed to be published. Writing stories became difficult because I would want them perfect, and the pieces eventually just ended up in my laptop's recycle bin. However, once I let go that editors and publishers were out to destroy my work and mood, writing and submitting became easier.
          And that's the most important thing: submitting and being rejected is easy. When someone asks if we would like a glass of water, and we say no, the other person hopefully is not hurt by our rejection. The same thing applies here, but editors feel that our work is not fit for their magazine. Well, what do we do after a rejection, then?
          Send to another magazine and keep writing.
         It takes courage to continue to send out stories, poems, and novels with the idea rejection could be there, but rejection is not a way to destroy us. Publishers and editors want our stories; they want someone to hear what we have to say. As writers, our job is to enjoy our passion and see who else possibly would like to tell our story.
          It's been a year since my first story was accepted, and for twelve months I received a large amount of rejections. Instead of letting them burden me, I printed the first rejection I received and posted it on the wall, telling myself that it's just a piece of paper ("It's all over here"). As authors, our job is to tell a story, and someone out there wants to hear it. It might take time to find that person, but when we do find them, it's the best feeling ever.
          Until then, we just keep writing.

Redmond, Seattle, and the Haunted Saloon

          For the past few years, vacation has been something hard to come by. School, work, and hobbies always came in the way. Thankfully, I had one week before the next intercession of my school begins and I return to work, so I took it upon myself to schedule a trip up northwest to Washington, a place that has always interested me due to its culture, history, and weather. Heading up there, I didn't know what to expect.

Washington's known for its sprawling forest scenery and wet weather.

          I stayed in a small apartment in a city near Seattle, called Redmond, known for Microsoft which is located near the highway. Waking up was an experience as the sounds of the trickling stream and pond behind my friend's cozy home eased me, and sleeping was orchestrated by toads and owls. The trip was spent here mostly, my friend and I watching horror movies and documentaries, but when we had the chance, we took the bus and headed towards Seattle.
         

A small distance from the apartment, this brook was a calm getaway for reading.

     The main focus within Seattle was to experience the culture and history of Washington. I grew up hearing about a city within the north built on the creativity and hard work of those who braved the constant rain. One major landmark of this would be the Pikes Place Farmers Market, and it was just amazing. For roughly a mile, vendors with a history of thirty plus years shouted, hooted, and welcomed passing tourists and shoppers into their stores of fresh fish, cheap books, and indie artwork.

Pikes Place Farmers Market

          The day went by fast, and eventually, my friend and I grew hungry but were low on money. Thanks to Yelp!, a local place was suggested and we made our way to Seattle's Merchant's Cafe and Saloon. It was said and written to be the oldest cafe and saloon within Seattle, something my friend said I had to experience even if she had never been there, and I ordered the grilled cheese with bacon and fresh fries; however, that was not the only thing that came with the meal: the location is haunted.
          Yelp! comments stated that the ghosts were active on occasion, and immediately, I asked the host if the place truly was haunted. He stated, yes, it was, and things tend to happen on ocurrance. I took a shot and asked if I could investigate, and he instructed for me to head to the basement, where the restrooms are located, and to "do [my] thing." As soon as dinner ended, I was on my way with camera in hand--I wish I had my recorder, however.
          The basement was illuminated more than I had anticipated, holding both a lounge and the restroom, but no one was down there at the time. Within stepping down the steps, the atmosphere felt heavier than upstairs. It wasn't negative, but it was noticeably different. I began to snap photos as my friend sat hirself (excuse the pronoun; she's agender, a division of the transgender community, and looked over the room, taking it in. After several shots, I captured orbs, supposed forms of energy that are manifested by spirits, but I knew that it was a poker game with such things. After spending a while downstairs, I said thank you and left.
          Back home, I've looked back on the trip. Yes, I've gathered several stories that I wish to write, and I was able to pick up many trinkets and wet clothing along the way. It was sad leaving my friend of 7 years behind when I had just met her in person at the start of the week, but I hope to return or drag hir down to southern California another time.
          I've looked through the photos of the Merchant's Saloon, and not much has stood out to me as far as what was captured, but I did find one photo that stood out to me. The world is full of skeptics, and orbs do have a tendency to get confused with dust and water particles, and even insects, but this orb out of all of the photos takes on an illumination of its own, and to compare, I've pasted a photo with dust below, followed by the orb. View it in an analytical perspective as you will--these photos have not been modified in any form, shape, or manner other than uploading into this post.

On the top right against the bricks, this can be argued as dust due to the translucent center and bright ring; also, it is in a dusty area of the basement against bricks.

In contrast, up against the ceiling is an orb that seems to be illuminated on its own brighter than usual; compare to the photo above.

Writing Tutoring and the Future

          As a writing tutor, I get an experience of both being a student and a teacher. It's an odd mix as I have never thought of myself as a teacher, but I've been told by students that's how we--meaning tutors--are seen as. That's not the reason I tutor, however. For me, tutoring is a way to keep myself busy and talking and thinking about writing. Some would argue that's like doing homework every day, but I find it play-time.
          This semester was different for me as I actually had a professor mentor over me while I tutored in her classroom. It was a new form of work I have never been given, and it brought many challenges along the way. But I ultimately learned a lot, such as how to handle the different types of learners further, how much planning goes into a lesson, how flexible a professor/instructor must be with the tasks at hand and how the students digest it, and how many ways writing can be looked at. Not only did this help me as a tutor, but this affected me in my writing.
          The structures and tones I witnessed opened my eyes, and the stories some students told me gave me a further glance into human nature and the conflicts that can occur. One student, an older woman, told me large stories of her day-to-day concerns and accomplishments; then she proceeded to discuss how if something happens on a small scale, it can affect her and the day in its entirety. Story wise, this gave me the opportunity to apply ideas on character direction in impossible, stressful situations.  Even in non-stressful situation, a character could react horribly, putting them into a new conflict (though, the student I speak of never did such a thing, I must add). The position didn't just affect my fiction, but it changed how I viewed my own future and direction.
          Two years ago, I would have never thought of becoming a professor in anything, but I fin myself thinking towards the idea every day. Being payed to help others and push them to a new level with writing, something I'm passionate for, sounds amazing even there are those who are obviously less passionate. Furthermore, my own studies have revealed that I'm heavily interested in focusing on female literature and feminist arguments even more so than I had thought before. I plan to see a counselor next week and announce my major in English, so I'm excited, but as the semester wraps up, My plan is to dive heavily in fiction.
          As a student, it's difficult to find free time that works with class, work, and fiction writing. The same can be argued for anything: being a professor, parent, business-person, police-officer, etc. But these next few months will allow me to tackle my writing skills at the same level I had previously, and I will be able to read as many books as I want to assist. The students laughed when I stated I would be writing all summer, but they didn't realize how much this is a passion for me. That, or maybe my thriller stories are really starting to affect me.

Mother, Where and How Art Thou

          Growing up, I never saw my mother. That could be seen as a lie as I did see my mother, just rarely. I rarely saw my father too, and that can at times hurt a little; when I'm asked on who my parents are or what they do, I explain but don't go heavily into detail. With Mother's Day, that can be somewhat conflicting.
          It's okay to have certain feelings, of course. That's what makes us human. I was raised on the edge of East Los Angeles by my grandparents until the age of fourteen, right around when my grandfather passed away due to unknown reasons (at least to me, for I've never asked my family how or why he died). But me and my brother were happy regardless of our folks, who spent the week working: our father was a truck driver, and our mother is still currently a supervisor at Southern California's Gas Company. We would visit them on weekends by means of car, picked up by our father, inhaling the smoke of his cigarettes as it would coat the windows in ash. I always told my parents I had reasons why I can't smell.
          But the weekends were always happy memories. Mom would take us to the grocery store, and we would get cookies, fresh baked from the bakery. She would drive us early at dawn to Disneyland, a place that today is still a large part of my life for the memories we created; I'll never forget the week we took off of school to attend Disneyland's 50th Anniversary. I still have the souvenirs from that weekend.
          Sadly, our father was in a serious car accident that crippled him to a permanent limp. I don't remember how old I was, but again, I didn't know the severity at the time--he was delivering food to the local Mcdonald's on Central ave in Chino, when a car spread through parking lot, ran him over the hood and left him on the ground with a broken neck.
          He got back up and went straight to work until he could work no more.

Mom on the Las Vegas strip during a vacation.

          However, Mom pushed through it and still drove us where she could, cooked what we enjoyed, and took care of the house while Dad was recuperating. He never grew stronger, so he sits in the living room on a large leather chair. He watches television and reads, doing what he can to help.
           When I was in second grade, I had a freak accident and broke my right femur, supposedly the strongest bone in my body (of course, I took it to the challenge to prove science wrong). Immediately I was taken to the hospital by my grandmother, who phoned my mother. I was medicated and fell asleep under the pain, waking up occasionally to scream; the memory of crying at night with the cold, rigid metal brace against my back and mangled thigh is something I'll never forget. When I awoke, Mom was there, and for the next three months, working to get healthy so I could be home for Christmas, I found her staying at the side of my bed through the tears and joy. It wasn't until a week ago that I learned she was told by the doctor at the time I might have had bone cancer due to the broken femur. She told me, as I prepared for work, that she cried hard that day.
          And now when I'm soon to reach 21, a serious achievement for me after a couple of years of stress and fear, she is still there for me--for us--taking care of the family the best she can. Dad's unable to work due to his handicap, but he gets a check in from time to time, and Mom works every day of the week, late or early, and she even works weekends--the woman has 8 weeks worth of vacation saved for crying out loud.
         Growing older as an young author, I look back to see what parts of my history could make a story that affects people inside. The idea of changing someones life and proving to them they're not alone is something I strive for, and it's difficult. It really is. When ideas are dry, and the game system calls me, however, I think on my family, and especially my mother. She's showed me out of everyone that it's possible to have the strength to do anything, and I thank her for that.
          Now, if only I had the strength to clean my room.

Open Arms and Manuscripts: Writers' Weekend and the Jitters

          This past weekend in sunny Southern California, Mt. San Antonio College hosted its Writers' Weekend event, a three day conference consisting of students, professors, published writers, and professionals all following one passion: writing, of course! It started on Friday with opening ceremonies and pushed through to Sunday with hours of creativity and socialization. And as a writer with anxiety, this was an amazing experience.
          At the beginning, I was a bit nervous on what would happen, but in an hour of that, every sign of worry went out the door. Yes, I hand the schedule in my hands, and I had planned which events were my go-to choices, but that didn't make things easier; even with a clear path and destination, my mind is working overtime to try and plot possible scenarios. However, I found myself enjoying the plan I had set forth, and each panel was educational and enjoyable. One of the highest points was having the chance to meet Bonnie Hearn Hill, an author and one of the friendliest persons I have ever met. Walking in, I didn't know what to expect, but the discussion, which progressed for fifteen minutes, was amazing. We discussed writing in its structure and even found ourselves on the topic of Virginia Woolf. I passed a story to her and was ecstatic to find it was taken well; being creative, I take my work as what it is, but hearing someone compliment it nearly gave me heart-palpitations. The session reminded me that everyone in the writing community is there for each other, regardless of level, and that was a special thing to experience. While meeting other writers was a special moment, the panels were just as eye-opening.
          Sunny Frasier, an acquisitions editor and mystery author, hosted a panel on genre fiction, which presented the world of publishing in a realistic, understandable way. As artists, writers have multiple reasons for why they create, such as passion or hobbies. For me, writing is a form of release and meditation, communicating to the outside world what the darkness is and how to overcome it (Stephen King calls it telepathy in his memoir, On Writing [which you all should read!]). But, like everything, we writers need to make a living, and Sunny presented how it is possible to do so with publishing. Genre is a form of entertainment, like all forms of reading, but it's more commercial than literary fiction, text that is seen regularly in College. Sunny's words of encouragement and wisdom were entertaining on their, and I know that I'll be keeping these notes with me every time I write.
     While not as big as major writing conferences, Writers' Weekend brought me further into the literary world; I engaged myself with people of similar interests, and the anxiety and fear washed away at how excited and friendly everyone was. Of course, that's the case for everything, but in an art form that relies heavily on solitude, it's nice to remember that there are others out there pulling their hair just as much as I am.
          I highly recommend Writers' Weekend, whether handling anxiety, publishing, or not. It's a glorious event with educated, creative people, and they gave away free pizza (now, let's not make that the only reason it was great). Looking forward to returning, I plan to spread the word out, and use what I've learned for writing sessions to come. Kudos to John Brantingham, Llyod Aquino, Michelle Dougherty, and the volunteers who put it all together.

TC-Class: Parasitic Plagiarism and You

     The art of plagiarism is one many students find themselves running into, sucking the life out of their work and creating chaos. It is a tricky subject, plagiarism is, in that the idea of stealing someone's exact words, phrases, and ideas brings up quarrelsome thoughts to some writers: they are just words and expressions. This is where most incoming students get nailed, and they land on the receiving end of a failing grade, perhaps even expulsion.

      But to plagiarize something is actually quite tricky; to take someone's own words and try to pull them off takes some time to perfect, and, realistically, it is a wasted effort in the fact that he or she gets nothing out of it. No, in college, where ideas are to be expressed in an open, mature manner, it is much simpler, and fun, for the writer to create their own masterpiece of communication and spread it about the campus, possibly attached with a well deserved A.

      To refrain from plagiarism, it is best for the student to understand that everything a published writer brings to a work is by ownership his or her own: words, syntax (the way the words are pieced together), ideas (arguments, stories, logical connections, etc.); and if the work is of fiction, the student writer must remember to attach each bit of dialogue and plot structure into attribution, or giving credit back to the original author (“In the short story 'Apology Accepted,' John J. Lewis illustrates...”).

     MLA, or the Modern Language Association, is a swell group that provides structure and orderliness to the act of attributing a work; their handbooks direct student writers to introduce an author at the start, and follow up by mentioning him or her after each quotation or idea in parenthetical citations (along with a nifty page or paragraph number). When asked not to directly quote though, paraphrasing becomes a tricky obstacle.

     Paraphrasing can be difficult, but remember: it is telling the idea in your own words, still giving all credit back to the author. Located on their website, Purdue OWL states, "Paraphrasing is one way to use a text in your own writing without directly quoting source material. Anytime you are taking information from a source that is not your own, you need to specify where you got that information." Paraphrasing and quotations should be used as needed in order to respectfully attribute back to an author, but every original idea regarding a subject must come from the student. Look at it that the author still needs a reason to get payed for his or her work, and while you might not be payed, you are taking that away from him or her.

      As a student, the average college writer is stepping away from high school and onto bigger, better, less dramatic things, but that means giving credit where credit is due just as a professor would give a high passing grade for the work that student has completed on their own.

      Plagiarism is a parasitic pest; once a student begins to commit it, it will continue to grow in that student, and fester, until finally he or she is caught and removed like a tick, marked forever as a thief of logic. That is not to say that writing strong and logical, original ideas is difficult; rather, it is much easier in that the student writer is creating, bringing life into a piece that no one else has seen before. It is rewarding to see the polished work--the writer's own work--return without someone else stealing the vibes. Any college student, experienced or not, can argue the same.


Purdue OWL on Quoting, Paraphrasing, and Summarizing can be found here:
                                      http://owl.english.purdue.edu/owl/resource/563/01/

---Plagiarism:
                                     http://owl.english.purdue.edu/owl/resource/589/01/

Just Once

When I first held you, and you cried to me

something fierce, I was too afraid to hold

you, carry you, even set you on me.

I could see how your claw strikes were quite bold.

But with you gone, now, I wish I had known

How we were both scared, and how I was wrong.

At the time with how dependent you were,

Don't jump on me, I would say, nerves shaken.

You didn't deserve the pain you went through.
Yes, that's life, and it can be really tough,
But the adventures you had then show through,
And the pain of your bite made me know enough.

But you're gone now, and I wish that just once

I could feel your claws on my hand—just once.

Dedicated to my cat, Tiger, kneading something somewhere, free of pain. 

Writing from the Prompt

     In college, one of the most important things when it comes to writing is being able to follow directions correctly by understanding what's asked. If a professor states they want a four page minimum and several sources prevalent throughout the piece, then it's best to give them what they ask for; however, essays and summaries are not the only forms of writing that can be prompted.
     I visited the classroom of John Brantingham after work to visit the Creative-Writing Club, a group of writers I haven't worked with before. He wasn't there, taking some time off to recover, but the club was hosted by the president and other coordinators. Walking in late, I slipped into the back, but I found myself added to the activities of introducing ones self and, of course, writing under a timed, prompt restrained setting. We were asked to write creatively, though: fiction and poetry was up for grabs, and I decided on doing the fiction. For the short-story, we had a few restraints written on the board:

•      The Protagonist's name was Amy.
•      Amy worked in a clown store.
•      She was deeply in love with a giraffe handler.
•      Amy had an evil clown stalker.
•      We must use the word "Buck-fumbling" within the literature.

     Once noted, we were asked to write what we could, where we would finish and present our works to the class if we chose to. Pasted below is what I came up with. Buck-fumbling, in the tense I used, is underlined within.

     "Can you tell me why he's following you?" David wiped the sweat off his brow, staring out the bungalow's front window.
     Amy held herself from an unseen breeze. "I'm not sure, but he's everywhere."
     "He can't be everywhere."
     "Yes, he can," she said.
     David turned. The golden giraffe pin, something only given to experienced handlers throughout the year--from what he said--glinted in the young woman's eyes, burning her. It illuminated her split ends into hanging embers of ash.
     "Listen, Amy, you're just tired. You've been working too much."
     She sighed. "And what are you saying?"
     "No one's chasing you out there, is what I mean; no one's hunting you."
     "You don't know. You don't know what I've been through," she said. "The freak watches me sleep. And that makeup."
     David turned to the window once more, palm on the glass with the other hand up.
     "His makeup looks like he buck-fumbled through it."
     "Does it frighten you?" he asked.
     Amy opened her lips, glancing at the handler. She wanted to tell him yes. She wanted to say how she wished David would hold her, letting her cry in his arms, taking away the weeks of hiding in the restroom and tidying a knife beneath her pillow. But, when he turned, her eyes clenched at the reflection of his dulled, misshapen clown nose.

     It isn't much, but it gave me a chance to just let a story come out, and allow the characters to breathe and become their own entities. Working with this novel, The Neptune, has pulled me from that very idea; I feel as though I need to plot so heavily, when I should let the work write itself instead.
     For Mt. Sac students, the club is on Thursdays, 2:30 to 4:00 P.M. and is hosted in 3411 of 26A. I'm personally looking forward to returning. Stop by if you want to give writing a chance!

A New Chapter

     With the last chapter written, I'm happy to say that my work-in-progress horror novel, The Neptune, has its first "book" completed. Yes, this is just the drafting stage, but it's a benchmark for me that I've never felt would ever come.

      One year ago, I had just came out of a dark, dark place in my life, and was working towards recovery in any way I could. School was a part of my life and I couldn't give that up, so I took extra classes to try and stay focused on something physical, rather than worry on something mental. I met an amazing professor who showed me I did have something to add to this world, and she allowed me to meet another professor, a great man who has become my mentor in creative writing.

      Now, that's not to say I'm completely recovered; I still have times where depression kicks in, or I get lonely and afraid. But those are only bumps in the road in comparison to what I've been through; those are only pebbles in comparison to what I have in store for me.

      I have a great job that keeps me on my feet, working hard, and while it can be stressful and draining, I love it so much and wouldn't trade it for anything. I have a plan to get my A.A. and transfer out of my school to CSUSB for their MFA and English program, and I--as of currently--want to become an editor; though, each and every day I find myself interested in becoming a professor at the community college level. And my writing craft keeps me going and knowing that I have a purpose, and I have a voice; I have a way to show the world I can add to it, rather than take, even if it bugs the heck out of me at occasional times.

      The Neptune is at just a slice of the full pie, and I'm planning to add another sixty-five thousand words to it before I get into the revision process. With luck, it'll progress into a great first novel, something I can be really proud of.

      Everything's been a roller-coaster the past two years, but I want to thank each and every one of you that have stood by me, guided me, assisted me, and been there for me when I need them. If this all works out, I dedicate The Neptune to you guys. Just, you know, please don't be turned off that it's a space infection horror story.

Recovering

     Currently, I'm sitting here on my laptop filling my stomach with glasses of orange-juice, listening to the soundtrack of Skyrim, Bethesda's hit video-game, swearing at my word processor for some miracle to plop on the page--me knowing it won't happen, but wishing--and waiting to see what the day will bring me. Colds are fun.
     I see myself to live a healthy lifestyle. Oatmeal, toast, and hashbrowns always win over French-toast for breakfast, and if I get offered a soda, I kindly decline and ask for water. Fitness is my stress-burner. Swimming is something I do not only to keep fit and toned, but to help with my confidence and anxiety. When I'm sick, all of this goes out the window.
     And mentally, I just feel like a brick; it's like my mind wants to work, and knows it's here for some reason, but the only thing it can do is perform simple tasks. Throw me an Algebra book during the flu and I'll look at you like a wet cat. A really wet cat. But not only do I suffer in arithmatic, but my writing seems to take a hit.
     This whole week, I've only touched about 1400 words, something I would do a day and a half. That's such a blow. The character's in my novel have once again become just that: characters.In time, though, things will get better.
     Rest and water have become my best friends, and while I'm disappointed I haven't worked out in over a week, it's for the best. The cold is going away, and once again work and writing will be something I can dive into rather than fear. If I'm lucky, my sickness won't pass to someone in the family and come back to me with open arms: "Hey, buddy, what's up?"
     How do you recover from sickness not only in your body, but in the recovery of any skills or hobbies that have been left behind?

San Gabriel Valley LitFest & Semester Update

     I've decided to come out of my cave for once. Over the weekend I went to the San Gabriel Valley Literary Festival, which is a new event located in West Covina. I dropped by on Saturday, after having my brakes clunk to junk on Thursday, so I wasn't able to make it to the Friday open-mic events. When I got there in the morning after some trouble, 12:15 to be precise--which I guess is noon--I started by going to a literary magazine's reading. The day continued with reading after reading, until finally I made my leave at three for errands. But it was all fantastic.
     This would be my first literary festival outside of regular fandom conventions, and the same feeling of mutual appreciation was there, but focused devotedly on writing and literature. I wish I could have returned for Sunday, so next year I'll be sure to clear it up, and come April when Mt Sac. hosts their writer's conference, I'll be there to socialize and learn--socialization seems to be my weakest point.
     Learning, however, is something I will continue to be doing until that point, with Mt. Sac returning to school next Monday. I only have Math, Literature, and one training course, but I will be tutoring students within the classroom and I'm excited. 
     And as far as my writing goes, with the bumps and bruises along the way, I have several stories revised and ready to ship out. I've been working on a book, too: It's a sci-fi horror story taking place on a large military ship, called The Neptune. I'm taking it slow, learning the process of writing a much larger story, but I'm having fun doing it (or at least I think I do). My chapters run quite a bit short, but I'm not too worried about it right now; the plot is giving me shivers as I go.
     To all those returning to school, good luck, have fun, and drive safely the first few days; being from Mt. Sac, it's easy to see how a parking lot can become a focal point of trauma throughout someone's life.

Friendly Communication: Body, Voice, and Mind

     Communication is an important part of living. Especially as a writer, too. You're going to meet lots of new, and possibly intimidating, people, and whether you're a writer or not, it's best to approach someone in a certain way. Looking at animals, body language is very detrimental to communication; when a dog's in fight-or-flight mode it's teeth are bared, and its hackles are raised. The same thing works with humans. We might not snarl, or raise our necks when angry--scary image, I know--so the question is how do we use our language, spoken and physical, to send a clear message to a peer or co-worker?
     At work, I meet with a lot of students from many different backgrounds. Some are native speakers, and it's easier to communicate, while others can be transfer students from different levels of education--or even different cultures! I try to keep myself open to whatever comes, and keep myself open and friendly.
     Being open and friendly doesn't just mean keeping a smile glued on. It means carrying a certain composure. If I were to walk up to another writer, published or not, things would go much smoother in introductions if I were standing straight, keeping eye contact, and my hands arms were visible at all times; furthermore, if I was to greet them screaming, arms crossed, and possibly one hand behind my back, I could be taken as a threat. Of course it's an exaggeration, but it works.
     When I meet the student, no matter what background, I greet them with my name, a soft, friendly tone, and arms out and seen. I make eye contact, but don't stare into them to find the inner-direction of their soul's desires. Tutoring, I sit down, turned slightly towards them, and I'm a foot away as to not hover on them. If standing, I would be at an angle, as well; sitting or standing directly in front of a person can be seen as off-putting and tense. I don't cross my arms, and if I get comfortable in my chair, I might sit in a relaxed way. Standing comfortably, if that were the situation, you would loosen up and not be so tense.
     To give an example, police-officers crouch low to speak with a child when they're hurt, upset, scared, or just conversing. This puts the officer at level with the child and takes away the image of someone stern and intimidating. Another would be when someone's dealing with an angered person; people can be upset for many reasons, such as the child, but speaking with open posture and gestures, and a soft tone (not too soft, though. You don't want to come off as condescending), the situation could be lowered into an understanding discussion of the situation.
     I was tutoring a student today, and with her final draft due the following week, she was stressed for perfection. It's common to see these situations. It's even more common to see it when the paper is due the next day, so I came into the session letting her know we had time to work on it. I kept my tone soft, and I pulled myself away from the tutoring sheet and red pen (I would go back to take notes, but a red pen is something we all know as a horrible thing inflicted on us in grade school, so space worked out there). The situation was lowered, but she was stressed that her examples in the paper spoke on their own, not needing discussion to explain. I grew comfortable, so I lifted my legs onto the chair, sitting on my thigh.
     "With essays," I started, "the reader's coming in for information."
     She didn't look at me, but she stared at her essay.
     "In fiction, the reader works to use their imagination and put themselves in the story. Here, however, we want to do the opposite and show the readers step by step how this example relates to everything."
     "But it should stand on its own," she said.
     I discussed it further with some examples, and she had a better understanding. The situation would have been much more stressful if I raised my tone and did something as simple as turned away, or crossed my arms.
     Having open body language and a friendly outflow of discussion creates positive socialization. The use of negative tone, raised volume, or acting intense, direct, and even mean can have repercussions whether in simple speech or professional settings. This works with writing as well, but without the use of body-language; the tone and direction you take in communication is what your audience will use to assess the situation. Whether you're working on campus with just-as-stressed students, or at home with your parents, communicating in a outflow of positive vibes can make even the most direct and negative situations into something approachable.

A Bittersweet Return

     After a week of being away in San Jose, I have returned to sunny Southern-California, where the temperature on arrival was eighty degrees and the sinus just punched me in the nose. It feels good to be back in my own bed, with my laptop whirring underneath my fingers. I missed it, and I certainly missed my usual writing schedule.

     The convention went very well. I arrived anxious and stressed, making sure my itinerary was followed to the margin, but ended up relaxing and resting my eyes on the train. Eventually, I met up with a friend's boyfriend in San Francisco. We dropped off our things at the house, then hung around the city until my friend came home from work. Until the late hours of the night, we worked to help prepare her art table for the weekend.

     We arrived in San Jose the next day, and my blood-pressure was through the skylights. The convention takes place within a hotel, and throughout the many corridors, elevators, and the large, adjacent Convention Center next door, the energy of excitement flows through each guest. When the next day came, that feeling was multiplied, and it continued to grow.

     The artistry I see at these events is amazing. Each year, no matter what location, I find myself surprised, excited, and entertained with the things people create, whether in fiction, or digital art and paintings. I look at my friend, Christine Knopp, and constantly question how she does half the things she does. I remember that people the same way about us writers--I don't even know how I do what I do.

     During the day, I met with the folks at Sofawolf Press, the team who has welcomed me to their literature magazine with open "paws." I discussed a bit with Jeff Eddie, and can't wait to work with him on my short-story. I also had to pick up a copy of Divisions, by Kyell Gold--signed, too!

     But with the weekend over, everyone returned home to their family, pets, and loved ones, I'm back to work and writing. My novella is towards the end, and will need heavy revision when the time comes; some of the big plot points need to be looked at and decided whether or not they fit. I have several short-stories revised and edited, too. I'm not sure where to send them, but I'll find somewhere, even if it means I pay Duotropes new fee policy. 

     It's always a hard time returning back to reality, but I plan to return to the convention with high expectations, and maybe with a few more stories published.

     

2013: Good Vibrations

     Being a little late never hurt anyone, or that's at least what I'm told constantly. The holidays went well, and New Years started off on a great note: dental appointments are half-way taken care of, my novella is close to having its first draft completed, and my life is just brimming with positive vibes.
     A couple of things are coming up, though. School has once again started at Mt. San Antonio College, so I've been brought back to the Writing-center as a tutor; I'll be working morning shifts, keeping my head in the game of writing. Also, starting next week on Wednesday, I will be out of town at Further Confusion, a fan-driven arts convention in San Jose, California. The event hosts writers, artists, costumers, and musicians, all within the convention-center and adjacent two hotels. I've also submitted one story to the con in their program book; I won't be told if I'm in it until I have the book in my possession and can read my story. If so, I'll bring a few copies home. The convention hosts panels, too, where attendees can learn, instruct, or introduce themselves. I plan to attend several writing ones, just to get names out there and talk shop. The convention lasts until Monday, and is open to the public; however, membership to visit the dealer's hall, panels, shows, and dances is around 50$!
     Other than that, I'm keeping life at a low hum of energy. Classes for the next Spring semester start February 25th, and until then I will keep busy by writing, of course, and keeping fit. The family's interested in getting a membership at the YMCA, and I'm all for it--I live better in the swimming pool than I do on dry land. My mail will play host to monthly-or-so care-packages between me and my girlfriend in Florida, so I will also spend time looking through my knick-knacks for various Disney themed trinkets.
     The year's started off so well, but let's work towards a brighter tomorrow!