Taking Advantage: Using What You Can, When You Can as a Writer

          I have a problem that I'm still coming to terms with. As much as it would excite me to tell you all it's a cliche drinking problem, it's actually handling the unknown.
          When looked at, one of the biggest fears people carry is the unknown. Death, God, monsters, promotions, relationships; these are all things that scare us in some way or have scared us since we were children.
          This week, I've missed two days of work and class, something that hasn't happened since the start of the semester, and the second time that anything similar has happened throughout my working and college careers. For some, taking a day off for illness or leisure is something the body and soul need, but to me, it's something that I feel changes me as a employee and student.
          I woke up at six A.M., day one, and walked to the bathroom to brush my teeth. For the next twenty minutes, I emptied my body out of every fluid or solid that it had. From there, I fell into shakes, more heaves, and even seconds of sleep. I was infected with a stomach bug, yet I felt as though I was part of the movie Contagion. On day two, I felt better, but I had to call out; I knew that if I didn't, there was a chance that I could infect those around me and possibly make my situation worse. I felt terrible. At that point, I knew I had to do something.
          In order to make myself feel valuable to the human race, I wrote and did homework. Following homework, I wrote more. The muse, if one believes in it, kicked in, and I poured out pages of short pieces and brainstorming exercises. The unknown was still terrifying to me, but I let my situation handle itself and push me into a new direction that helped me in more than one way.
          We have to go with what life, God, or E. coli gives us. Situations are bad--they always are--but it's how we handle the situation that makes us who we are and changes what comes of the situation. Had I gone to work and class, things could've gone wrong, and the thought of staying home terrified me because I didn't know what would happen. But I decided to take the scariest direction, and it worked out by me being honest and knowing what I have to give.
          But man, the stomach flu sucks.

Inspiration in Life for Writing

     I walked into my Monday morning study session, eight-thirty. The room sat chilled from an open window and AC vent. Blinds shifted. Light bounced off the stained white-board. A table that looks taken from surgery stands at the end of the room, and I set my greying Disney backpack down.
     After ten minutes, the first student walked in. She sat in the second row, third aisle. "Good morning, John."
     "Morning." I wiped my eyes and drew a slash where her name listed on the attendance sheet. "Do the reading?"
     "I have a question for you."
     I blinked and set my folder aside. "About the reading?"
     She nodded. She looked up at the ceiling and moved her hand in the air, fishing for the words that would soon come to her.
     When I ask people what inspires them in writing, I am told about childhoods, friends, haunted houses, or food. When I tell people what inspires me, the answers tend to vary based on the day that I've been having.
     I started writing in dark times. I didn't have a happy start to my craft. Yes, I grew up as a reader, just as almost every writer did. Many people think that writers are expected to start with a magical moment.
     It's arguable to say that the start of a writer is not important. How did Hemingway begin? What made Stephen King get his first published novel? If you've read enough, you'll surely find out the answers. But one thing that stands a mystery is how these authors and more get started writing each and every day.
     I watched my tutee as she thought about her question. At eight-thirty, not much thinking goes on unless one is used to the mental-stimulation.
    "John," she said, "How does the use of verbs and nouns convey an author's tone or theme?"
     A fly buzzed in the air. Below me, my legs dangled from my risen seat. I looked at her, mouth open, and my heart fluttered just a bit.
     Inspiration comes to us like questions. Sometimes, we might be stewing on our thoughts for a while, waiting to see what comes out clearly. Other times, our ideas line up, and we're able to toss out something great that surprises even those who are prepared for anything.
     I answered that student's question, and she left the session, an hour later, with new ideas to apply in her essay. Four days later, and I'm still pondering the thoughts this student might have, the questions she's waiting to ask. Like inspiration, they might come easy, but we'll have to wait for and see whatever comes out.
    

Traveling in the Mind and on the Page

     The map of California stands in front of me. I drew it, so half of the state looks bent, and crackles of marker roads lead from one blob, San Francisco, to an X, Los Angeles. I stare at the marker trail and hum to myself.
     At the end of the room sits the professor and one student. She's asking for help on her essay, and while privacy is asked, I hear muffles of thoughts over from the white board in the center of the room. In front me, scribbles of thoughts, ideas and musings create noise in my brain.
      I've driven the road, Frisco to LA, many times. On my trips up north, I enjoy the desolation such a drive creates. There's nothing for miles; then highways become loops and drops. After thirty minutes, it's back to driving on a plain for hours it seems. I call it living-in-limbo.
     In a work-in-progess novel I have, one character is driving from the bay to southern California, and the landmarks are just as important as the scenarios the character faces. He's taking the Grapevine, a road that leads up and down slopes steeper than most get to drive in their lives. Half of the time, the Grapevine is closed. Weather conditions are so adverse that travelers must listen to the radio and news just to know what will happen.
     My eyes follow the trail I've scribbled, and I think of the small curio stores, the repetitive McDonald's and diner locations. My family's stopped at most, so I try to smell the grease hanging in the air, the sun beating down on our necks. At night, the hubbles are the only source of light for miles.
     Traveling is something that I love, for it gives me a chance to see new worlds, even if they're only an hour or more away. Family vacations have turned into horrifying, lonely settings for my characters, and desolate locations themselves have turned into themes of hope, promise.
     Americans, I argue, don't do it enough. Vacations are spent at Disneyland, New York, or somewhere so tourist filled one can taste the churros or street hotdogs. But real, American road trips have fallen out of peoples' repertoire.
     I wipe my hand over the scribbled road and destroy half of California. It's ten. I walk to my professor and pass him what I have. We talk, and we leave the room to head downstairs, where his dog and wife wait. We leave, and I'm back on a lamp-lit road, heading home.

Typing under Deaf Ears

      For the first time in my life, I had to miss a day of work due to illness. For me, it's a big deal (obviously), and I'm still a bit nervous about the whole thing. Really, it shouldn't be a big deal at all. Shouldn't it?
     I drove home on the Sixty Freeway, and everything sounded muffled. My eyes darted across the highway as I looked for any trouble. My head pounded. Burning hotter than my truck's heater, my throat lining tasted like onions.
     I got home after ten minutes, and immediately, I went to sleep. The next day came, and I had to call out. But from then on, my time in bed was spent with my typewriter or a book.
    Sick days can be argued to have been made for writers. On a weekly basis, if our schedules are busy enough, we have to fight for a chance to put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. Writing's a career that promises to torment you if you work a ten-hour job (or are a parent).
      I pounded the keys of my fifty-year-old silent-super typewriter, striking a sheet of printer paper--silently. My ears ached. Everything had grown quieter a day after staying home. Conversations felt like shouting matches. Opening my jaw created a pop that shook my head. In a way, I liked it.
     While writing is hard to get to do on a busy schedule, it's also very hard to have peace-and-quiet.
     It's Sunday, five days after day-zero of my cold. I will be returning to work tomorrow, heavily medicated if need be, where writing will have to take the backseat. I feel better. It's not where I'd like my cold to be, but it's where it has to be. Also, my hearing is back.
     Take the time to enjoy whatever life throws at you. Good or bad, it's how we react that makes the difference. Positivity is created by us, not anyone else. By Thursday, I'll surely miss being able to type under very, very clogged ears.

Visualizing Success in Writing and Public Speaking for Authors

         I stand outside with my group of three peers, and we have less than five minutes to make something up. Reading the textbook, I ask my group what success made them think of. Sports, one says, so we talk about fighting and basketball. How do we visualize success, I ask. We stand under the buzzing light of a neighboring portable, thinking about it.
         On Thursday nights, I attend a three hour course on developing career and life directions. We've been discussing what colleges have been looking for, but public speaking came up this past Thursday, when we were told we would need to perform a short, two-minute skit in front of the class.
          Public speaking is the number one fear in the world, not spiders or HIV. On a daily basis, we put ourselves into situations that require us to speak publicly, yet our bodies begin to break into shakes and sweating when we're told suddenly to perform.
          As writers, we don't feel the necessity to speak aloud to crowds of people; our work is solitary. But that's not the truth, for writers are those who sell their books. Writers go to conferences to meet publishers, other writers, and working editors. Your publishers, I argue, do shit of that. We are put on the front lines.
          The professor assigned topics on what builds self-esteem. The professor put us outside in the dark lighting of a parking lot at eight, P.M.. He gave one group determination, another persistence. We got visualizing success.
          Visualization, thankfully, can be used in multiple situations such as speaking publicly and writing. It helps move us forward in our writing. We all start with one word, Stephen King says. One word leads to a sentence, which creates a paragraph after a while. By visualizing this or performing well in front of a crowd, we feel the difficulty of our crafts drop and our confidence rise.
          We're the last group to walk in when the professor presses the door open with his foot. As group one, we go first. We're standing at the front of the class, looking towards football players, adult students, coaches, and a champion softball player. Say your names, the professor says. I say mine first, and we move down the line. One breath. I think about the next, first word, and we start.
         Two minutes become five minutes, and our class looks at us with open jaws. One group gets up and leaves the room.

Stepping into the Past: Using Typewriters in 2014

          My father stopped me from pouring orange-juice into a mason jar. Oatmeal still in the microwave, I set the glass and carton down to see what he wanted. He asked me to lift an orange suitcase. I did, and we set it on the counter near my glass.
          We opened to find that his 60-year-old typewriter had returned from repairs, clean and polished, keys waiting to be pressed. The carbon receipt he was given sat against the roller.
          "Type something," Dad said.
          I tapped a key, but nothing showed from the light touch. I pressed on the I key, and a line of ink appeared after a silver hammer thwacked the ribbon.
          Dad raised his arm and nodded.
          My mind focused on the machine, and I forgot about the bowl of oats waiting for me. Letters became words, and at the end of the line, a bell went off. I slid the roller to the right until the bell rang again, and I typed more.
          We finished and closed the lid. Dad loped to his chair in the dark, and I took my breakfast to my room.

          I tried the Smith-Corona typewriter again today when I decided to write my friend Sawyer a letter. Ze (hir preferred, androgynous pronouns are hir and ze) lives in Washington state, specifically forty minutes away from Seattle. The lines of ink coated a once blank sheet of paper. Because of the pressure needed, I had to backspace and hit the letters again, setting some of the words darker.
          My father watched me from his chair, and Mom sat near him, sprawled out on the couch with chips in a bowl. Each time the bell went off, he smiled. She focused on the television. The Waltons were on, a show she never missed. The thwacks of hammers made her and the cat peek over.
          It's an amazing experience being able to use a typewriter. Unlike laptops, which allow authors to vomit ideas out and fix later, typewriters require patience, perfection. One error means stopping, rolling away the lever, and blotting out letters with correction-fluid. Instead, I let the errors, however little there were, come out, and I told my friend how I am still getting used to it.
          The errors, to me, are part of the magic. My parents found the machine in the garage, a mess with sticking keys and scratched parts. With it working and alive, breathing under my fingers, the errors feel right. Hemingway used a typewriter after he drafted in pencil and paper. Other authors, surely, tried their best to create the next masterpiece. When one uses a typewriter, the music of the bells and clicks are just a part of the meticulous work involved.
           I plan to use the typewriter for letters and nonfiction pieces. The reality and age feels right with nonfiction, and using the typewriter, everything feels cultural. California is full of history, and maybe this is a way for me to experience classic California from the comfort of my living room or foyer. I am sure my friend, Sawyer, will be glad to find hir letter done in real, fresh pressed ink.
          The smell of it on my hands, I am told, is pretty great, too.

Spring in Academia

          It wasn't until I parked that I realized how much I had to rush. Cars lined the fences of Mt. San Antonio College. A breeze had picked up, and crowds hunkered around the crossing sign at the closest intersection, one parking lot away. For the start of a semester, this wasn't too bad.
          My classes are mixed throughout the week: Mondays and Wednesdays are Speech, Tuesdays and Thursdays are Nonfiction, and Thursday nights are Career Development. I decided to take a lighter semester as I work in other classes, tutoring students and preparing them for their next courses. Nothing too hard, I said.
          I'll be working forty hours a week, at least.
          Crossing the street, I had to squeeze my way through trudging students. I then had to climb the hill. My phone said it was 8:35, which meant that I was later for an 8:30 meeting.
          The American Language department wasn't too much of a walk from where I was. There, I would find my first work section, a linked or connect unit of two classes leading from 9:45 A.M. to 2:05 P.M.. A line led out the front doors. Students of various nationalities fidgeted, sighed, groaned. Those at the end of the line didn't seem any happier, speaking in broken English.
          Eight minutes passed until I found the office of the professor I would be working under. The office hid at the end of the hall, but when I stepped in, the professor greeted me and pulled me to a chair. I was given a textbook, syllabus, and discussion of what to expect. Smiling, I agreed that this semester would be interesting, fun.
          Class started on time, and I might another professor. She gave her name, office hours, and expectations. Halfway through, she introduced me. I stood in front of the class, eyes watching over me. Day one, and I knew that I was in for a ride.