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 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.

"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.