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Essays

Training wheels

April 6, 2014 by Pen 2 Comments

I remember learning to ride a bicycle. Not the color of the thing. Not the size of the seat. Whether that first bicycle had a bell, or cards in the spokes of the wheels escapes me. What I remember most about my first weeks with a bicycle is the feeling I got when the training wheels came off.

I took my first hill in a terrifying, wobbly series of leg motions and then I was in the gravity well of that downwards curve going at breakneck speed. Back then I didn’t have the automatic routines that kept my speed carefully controlled. No brakes. The subroutines I have now that would auto position me in the softest landing spot possible should disaster have struck in the form of a blown tire or other mishap just weren’t there. I wasn’t wearing a helmet. For the first time ever, I was on my own.

I was heading out into the world without a safety net of any kind. And it was glorious.

There is a lot to be said for an experience like the one I had on that hill on that day. Without my training wheels for the first time. I felt exhilarated. Free. Out of control. More alive than ever before.

I could have fallen. I could have broken my head in half. I didn’t. I might have, and then it is possible you wouldn’t be reading this story.

The training wheels stay on too long nowadays. I don’t like all the things we’ve added to the mix. Orange safety vests. Helmets. Kneepads. Elbow protectors. I don’t need a spacesuit when I go fast. I want to feel my mortality without being terrified I’ll fall down and die. With the understanding of what it all means. I want the risk. I embrace it and own it.

The toughness and resilience I have now are byproducts of prevalent social mores in my youth. The balance between risk and safety during those years makes more sense to me than what I see happening now. Before I was a legal adult I’d seen many of the faces of mortality. Not the way kids see them on television now. As dramatic falsehoods.

We protect young minds from death and mortality. Try to insulate ourselves from real risk. Some of the mechanisms we put in place are good but others poison us. We desensitize ourselves and our children to the truth of being human. Overstimulate the parts of the brain that process loss, fear, risk. Then we medicate the ones who can’t cope with that overload. It turns into a downward spiral of self-doubt and weakness for some of us.

I can’t tell you when you should take off the training wheels and let the people you love most go down their first hill without any safety net. I can tell you that if you do, they’ll be stronger and wiser for it. If you overprotect the people you care about you are actually doing them a disservice.

You won’t always be there when they need you. That’s impossible. It’s dysfunctional to even try. Let them go fast on their own. Don’t always make them wear a helmet. They need to know what falling down feels like. One of the most important lessons I ever learned came from falling down as a teenager.

I had been successfully copying someone I saw in a movie. Cars would be going by slowly making a turn and I’d sneak up behind them on my skateboard and grab hold of the back bumper. I’d let them pull me along until they were going about 25 miles per hour and then let go. I thought I was pretty slick.

Until one day when I hitched a ride and waited too long. The car pulling me was going down a hill. I didn’t let go when I should have. By the time I did, the inevitable life lesson was unstoppable. I lost control of my skateboard and learned what eating asphalt feels like. Everyone needs a moment like that. Some of us need a few. Not all of us will survive them. That’s part of life.

The gravel that got embedded in my skin that day taught me a lesson as it worked it’s way out of my body over the next 20 years or so. Reminded me of limits every time I felt it. If I had been wearing a helmet and protective gear the experience would have been completely different. I wouldn’t have learned the same lesson.

The point is this: take off the training wheels and let go. You will fall down sooner or later. Going fast and falling down aren’t something we should be terrified to experience a few times. All of us need that context to be well rounded, thoughtful, considerate human beings. You only have so much time to live. Be brave and let your people and yourself learn that our world can hurt us sometimes.

Don’t set the limits so cautiously that the you or the people you love end up unable to cope with falling down. Because it will happen no matter how hard you try to avoid it. You might as well have some experience under your belt by the time you start pretending you’re an adult. Take off the training wheels when it’s time. Zoom down the hill. Gravity will slow you down on the upslope.

Filed Under: Dear Reader, Essays, Short Stories Tagged With: life, living, mores, social values, society, training wheels

It was like this…

April 5, 2014 by Pen Leave a Comment

The human brain is a funny thing. It doesn’t really hold on to the past very well. I speak for myself of course. Every brain is different. Some people, I’m told, have photo recall. They see remember everything exactly as it happened.

I know a girl who forgets some things almost immediately. Other things, her brain clamps down on and holds close with the teeth of a vicious attack dog. Her brain does one thing with the past and mine does another. We’re different that way. Someone else I used to know turned everything into a life or death emergency. Yet another person who passed through my life insisted on revisiting every recent event in the hopes that all concerned would agree with her version of how things went. She had a compulsive need that way.

My brain turns memories into stories. Softens the edges. Creates heroes and villains. Adds richness and descriptive details. Changes the timeline for dramatic effect. Sometimes I think that makes me a liar, and sometimes I think it makes me a good storyteller. The truth is probably somewhere in between.

I have to deal with the way my brain holds on to the past and processes it. Acknowledging my own tendency to distort the past and turn it into an entertaining story is important.

I can process a trauma by making my own role something I can live with. But that might not be what actually happened in the moments. In the story I might be brave. In real life I probably wasn’t. My hands were shaking. My teeth were chattering. I was behind a wall when the bullets started flying. Not running towards them.

There are 1,000 ways to get through events that should have or could have killed you or left you mentally broken. My way of coping is to make the thing into a story. But I mix up the pieces and parts of everything after a while. The faces get stuck on other bodies. The weather is more menacing and alive. Timelines get stretched and compressed. Antiheroes are born out of the shells of boring people.

In my stories, the omniscient narrator is me without the omniscience. How it happened and how it happened in my head are often two different things. Especially after years pass before I write the story. Often times I change details or major plot twists intentionally. I’m a fiction writer after all. Most of my stories start out that way intentionally. In my stories the line between reality and fantasy gets blurred. It happens to you too. Trust me.

It was like this doesn’t necessarily mean the same thing as what actually happened. My brain tricks me. Chances are yours does the same thing. Memory is all we have sometimes to chart the course guiding us into the future.

Remember that. Looking back through the distorted lens of your own filters can be inspiring but it can also be deceiving. Stories are an important part of being human. Be open to the way others see things too. Hear their stories and pick the pieces that fit into your own.

No guide for life is the complete truth because every single one of them has been produced and filtered through human brains. In a world filled with a hundred million stories, pick and choose the ones you believe in carefully.

Make your own stories. Write them down before too much time passes. Pick out the truths that resonate with you and live your own fantasies. Memory is what you make of it.

Filed Under: Essays, On Writing, Personal Tagged With: essay, memory, on writing, stories, writing

Being true to yourself

March 11, 2014 by Pen Leave a Comment

When you write, people like to give you free advice based on their own ideas about what it means to be a writer. I appreciate all of the advice. I’m not going to follow most of it. One of the pieces of advice I have spent time thinking about is that I choose different pen names for different genres. The idea being that if you like my BDSM erotica you might not like my self-help books. Or if you like my fantasy you might not like my horror. I hope you like all my offerings. If you don’t however, that’s OK too. Your choice. My name is Penfist. Call me Pen. I’m going to write whatever I want. That’s why I chose to do this.

I am a writer because I need to tell stories. The stories that I want to tell. You can float me an idea and it might grab me by the teeth and pull me into itself. That’s a wonderfully terrifying experience when it happens. I encourage you to engage with me that way. Send me an epiphany so large I have to write an entire novel or tome about that idea. In the meantime, understand that one person has many facets. You do. I do. We all do. I’m trying to simplify my life be exploring them all. I can’t do that as effectively if I have to wear masks. Commercial success will happen if the work I produce resonates. Entertains. Pulls you in.

I write self-help, erotica, horror, contemporary fantasy, post-apocalyptic stories and whatever else I decide contains a story that needs to be told. That’s going to make some people dismiss me as “that guy who does whatever he wants.” I’m totally comfortable with that. I want to attract people with malleable minds not brittle ones. The point of writing this out and putting it into the world is that I hope you’ll choose the same path. Be true to your own muse. Create art. Own the results. Learn from the feedback. Keep creating. It’s your story and the characters in it belong to you. Surround yourself with others who believe in that and you’ll explode with endless inspiration. Both given and received. That’s what I believe. It’s why I won’t create a bunch of different writing personas. I want to focus on being that guy who writes whatever he wants. I’m being true to myself and I think you should consider living that way too.

Now go buy a book so I can pay the web hosting fees this month.

Filed Under: Essays, On Writing Tagged With: commercial writing, on writing, success as a writer, writing tips

Polyamory and pain

March 9, 2014 by Pen Leave a Comment

I am an alien. The worlds that I carry around with me are not mine. They belong to the story. I am only a caretaker. My destiny is to give away everything. To you and others.

Rugged mountains covered with shantytowns and the sprawl of human life set the backdrop. I observe this place that is not my home from inside an illusory bubble of safety. My routine is that there is no routine. My companions are aliens too. Unwelcome. Our routes remain the same, but nothing else does. Except the chaos.

All is dust. Every tree looks tired. Animals labor under a sun I thought I knew and didn’t. This is not my world. A maelstrom of activity means that I am always watching. The natives are not friendly. My companions and I watch for magnetic bombs in every hand. Have you ever seen your death in someone else’s eyes? I have.

We study every vehicle and every pile of trash carefully. Things in this world explode, unexpectedly. With great violence. Anyone passing by could have a grenade. And the grenade might be wearing bits of me at any moment. If not today perhaps tomorrow. Sudden, violent endings hide among the throngs of teeming life here. Patiently. Waiting.

I see the girl. For a moment the rest of the details are fuzzy. Then clarity comes. She is perhaps 14. Possibly 15. Maybe 12. She is beautiful. I should not be able to see that. Because her head should be covered. In modesty. It is not. The girl is chained to a tree. The tree is chained to this world that is not mine. I am chained to the memory of the time and space.

She is bleeding from her forehead. She is crying. The rocks hitting her are uncaring. The boys throwing them are cruel. They are laughing. And I have rules to follow. I want to stop my vehicle. I want to get out of my armored sphere of unreality. Unchain the girl from the tree. Save her.

But I don’t. I keep going, saving only her memory. I carry her world inside mine. The rules were yours then. They are mine now. Because I took them away from you for doing this to me.

I woke up one morning not long ago and thought of the girl. I love her. I failed her. I thought of you. I love you too. I thought about how much I hurt you and others. When I give you pain, it is hers and mine and yours.

When I hold you tenderly it is her face that I see sometimes. The girl chained to the tree in that other world. The one I am the caretaker for. Please let me hurt you in a different way. One that is good for you. And let me be a part of your story until it ends. Because I’ll never know what happened to that other girl I love.

I am an alien. Love me. Better than I love you. I need polyamory and pain. Do you understand why? I can never stop loving her. Never stop failing her. Never stop trying to save you in the midst of it all.

Filed Under: Personal, Short Stories Tagged With: Afghanistan, girl, kabul, memory, non-fiction, war

The simplest lesson

March 8, 2014 by Pen Leave a Comment

[dropcap background=”yes” color=”#333333″]I[/dropcap]t is the simplest lesson. To be good for anyone else, you must first understand how to be good for yourself. It is the hardest lesson. That the only way you can be good for you and others is by living honestly. You and others. They all need honesty to truly thrive. You cannot arrive at truth until this lesson has become your paradigm.

I am speaking to myself by writing these words. I am hoping you will wander by and hear them. For 40 years, I lied to myself about who I was. Denied myself what I needed to truly thrive. In that state of existence, my mind became a wasteland littered with the debris of everyone else’s expectations, demands and goals. No one else’s expectations, demands and goals will ever make you feel fulfilled. I know this lesson well.

This essay may, on the surface, appear to be an argument for a selfish existence. There is truth to that viewpoint. Every viewpoint has merit. If it did not, it wouldn’t be a viewpoint to begin with. The trick is learning to understand that not every viewpoint has enough merit to be my viewpoint. Or yours.

I am not bound to your truths. I am not bound to your worldview. I am not bound to anything you expect from me. If we collaborate synchronously I will be grateful for the exchange and for the sharing. If we do not, I will walk alone. Content with my own companions – the truths I have chosen for myself.

It is the simplest lesson. My path cannot belong to you. Yours cannot belong to me. If we join hands for a while, I will be grateful for the warmth we share. If we journey together for a lifetime it will likely assure that I smile more often than I would without you.

It is the hardest lesson. I cannot live for your truths. Only mine. That is the key to unlocking myself. Would you like a copy of my key? I will give you one without expecting anything in return. That’s why I left it here. In the lock where I hoped you would see it.

Please come inside. I am waiting to greet you.

Filed Under: Dear Reader, Essays Tagged With: life, simple truth, the journey

The importance of writing rituals

February 28, 2014 by Pen Leave a Comment

When I first started getting serious about writing, I set a goal of 1,000 words a day. Output is how you get better. I’ve long ago surpassed that target. Some days I write 7,000 words. My minimum targets now are 5,000 words a day at least five days a week. This is very achievable. I type 70 wpm, so theoretically, I could hit my mark in 71 minutes. That assumes that the story just flows automatically out of my brain like water. Unfortunately, that isn’t how stories work. Writing is art. Building a good story is just like building a good building. It’s done in a very methodical way. For anything over 1,000 words I tend to go into Scapple first and put the bones of my animal together. Scapple is a simple little software tool for Mac and PC that lets you figure out all the basics in a visual way. I tend to spend a few hours to a day working on the ideas that need to be woven together. For instance, here’s the current visual representation of Demonology, a contemporary fantasy I’m working on.

Demonology_Scapple

 

As you can see, there is more to a good story than just sitting down and letting it flow out of you. Well, for me anyhow. Stephen King might sit down and just start writing whatever is in his head. But I doubt that. I’ll bet he has a process too. Probably very different from me, because there is a generational gap and he wrote his first novel on a typewriter. Then there is Neal Stephenson, who wrote one of the most complex plots ever devised with a fountain pen. The Baroque Cycle is marketed in a silly, greedy way as three books now, but it started off as one immense tome I enjoyed mightily, as I do all of that man’s work. But I digress. The point of this post is – have a process.

If you don’t have a word goal count that you follow like the Catholic church follows the rituals of mass, you aren’t going to be a successful writer. You might write one novel, and it might even sell. But this writing thing won’t be a long-term career. You’ll need to know your tools and your process as well. You can break a million rules, but have some to break in the first place. Otherwise, you are just dreaming. The dream of being a novelist ain’t going to happen without you sitting down and pumping out prose. You’re going to need to be a word whore, and you’re going to need to be good at it.

You found this post because you either like my writing or you’re looking for writing tips. If the first, go buy a book right now and leave me a nice review so I can keep doing this. If the latter, why are you still reading. You should be writing. Go do it. But before you start, write down your word count goals. Understand your tools. And if you can’t touch type, learn that first. Unless you’re Neal Stephenson. If you are, then you should know I idolize you.

But you aren’t. So, go on. Get writing.

Filed Under: Essays, On Writing Tagged With: word count, word counts, writing process, writing rituals

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