What Shall I Write About Today?

If you ask my family and friends to describe me in one word, they would probably say things like “witty”, “elegant”, “hilarious”, “poignant”, and “alive”. They would probably eventually mention the word “stubborn.” And they’re right.

I usually don’t like people telling me what to do, because I’m totally smart and my way is always the best way. At least in my mind it is. However, there are times when my stubbornness gets the better of me and keeps me from doing something great. There’s no greater example of this than what I recently experienced with my work in progress.

All good writers (and lots of bad ones) know that getting feedback is crucial to developing a strong book. The feedback I have received from my totally awesome suspense novel, “A Confession of Faith”, has been very positive, but a couple of people had some constructive criticism for me. And if I’m completely honest, I didn’t like that so much.

This manuscript has undergone several revisions and I have put a LOT of thought into every part of it in order to erase plot holes, ramp up the foreshadowing and suspense, and just making sure it didn’t stink. I felt like every part of it was vitally important, or else I wouldn’t have included it. So when these two people suggested I rework the first few chapters, removing nearly all of the backstory, and starting the novel a little later in the timeline, I thought they were crazy. I remember saying to myself, “Every part of those chapters was deliberately written and everything serves a purpose. How can I take that out? Who cares if these suggestions came from professional authors and editors? Surely I know more than they do.”

I mulled this over in my head for a few months, and wrestled with the notion of cutting around 10,000 of my perfect words from my perfect manuscript. I wasn’t afraid of the extra work; I was just too stubborn to admit that somebody might know more about writing than I do. I finally decided that maybe, just maybe, the professionals were right, and I decided to make some changes. I asked myself, “What would I do if I had a publishing contract and my editor told me I absolutely had to make these changes?” I talk to myself a lot, don’t I? Yes, I do. But I’m one of the few people who understands me.

I started by making a bulleted list of the things that happen in my first three chapters. Once I really looked at it, I realized that while it included some amusing anecdotes and cute things, very little of it was actually vital to the plot. And those things that were indeed vital could easily be plugged in a bit later (or maybe I’ll just release a special expanded edition along with the director’s cut of the movie version).

I began rewriting the opening of the book and found that I could set the stage with a couple of paragraphs instead of using a couple of chapters. (This is the whole “showing, not telling” thing I’ve heard so much about). Instead of my main character writing a few paragraphs about how often her father is gone on business trips and how this is straining their relationship, she now looks at her father with a pitiful face and asks, “How long are you gonna be gone this time, Daddy?” That one sentence tells the reader a lot about their strained relationship due to his frequent and prolonged absences.

Once I made this change (and similar changes), I realized my opening was much stronger and much more engaging. By doing this, I still manage to let the reader know what’s going on, but I get them to the action of the story much faster. This reduces the risk that my reader will lose interest and stop reading before they get to the good parts. When I was able to take my emotion out and look at this part of my manuscript objectively, I discovered that the pros were right. Who knew?

Even though I deleted a lot of things, I’m glad I wrote them because writing those two chapters of backstory helped me understand my characters much more deeply. I don’t view it as wasted time because although it won’t be published, it makes the book much stronger and makes my characters more like actual people instead of cardboard cutouts.

So my point is, you don’t know everything. You’re probably smart, but when it comes to your creation, you have blind spots and sometimes you can’t see the problems. When people give you suggestions, act as though they just might be right. If you think it through objectively and don’t agree with their suggestions, that’s fine. This is your vision, after all. But if you hear the same suggestions from multiple people, or from people who really know their stuff, they may be on to something. Don’t be stubborn…unless you need to be. That being said, in a future blog I’ll talk about times when it’s good to be stubborn.

Have any of my writer friends ever experienced something like this? Leave me a comment and let me know what you think. And be sure to subscribe if you want to be notified when I post more words of wisdom. Until next time.

When I was in college, I had some (former) friends talk me into going ice skating. “It’ll be fun,” they said. “It’s even easier than roller skating,” they said. “You won’t embarrass yourself in front of a few hundred complete strangers,” they said. Liars. All of them.

I have a scar on my chin that I earned when I was roller skating as a child (one of my five emergency room visits in the span of 3 years), so since then I’ve had a healthy fear of foot-related modes of transportation. I’m terrified of items such as roller skates, ice skates, skateboards, and those Acme rocket powered skates Wile E. Coyote wore, so I’ve avoided them like a person avoids those people they don’t want to talk to in the grocery store (I often wonder how often people avoid me in the grocery store). However, this one night I gave in to the peer pressure.

I should have known I was in for trouble when I couldn’t find a pair of skates my size. One pair left my toes curled up like overcooked bacon, and another pair was so big I could have stapled Vienna sausages to the ends of my toes and still had room. I decided to go with the size 18’s because I hate when my toes get cramped up. I also hate it when my socks get stuck between my toes, but that’s a story for another time.

I laced them up and tried to walk around a bit. If you’ve never worn ice skates, picture yourself trying to balance your entire body on something the width of a piece of paper. Not the width as you lay the paper flat, but the width if you held it on edge. I’m surprised I didn’t break my ankles as I tried to keep my feet from collapsing inward or outward. Little did I know, this would prove to be the only victory of the evening.

I made it to the ice and began to make my first lap around the rink, clutching the rail along the wall, and inching my way around like a sloth covered in maple syrup (Or honey, if you prefer). I think it took somewhere between 3 and 300 minutes to complete my first lap, but I did it without falling. I felt confident enough to work my way out from the safety of the wall and into the flow of traffic.

Picture someone shuffling their feet down the Autobahn, one inch at a time, while other cars zoom past at 100 mph. Well, that’s about 10 times faster than I was actually moving, but at least I had liberated myself from the hand rail. I was on my own. I was free. I had graduated from sloth speed to “slug speed”, and felt my confidence growing with each passing millimeter. I was getting the hang of it, but it wasn’t long before my feet slipped out from under me and I collapsed onto the ice like a bag of wet cement. I don’t know how or why I fell, but I soon learned something about ice skating. When you fall, you get wet. Ugh.

I managed to hoist myself off the ice with all the grace of a newborn giraffe on ice skates, and began to move forward again. It wasn’t long before I repeated the process. Fall down, get wet, baby giraffe, fall down, get wetter, baby giraffe, etc.

If there’s one thing everybody knows about me (besides my affinities for Spam and “Weird Al” Yankovic) it’s that I’m stubborn. I determined that I was not going to let this stupid activity get the better of me, so even after I fell for the umpteenth time, I never thought about quitting. I never entertained the idea of turning back even though I was only 20 feet or so from where I started. This baby giraffe was going to make it around the rink…not once, but maybe even two or three times!

By this time my bruises had bruises, my pants looked like I had been swimming, and I had embarrassed myself countless times. But I didn’t care. I got back to my feet and started skating again. But something was different this time. I didn’t fall. I didn’t even wobble. I was as steady as the fabled tortoise (What’s with all the animal analogies?) and nearly as fast. Before I knew it, one lap became two. And two laps became three. And three laps…ouch, fell again. Three laps became four, and I began to move quickly enough I could finally feel the wind against my face and wet clothes.

I don’t know how many more laps I did, but eventually they made the announcement that the rink was closing. It was a shame, because I had never felt more alive. I was one with the ice (probably because I had so much of it on me), and I didn’t want the fun to end. I decided to go out with a bang, so I picked up speed and headed around the back stretch of the rink like Eric Heiden (I didn’t have to Google that because I did a book report on him in 4th grade). If you’ve seen the scene in Christmas Vacation in which Clark goes down the hill on his saucer sled, that’s how fast I was now traveling.

Only one problem. Nobody ever told me how to stop. I had spent the entire evening trying to go, so it never dawned on me that I would have to eventually stop. And to make matters worse, everybody was leaving the rink, so as I approached the seating area at warp speed I was heading straight toward a mass of humanity the size of a herd of wildebeest (What’s gnu with you?) (Stop with the animal analogies!). I had but two options…plow into the mass, or steer myself into the wall and crash into it as gracefully as I could. I decided to aim for the wall, but then a third option presented itself: crash into the poor, innocent woman who had unknowingly crossed into my path.

I decided my only hope to avoid obliterating this poor soul was to hit the deck and hope I could create enough friction to stop me. I crashed down on the ice with all the grace of a baby giraffe on ice skates (😡) and dug myself into the ground as hard as I could. I yelled in an effort to warn her, but she didn’t hear me. All the bystanders heard me though, so they turned around in unison just in time to see what transpired next.

I was able to slow myself from warp speed to cheetah speed, but it wasn’t enough to avoid a collision. I slid into the backs of her legs like a bowling ball from the arm of Pete Weber (I Googled “best bowler of all time” because I never did a book report on Pete) and watched as she fell down on me, squishing me between her posterior and the ice, and knocking the wind out of me in the process. I wasn’t quite sure what to do next. I’ve never read any books on etiquette, but I’m pretty sure they don’t address this specific situation. I figured the polite thing to do was to wait for her to climb off of me, then stand to my feet, and help her stand to her feet. It was a nice thought, but it was not destined to play out that way.

I managed to get to my feet, apologizing profusely along the way, and asked her if she was ok. Fortunately I provided enough cushion so as to protect her from the unforgiving ice, and she had escaped without injury. I held my hand out as a gesture of good will, and she took it as a gesture of misplaced faith. I pulled as she tried to stand, but as she got nearly vertical, I lost my balance and fell, bringing her down with me. I tried a couple more times, but had similar results each time. Everybody continued to watch as I tried unsuccessfully to help her up. I’m just glad this was before cell phone cameras (and cell phones themselves) were popular or I would have definitely gone viral.

I finally realized we weren’t getting anywhere, so I did the only thing a true gentleman would do in this situation. I took my new friend by the hand, and dragged her across the ice to the seating area so she could crawl over to a bench, and pick herself up with whatever dignity she had left. I don’t remember anybody saying anything to me, but I’m sure I know what they were thinking.

I emerged from this traumatic experience with my body and ego bruised, but I learned something about myself that day. There are times in life when you’re going to fall down, but you have to pick yourself up and keep pressing on until you fall again. And again. And you may as well laugh at yourself, because everybody else is laughing at you.

Do you have any embarrassing experiences you would like to share with the world? Drop me a comment if you’re brave enough. And be sure to subscribe to my blog so you’ll be notified when I post my next embarrassing story.

The story below is mostly true. It may have been slightly embellished for dramatic effect, but the basic story really did take place. Honest.

“Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.” – William Shakespeare

I seriously doubt The Bard of Avon had my son in mind when he typed those powerful words many centuries ago, but there could not possibly exist a sentence that more accurately describes the “heroism” my son displayed today. My mouth was agape as my children wove this compelling tale this afternoon, and I will attempt to use my feeble wordsmithing skills to do this legend the justice it deserves.

It was a typical Tuesday at A. Crawford Mosley High School. The warning bell would soon sound, and 1,800 eager students would descend upon their classrooms, in much the same way a gaggle of ants would descend upon a lollipop that had been dropped by a careless toddler. My son, the hero, approached the front doors, not aware of the adventure that would soon greet him and his fellow Dolphins.

My daughter walked into the vestibule first, and felt something scamper across her foot, brushing the bottom part of her leg in the process. Was it a loose shoelace? Perhaps a strap from her backpack? Nope. She looked down just in time to see the foul creature that had just introduced itself. It was a rat. And not just any rat. This was a rat so gargantuan, it made all other rats look like really small rats. This was a rat that a really tiny human could ride if he had the right kind of rat saddle. Her words failed her, and all she could manage to produce from her throat was a yelp/scream not unlike the sound a chihuahua might make if it got its tail caught in a sliding glass door. She and her friend quickly and ungracefully sought refuge in the sanctuary of the front office, slamming the door behind them in the process. This left my son, Andrew, alone in the vestibule with Ratniss Everdeen. 

There are times in a person’s life when they are faced with a dangerous situation, and they experience the phenomenon known as “fight or flight”. Some people run from the danger…some run toward it. Andrew glanced at the office door, and briefly considered fleeing inside, but something held him back. Like Neo at the end of The Matrix, he screwed his courage to the sticking place, and decided to stand his ground. Two would enter this steel (and impact resistant glass) gladiator arena, but only one would escape. This was his school, and if he didn’t defend it, who would?

In a flash, Andrew looked and saw that one of the doors from the vestibule into the interior of the school had been left open by another student. Andrew surmised that if Ratniss could get through that door, he would wreak all sorts of havoc. He had to be stopped, no matter the cost. The same thought must have entered Ratniss’s little rat mind because he charged toward the door, ready to wreak. Andrew moved quickly (well, quickly for him anyway), and since his human legs are much longer than a rat’s (albeit only slightly less furry) he was able to close the door and thwart the rat’s attempt.

Knowing he had lost the first round, Ratniss looked up at Andrew with a mixture of respect and quiet fury. Andrew merely stood his ground, locking his human eyes with the beady rat eyes glaring at him from the floor. They both stood, waiting for the next round to commence. By this time, several other students had approached the front door to the school, eager to embark on that day’s learning adventure. Andrew barked orders at them, eschewing pleasantries, in a valiant effort to keep them safe. One of them ignored Andrew’s warnings and opened the door. Andrew saw an opportunity to end this battle and decided to drive Ratniss from the vestibule and out the front door. He stomped his size-12 feet in a way that any rat would find terrifying, and watched as Ratniss fled through the door, and out of the school once and for all. The rat’s path across the front yard of the school was easily identified by a series of shrieks and fleeing students.

Andrew walked outside and just stood there, breathing in the smell of sweet victory. Proud of the fact that he had saved the school from rat cooties. Ratniss scurried across the street, but right before he disappeared into the hole from whence he came, he turned around to exchange one last look with his nemesis. He nodded his head slightly and sent Andrew a slight smirk as if to say, “Well done, partner. Perhaps we’ll meet again some day.” Andrew simply replied with a steely stare that told Ratniss that any future visits would be met with the same response. 

Andrew emerged from this harrowing situation a hero, winning the adulation of all that dwell in the hallowed halls of Mosley High School in the process, and proving himself worthy of being called “The Verminator: Defender of Mosley High School.”

If you enjoyed this mostly true story please leave a comment below, and read the other posts on this humble website. If you would like to be notified when I unleash my next awesome story on the world, hit the subscribe button and you’ll be among the first to know.

What shall I write about today?  Well, my last post got a little heavy, but I know it involves an important and timely topic, so I felt compelled to share it. Today I’ll lighten things up a bit and talk about a recent epiphany I had. 

A couple weeks ago I did something I almost never do…I let my wife have the remote and watch what she wanted to. There are many times I can’t find something I really want to watch, but I dare not relinquish the remote, so I find something on TV I can at least tolerate. I know, I’m shallow sometimes. Then there are times when I feel extra nice (or guilty) and I let my wife choose what we watch. On this particular day she chose to watch a marathon of “Dr Quinn: Medicine Woman” on Hallmark. I found the show to be cheesy and formulaic (more on that later), but it was during the commercial breaks that I was stricken with a sudden realization that will change the way people all around the world (or at least those who bother to read this) view TV movies. Allow me to share. Are you sitting down?  Ok, here goes…Hallmark romance movies are just Lifetime movies…in reverse. 

You think I’m crazy, don’t you. Or at least a little crazier than you already thought I was. Just hear me out. Think about the plot of your typical Hallmark romance movie…especially the Christmas movies. They go something like this:

1. Girl despises boy. He’s either trying to kill her career, or he’s disgusting and annoying, and even though he’s incredibly handsome, she wants nothing to do with him
2. Girl and enemy boy fall victim to some sort of calamity that forces them together
3. Relationship deteriorates farther because she hates him even more, and she sees him as an enemy. 
4. Girl sees boy in a moment of tenderness (talking to a small child, helping an old lady cross the street, etc) and realizes he’s not as boorish as she originally thought. 
5. Relationship between girl and boy slowly begins to thaw and she realizes how much she loves him. 
6. Girl and boy are in love and appear to be on their way toward a “happily ever after” life.

That pretty much summarizes every Hallmark romance movie I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching. Now, contrast that with your typical Lifetime movie and see what happens.

1. Girl and boy are in love and appear to be on their way toward a “happily ever after” life. 
2. Relationship between girl and boy slowly begins to thaw and she realizes how little she loves him.
3. Girl sees boy in a moment of rage (yelling at somebody, pushing an old lady down in the street, etc) and realizes he’s not as great as she originally thought.
4. Relationship deteriorates farther because she loves him even less and she sees him as an enemy.
5. Girl and enemy boy fall victim to some sort of calamity that forces them apart.
6. Girl despises boy. He’s either trying to kill her, or he’s angry and sadistic, and even though he’s incredibly handsome, she wants nothing to do with him.

See? At first you thought I was delirious for even suggesting such an idea; but admit it…you’re nodding your head thinking “Holy moly, this man is a genius (even if his comma and semicolon usage is subpar at best).”

I’m not one to say, “I told you so,” but I did. 

Most of these movies are examples of formulaic storytelling. Personally, I don’t like it when stories are too predictable and cliched like that. I’m fine with a story in which the main characters don’t end up together. I like it when the ending isn’t all sunshine and puppy dogs (unicorns are OK). I appreciated the fact that the parents didn’t get back together in “Mrs Doubtfire” (Spoiler Alert). Oh wait…Was I supposed to say “Spoiler Alert” before the actual spoiler? Oh well. Too late now.

I like to be surprised by a story and I like to be taken on a journey I didn’t expect. If a story is cheesy and formulaic I tend to dismiss it as lazy storytelling. When I’m writing I often think to myself, “What does my reader expect to happen next?” and immediately rule out the next several ideas that pop into my head. I like to be unpredictable when I write. Aardvark cornucopia dishwasher!  See, you didn’t see that coming, did you?  Because I’m unpredictable. 

We’ve established the fact that I’m not fond of predictable, formulaic storytelling, but I also dislike storytelling formulas. I see articles promoting things like “The Five Traits to a Successful Novel” or “Every Good Story Must Follow These Steps In This Exact Order Or Nobody Will Read It” and I cringe. First of all, I’m a stubborn man so I bristle anytime anybody tells me what I need to do. You’ll notice I said “bristle” and not “refuse to do”. That’s one reason I’ve managed to stay married for 17 years. But back to storytelling formulas. 

Writing is an art. And like all art, it cannot be quantified. Writing is subjective and it speaks to different people in different ways. To suggest that there is one surefire formula for writing is like suggesting that there’s only one recipe for baking a cake. Or only one direction to drive on a one-way street. There are virtually unlimited paths to a great story, and the beauty lies in the fact that they are all different. And we are all different. Your storytelling path may resonate with some, but not others. Their path may not resonate with you. And that’s OK. One is not less beautiful than the other. 

So go ahead, forge your own path. Write the story that’s in your head and heart, even if it doesn’t follow a traditional storytelling formula. Break the rules if you want to. Be a pirate. It’s your story. It’s art. It’s beautiful. Arrr!

That being said, come back for my next post in which I discuss the value of storytelling formulas and why formulaic storytelling is great (even after I railed against them today). Seriously, that’s my next topic.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to reclaim the remote before the next episode of “Dr Quinn” comes on. 

What shall I write about today?  Well, I’m going to write about a subject I know a little about because I’ve been one as long as I’ve been alive…men. I know technically I didn’t become a man for a couple decades, and my wife is still waiting for me to become a grown up, but I think I’m qualified. Men are strange animals, with strange qualities, and even stranger odors. We grunt. We sweat. We make messes. We’re rough around the edges and soft around the middle. We have dad bods. We have bad habits. We do gross things and we laugh at them. Now excuse me while I go try to belch the alphabet…

…I’m back. Sadly I only made it to “L”. I’ve regressed since middle school when I could make it to the second half of the alphabet without breaking a sweat. No time to practice now, because I have important writing to do. 

There is probably no other quality that defined a man more than our “toughness.” Men need to be tough. We need to be strong. We need to be in charge. People depend on us so always have to come through for them.

Think back to the olden days. You had movie stars like John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and Chuck Norris. You had songs like “Bad Bad Leroy Brown”, “You Don’t Mess Around With Jim”, and “A Boy Named Sue.” You had manly men who oozed toughness from every manly pore of their manly bodies. Men who could single-handedly take out an army, then take out a beautiful woman to a nice dinner. These were real men who showed no weakness and would never, ever stop to ask for directions. They could do it all on their own and they didn’t need help from anybody. We men should strive to be more like this because we never need help. 

Or do we?

I want to talk about a different kind of toughness. Not one that is measured by the ability to take out an army, nor by the ability to shoot lots of bad guys without missing a single shot and somehow never running out of bullets. This kind of toughness takes a whole lot more bravery, and it is far more important than the other kinds of toughness. I’m talking about the toughness it takes to admit when we need help. 

Over the last 15 months I’ve been through a lot. I was transferred from a job I loved at my alma mater to another school in the district, hid under the stairs with my family as my hometown was decimated and my own home severely damaged by a category 5 hurricane, saw daily reminders of the storm, lived with eight other people and four dogs in my in-laws’ three-bedroom house for five months, moved into a travel trailer in our driveway (in which we still reside, and will do so for another three or four months), and lost my mother, who lost a nearly twenty-year battle with Multiple Sclerosis in March. Any one of these calamities would have a huge impact on any man, but the combination of them is enough to bring even the toughest man down. 

(For the record, I love my wife’s family and I am incredibly appreciative that they allowed us to live there for so long. However, the living situation was definitely less than ideal.)

For months I knew I had to be a tough man. I was hurting and stressed out on a daily, no, hourly basis. I couldn’t sleep at night because of the weight of being a tough man. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t because I had to hold it all in for the sake of my family. I was a rock. I was tough. I was wrong.

Deep down I knew that I needed to talk to somebody, but I didn’t know where to turn, nor did I have the guts to ask. In March, 2019 I was called into the Superintendent’s office and he told me I was transferring to another school. In all honesty, these have been good moves for me, but in that moment, all of the stress, pressure, and emotion came to a head and I began to cry in his office. It was an ugly scene, but it was necessary. I told him what I had been going through and he referred me to a counselor. I was hesitant because real mean don’t need mental health or depression counseling. 

I decided to make an appointment and met with the counselor several times. He listened as I spilled my guts and spilled my tears. He reaffirmed what I had been feeling and assured me that I wasn’t alone with these feelings. He offered several suggestions (including writing) and I have felt a million times better since then. There are still moments that get to me, but for the most part I feel great…even if our house is still nearly gutted and we will be lucky to move back in by Christmas (which would be 14 months since “The Storm” as we call it around here). 

I didn’t tell you about all those bad things so you would feel sorry for me. I appreciate the support of my friends, but that’s not my goal. I write these things…these things I haven’t told anybody but my wife…in the hopes that somebody else who needs help will be convinced to seek help. You may not have gone through the same exact situations, but you feel the same exact pressure and depression I, and so many others have. Don’t be a tough guy. Don’t be a manly man. Don’t be an idiot. If you need help, get help. It’ll be one of the toughest decisions you’ll ever make, but it will be one of the best. 

As a Christian, I don’t want to neglect the spiritual aspect of dealing with depression and stress. Believe me, I did a lot of praying during this time. Prayer is essential no matter what you’re going through, but there are times when opening up to another human, being willing to tear down the facade, and sharing your problems with that other person carry benefits as well. Even if you’re not a religious person, there is still help available if you’re tough enough to ask for it.

I hope these words help at least one person out there. And I hope all you tough guys out there are tough enough to get help when you need it. Don’t try to go it alone…even if you’re as tough as Chuck Norris.

by Richard Hartzer 7/22/2019

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What shall I write about today? Well, since this is my first blog post I really need something special that hooks you and encourages you to subscribe, so I could promise to give my first 1,000 subscribers a free $100 Chick Fil A gift card (only valid on Sundays). Nevermind. I don’t want to rely on gimmicks to gain subscribers. Instead, I promise to give all my readers a blog-reading experience like no other. I am a strange and complex person so you should expect a series of strange and complex blog posts. Some posts will make you laugh, some posts will make you think, and some posts will make you cry because you’ll think of all the reading enjoyment you lost because I didn’t start blogging sooner. That may sound like hyperbole, but I almost never exaggerate. Now, a little bit about myself and my writing experience…

…When I was in 4^th grade, our teacher used to make us write sentences using that week’s spelling words. Not content to merely write a series of unrelated sentences, I wove fascinating tales using our spelling words and featuring unforgettable characters such as Little Johnny Infant and Super Pickle. Sadly, none of these amazing pieces of literature found their way into the Smithsonian (or even our refrigerator door), but it ignited a spark of creativity inside me. A brilliant spark that would not be extinguished until I moved on to 5^th grade and discovered that girls didn’t have cooties after all. I still remember Amanda…my square-dancing partner and first love. I was captivated by her gorgeous amber hair and her stylish parachute pants…and also by the fact that she could hold my hand without immediately wiping it off afterward like the other girls did. I’m looking at you, Harriet. I didn’t do much in the way of creative writing for a long time after that, but all that was destined to change on a historic Saturday morning on my back porch.

When I was 43, I felt this stirring inside me. A stirring I hadn’t felt since that fateful dinner of gas station sushi back in the summer of ’04. But this stirring was different. I had this idea in my head to try something crazy (although slightly less crazy than eating gas station sushi) and write a book. I constantly annoy my wife by criticizing movies, TV shows, and books when they fail to live up to my lofty expectations; so, tired of all the subpar entertainment in the world, I decided that I would show everybody how it should be done. I needed a hook so I thought it would be fun to think of a really depressing thought and base my book about that. I decided to write about a teenage girl that was about to be executed for treason. How did she get in that predicament and how would she get out of it? Or would she get out of it? I grabbed my laptop, plopped down in my favorite recliner, sketched out a rough outline of the story and the characters, and began writing. I was amazed at how easily the words flowed from my brain into my fingers and I wrote the first couple of chapters in no time. Amazingly I never experienced the dreaded writer’s block and over the next 3 months I churned out a 100,000-word masterpiece that nobody knows about yet. One year and several drafts later, I’m looking for an agent to believe in me and my work.

Platform

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While I have been waiting for my big break, I heard all authors need “platform”, so I decided to get one of those. I created a Twitter account for my author persona and quickly stumbled upon the Writing Community. I have made tons of friends, received tons of advice, posted tons of goofy GIFs, and possibly even accidentally dispensed some good advice to others. Overall it has been an overwhelmingly positive experience, but evidently a “platform” must include a website and blog as well, so here we are. In all honesty, I’ve long desired to be a columnist with the humor of Dave Barry and the gravitas of Andy Rooney, so this will be fun for me. It’s too early to say whether it’ll be fun for you, but here’s hoping.

My follower list continues to grow, and hopefully my blog subscriber list will do the same as I embark upon this journey with you all. I truly appreciate everybody who takes the time to read my tweets and I admire your dedication to make it this far into my blog post. Your endurance (or lack of anything else to do today) is to be commended and I look forward to seeing you again in the near future.

If you like what you see, please subscribe to my blog. You’ll receive an e-mail every time I post something new, so you’ll be able to drop what you’re doing and be among the first to check it out. Thanks.