Follow the Monster

The rough draft is done.  After three years, even I had begun to believe that I truly had poured my heart and soul into this book.  On the re-read, however, it became apparently obvious that it just wasn't all that good.  How could this be?  I believe in it. Now, more than ever, I know I am meant to be doing this.  This book is my purpose, the reason for my life.  I was born to do this.

So why does it still suck?  Why the casual, but repetitive flirtation with 'Delete All?'

It's not that I can't do it.  No.  The flashes of brilliance are frequent and startling enough to convince even my insecure mind that I can.

The answer is that I didn't pour my whole soul into the book.  I'd only put in the good parts.  I censored out what has been scaring me.  The anger that has been building up inside me, a lifetimes worth, that, that has to go in.  That has to finally rip its way out of the prison of my tortured brain and pour itself out onto the page.  I have to show the world what I spent a lifetime terrified it would find out.  Every dirty little secret, every hidden quirk, every nasty thought, all the filthy little harmless fetishes.  All of it needs to come out, because once I have nothing to hide, only then will I have nothing to fear.

Stories aren't written about heroes.  A hero is nothing without an antagonist.  Without a villain, at best, he's a well developed character who's already living his happily ever after.  No one over the age of four will ever want to read that.  No one reads books to see what happens to the hero.  We read to see what the villain is going to do next.  What new treachery, what new horror, what new pain can he inflict on our long suffering loyal hero to satiate our lust for conflict and feed our quenchless desire for empathetic righteous indignation?

We are not hero worshipers.  We're rubbernecking ambulance chasers.  We are the chronically morbidly curious.

We are human, so we follow the monster.

And we're right.

For without him, there is no story.

On a completely unrelated note, if there is a heaven, I think God looks like Francisco Lachowski and we just get to sit there all day and watch him smile.  (For the record, I've always liked that shirt.  Nordstrom.  Good stuff.)

Time Is An Elusive Illusion

I need to start finishing, but I just keep reading what I've written before. Where did those words come from?  It's like someone else wrote them.  Meanwhile, the dirty blond haired kid is still waiting for me, and how long can he hold out on the streets?  It's like I'm too worried about the time I don't have that I forget how to use the time I've got.  

January Takes Forever

Pause for gratitude, as I'm lucky to be here.  Pause for gratitude, as I know how to write.  Pause for gratitude because I'm allowed to write.  Pause for gratitude because I'm uncensored.

Every warm day in January, I am glad of, it's one more day the street kids stay warm.
Another chance to find a job, another night they'll stay dry.

Live in the moment, all you have is the now.
Grateful yes, but I don't like January anyhow.

This guy has something he wants us to think about: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1IAhDGYlpqY&feature=related

Misty Memories

I remember this.  There was this one spot, that was my favorite.  It looked as much like the preserve as my twelve year old imagination could conjure up.  I'd sit for hours in the quiet woods, trying to see past every sunlit leaf, every wavering bough, for a glimpse of a jacket sleeve; strain my ears to fight back sound of the wind that might every second be covering up the whisper of a footstep; scour the ground for any dropped trinket, harvested and collected every mysterious scrap of paper that harbored any thread of a connection, any tangible proof of any kind.  I never ever found anything.  Not a footprint, not a scrap of metal, not a bit of unraveled yarn, not even a deer. Even the unicycle I thought I'd found in the lake bed turned out to be just an ordinary old bicycle.  Twenty years of searching later, and I still possess no shred of evidence to prove their non-existence.  Twenty years of searching later, and the only treasure I've found to keep, is the nameless belief I've had all along: that reality and tangibility are not synonyms.

What Heros Look Like

Last Thursday, 11/17/11, I attended the 21st annual Covenant House candlelight vigil in Times Square for Homeless Youth.  What a humbling experience.   I stood in the middle of time square, surrounded by hundreds of people, corporate CEOs standing shoulder to shoulder with homeless teenagers, all holding candles and standing in solidarity together.  Kevin Ryan, director of Covenant House welcomed a very special speaker - a resident of Covenant House New York.  We stood transfixed, forgetting the cold as Diana bravely stood in the middle of Times Square and told her story to thousands .  A year ago she was homeless on the cold streets of New York, a city new to her.  She now works two jobs and is going to college to be an accountant.  When my dad retires, I plan to ask this woman to take over doing my taxes.

Ricky Gervais is right.  New York is the greatest city in the world.  Like all cities, it has its share of hungry bellies, scarfless necks and dark alleys.  But it also has love and hope and people who care enough to reach out to others who are just looking for a chance.  Kids like Diana aren't looking for a handout, but for a path to self sufficiency, for an opportunity to gain the skills they need to survive, to heal and eventually, to help another.  Being a victim is a horrifying, sometimes unavoidable state to be in, but it never has to be a permanent one.

I love New York, and the people who live in its buildings and on its streets.  The vigil was a beautiful start to an amazing transformation, whose completion requires you.  Romain Rolland said that a hero is someone who does what he can.  Diana is a hero because she is doing what she can.  If you do what you can, you can be a hero too.  Help me fill the bellies, help me make a scarf, help me light the alley.

Four Percent Survival Rate

Twenty-five years ago when my grandmother died of pancreatic cancer at 68, portable music was a boombox, playing video games required a trip to the arcade, the telephone was wired to a wall and the five year survival rate for pancreatic cancer was 4%.  Today phones, music, movies and games are all on one machine called an iphone we carry around with us everywhere we go.  The man who made it died last week of pancreatic cancer at 56, because the 5 year survival rate for pancreatic cancer is still 4%. 

You can be one of the most influential men in the world, whose creativity changed the way we work, communicate and play, who created companies that influence the financial integrity of entire countries and the behavior of every stock exchange in the world, who created technology to consolidate the contents of 700 books onto a machine the size of a coloring book, and put a computer into almost every home in the country, but cancer doesn't care. 

Respect and thank you Mr. Jobs.  Rest in peace.  I'll try not to think too much on what you could have done for the world with another 56 years.  Instead I'll try to help do it for you.  Big shoes to fill. 

http://2011dutchesscountywalk.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=490221&lis=1&kntae490221=02B5948ACED84241B8419373606C7310&supId=335160566

"“Almost everything–all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure–these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose... There is no reason not to follow your heart.” - Steve Jobs

Writer's Block

You walk around with the character you've created, in him, as him.  You see the world through his eyes.  You drive to work, order food, drink coffee, listen to music, look at porn as him.  And you slowly start to realize, that no matter how successful the book is, how lucrative the movie deal, how much money you make, you won't ever get to actually sleep with him.  You can create him, you can bring him to life, you can share him with the world.  You will know everything about him, his deepest fears, his biggest secrets, his strengths and his weaknesses.  You will fall in love with him.  But he will never love you back, because he doesn't exist.  Because he's you.  And you don't want to sleep with you.  You fucking hate yourself.  That's how the whole thing got started in the first place. No matter how hard you try, no matter how hard you work, no matter how many producers you know, the best you're ever going to get is a chance to look at his picture.  The picture you painted yourself.  But you know what?  It's a hell of a nice picture.