November 9

If there is nothing worthwhile to be gained by fighting, #forgiveness is the only thing that makes sense.

Oscar and Dad Playing Catch
Oscar and Dad Playing Catch (Photo credit: Phil Scoville)

“He’s in there Ryan. He doesn’t say much though, but go ahead in.”

“Right, well, uh, thank you.”

I walk into a sterile smelling room with a bed, a TV, and an old man who I don’t recognize.

“Hey Dad.”

He says nothing in return, not even moving his head to look at me.

“I came here because I love you, and I want to forgive you. I want to move beyond the past and think about today and tomorrow.”

He coughs, but it feels like he’s coughing at me, as if to say that he doesn’t care what I think.

“You never really cared what I thought, did you? I remember how funny you thought it was to sit on my face and fart when I was a little kid. I didn’t think that was funny. I hated it. I asked you to go outside and toss a baseball around with me, and you were always too busy. You were always too busy to spend time with me, but you were never too busy to watch old reruns of Taxi, MASH, and All in the Family. You never once watched anything I liked on TV. You really had no interest in spending time with me did you? Why would you even have kids? What’s funny about that is I don’t have a single good memory that I can think of where it was just you and I hanging out. I mean, I pretty much mentioned all the good times we had, getting my face farted on and watching old people television that I was too young to understand. The bad times where you beat me and told me how worthless I was – those were really bad times. I don’t care about the stories of how your mom used to throw ashtrays at your head because you’re a bad person. Do you remember when I had to go to school and explain black eyes that you had given me? Do you remember breaking a mirror with my sister’s head? Everybody looked at me; they knew you were hitting me, but I told them the lies that you told me to tell, and they accepted them. I wanted to tell everyone the truth, but you always told me how I would get taken away from you and put into a foster home where I would be beaten worse, fed less, and maybe even molested.”

My hands are shaking from the anger, but he says nothing. He just sits there drooling. I reach over and grab his collar, pulling him toward me so that our noses are touching. He has to look at me. He has to understand.

“If all that wasn’t bad enough, you leave my mom, your wife, our family when I was 17. I needed you then, and I could barely get you on the phone. You went and had a kid with another woman, and I accepted that child as my sibling, until you abandoned that family too and didn’t even bother to show up to my wedding. I still got past all of that, but when your new wife ripped me off, stealing money from me, you got behind her and never spoke with me again.”

My hands are shaking, and I’m crying. I set him back down again, fix his shirt, and say: “I just wish I knew why, but it doesn’t matter.”

It really doesn’t matter. His motives don’t matter. His actions are everything, and he was a terrible Dad.

“I forgive you Dad. This is a clean slate. I had my say, and now I start from here. I see you from this moment on for whatever you are from now on. Look, I know your birthday is coming up soon. I’ll see you again on your birthday OK?”

He actually looks like he’s trying to say something. He doesn’t move his head but he’s mustering sounds carefully from his mouth, so I get up close and put my ear near his mouth.

“Don’t . . . don’t.”

He stops talking.

“Don’t what, Dad?”

“Come . . .”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Back . . .”

“Don’t come back? You don’t want me to come back on your birthday? I can come another day. I know you hate celebrating your birthday.”

“Ever . . .”

More tears roll down my face, but I’ve still forgiven him. I won’t take that back. We both need that peace. He is a terrible father. What did I expect?

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November 8

Great, you found your muse. Now, before you go and write 10,000 more incoherent and in-cohesive sentences, stop, #edit, and #read.

Image of a modern fountain pen writing in curs...
Image of a modern fountain pen writing in cursive script. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I spoke about getting your muse on in an early post, but what happens if the writing ideas are flowing like a faucet? Is it cool to take up your days and nights with unlimited, unleashed writing.

My thought on this is no. There are a few times when I will have, what seems like, an infinite resource of writing ideas to source from. If I get carried away and just write and write and write, sometimes the work starts to suffer a lot. The one good thing about writer’s block is it gives me a chance to reread my work, edit it, and think about what I don’t like and do like about my style. It makes me think about where I should try to go with my style. It even makes me wonder if I should change my style often.

Having a fountain pen full of ideas that just spill out all over the place is great, but it’s messy. Right now, I’ve found my muse, and I’m starting to write, write, write, but I’ve set a limit for myself. There’s a maximum daily quantity that I allow myself to write. That amount of time is different for everyone, but I need time to sit down and reflect on the work I’ve written. As much as I think I’m great at writing when the words are coming out, reading something two or three days later can really make me wonder what I was thinking.

My advise is to write everyday, but take time to read and edit everyday also. It makes my work better and easier to follow, and I hope it will do the same for you.

November 7

Everyone #lies to each other. Except for me. I won’t lie to people, but everyone else on the planet will, including you.

English: A bunch of carrots (Daucus carota), w...
English: A bunch of carrots (Daucus carota), washed and placed on a wooden cutting board (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Ding dong.

The doorbell. I do that thing where you put your hand up to your mouth, breathe out a big gust of warm air and try to smell fast enough to make sure your breath isn’t bad. I can’t really smell anything, but it doesn’t ever really work anyway. A quick hair check. Right, still falling out, awesome.

“I’m coming.”

I open the door to see Sam.

“Hey Ryan,” he says as he leans in really close and smells me.

“You smell good,” he says.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes, you gotta go. I have someone meeting me.”

He steps inside and shuts the door behind him.

“A girl?”

“A woman, yes.”

“Is she hot? Are you going to lay some pipe tonight?”

“Hot. Hot is understatement. She’s a redhead, and she has the perfect body. Hmmm . . . Samantha.”

“Wait, you’re going on a date with a redhead named Samantha?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“It’s gotta be the same crazy girl I dated. Don’t you remember the Sam/Samantha dating night? I was all excited by the prospect of this being the perfect woman. The night started off great. We were calling each other Sam, sharing food, and she even invited me back to her place.”

“So?”

“So, Ryan, it sounds perfect, doesn’t it? Except for one thing. She tells me to get naked, and I end up tied to a table while she violates me with carrots. I don’t even remember what happened after that, but I ended up at home with a note in my pocket, written in her blood.”

“Well, what did the note say?”

“The note said something about how she never wanted to see me again. As if that was a problem. I would never go near that crazy  bi . . .”

Ding dong.

“I’m getting out of here. Do you know her last name?”

“I’m sure it’s not the same Samantha.”

Sam starts heading out the back door, but not before he gets out his last few words: “Just ask her if her last name’s Carr. If it is, run for your life. Trust me Ryan – I’m your best friend. Promise me; you’re out if her last name is Carr.”

“I promise.”

I answer the door, only to see a more breathtakingly beautiful version of Samantha on the other side than I had ever seen before. This is her at her best. I thought I had already seen that. She’s wearing her signature green lipstick. She works at my accountants office, and no matter where she goes she always wears that lipstick.

“Come in Sam, you look – I mean, you are radiant.”

“You are so sweet and good-looking. I’m really glad you asked me out. I feel a little over sensitive mentioning this, but I really prefer being called Samantha.”

“Oh, absolutely. I just ran into a friend of mine minutes before you came over, and he goes by Sam. It must have just been the memory of that.”

“It’s no big deal. Do we have some time before we have to go?”

“Yes, can I get you a glass of wine?”

“I would love a red.”

So, would I is what I think to myself. While opening a bottle of red, there is a very comfortable silence between us. She rubs my shoulders and caresses my back. I kiss her cheek and pour the wine, while she flashes me a huge “thank you” smile.

“You know Samantha, I feel silly about this, but I don’t know your last name. I mean, I suppose that’s what dates are for.”

“Getting to know someone’s last name,” she says with a little giggle and a half-smile.

“I mean, uh, you know, just getting to know someone.”

“I’m Samantha Carr.”

I’m nervous, yet really excited at the same time. I want to see what happens.

“Right. My friend Sam mentioned that he went on a date with you. I didn’t think you were the same woman, but he told me Samantha Carr.”

“I’ve only ever dated one Sam – worst date of my life Sam.”

“Oh? Was it that bad?”

“It was worse than bad. He ordered steak,which I don’t like, and I ordered mussels. He kept eating all of my food and telling me to have some steak. He got so drunk at dinner that he couldn’t drive, and he had the only car there, so I drove back to my place, figuring he could hang out until he sobered up. He started gathering every phallic shaped item in the place, pens, cucumbers, whatever. He kept telling me how much fun we were going to have. I got really scared, and he just looked at me while I was shaking. I made it clear that nobody would be taking their clothes off tonight, and that is the moment he took off all his clothes. With a fist full pens in one hand and a cucumber and some carrots in another, he started to run towards me, but being as drunk as he was, he smashed right into the table, vomited all over the floor and passed out right there, right on my kitchen table. I found some old twine and quickly tied him up. He regained consciousness soon after, and I threatened him with one of the carrots. I didn’t do anything, but I made some really bad threats. I hated the person I was that night. He lost consciousness again, and I got a cab driver to help me take him home with the pens, cucumber, and carrots – I never wanted to see any of it again. I drove his car back to his house, and the cab driver drove me back home.”

“Wow. I’m really sorry Samantha. I didn’t know Sam was like that. That really explains everything.”

“So he told you about the date already?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to come between you and your friend, but I hope you believe me. He’s a really bad person.”

“I understand, and I believe you. Let’s enjoy the night and not think about that anymore. I’ll have to have a serious talk with Sam. There was just one other thing. I don’t know if you remember or not, but he said you wrote him a note.”

“Yes, it was a nasty note, but I just wanted to scare him. I wanted to make sure that he never tried to contact me again.”

“He said you wrote it in blood.”

“Never. He had all my pens, so I grabbed my red lipstick and wrote him a note. The note was written with lipstick.”

“Let’s go have some fun,” I say.

We smiled at each other, held hands and walked out the door.

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November 6

Retail #Christmas is being pimped already; I expected Santa to pull out his red nosed reindeer and shoot a big load of snow in my face.

Christmas gifts.
Christmas gifts. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I love Christmas, and even though I’m not religious, I still enjoy the feasts, the tree, and spending time with family. I don’t like how Christmas seems to begin the day after Halloween.

Stores, lined wall to wall with Christmas crap, try to get a ton of people to start their Christmas shopping. Christmas is almost a full 8 weeks after Halloween, 55 days. To put this in perspective, Valentine’s day is just over 7 weeks after Christmas, but I’m not hearing about people making their Valentine’s day plans on the 26th of December.

It’s fair to say that Christmas requires more work and planning than Valentine’s day, but do we really have to start shopping for Christmas almost two months ahead of time?

I have kids, and I get them presents for Christmas, so it’s not that I’m altogether against the gift giving side of Christmas, but I don’t rack up a ton of credit card debt purchasing two month in advance. I buy presents in December, usually about 3 weeks before Christmas, and I’m usually done about 2 weeks before Christmas. This gives me plenty of time to wrap presents. I don’t spend so much money that I lose sleep at night, and more and more I’m trying to buy thoughtful gifts that mean something to the person. Yes, my daughter would love a new huge flat screen mounted on her bedroom wall, but I’m getting her an art desk; she’s an artist. She’ll love the art desk. She would be more elated at first by the flat screen, but the art desk encourages her life goal of being an artist – invaluable. The flat screen in her room only teaches her antisocial behavior and laziness. If my daughter looks back at that moment 10 years from now, she won’t remember how awesome it was to have a huge TV in her room 10 years ago. She will remember how her parents always supported her dream of being an artist.

Yeah, I’m going to continue doing Christmas my way. Christmas isn’t a rap video.

November 5

Lust brings 15 minutes of intense joy. #Love brings a lifetime of calm, deeply rooted, happiness.

Kodak Tmax @ 3200
Kodak Tmax @ 3200 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I see so much attraction between people, even though it “should not” be there.

My wife likes a close female friend of ours. That close female friend used to like me, and I used to like to her. There is another woman who I sometimes work with; I have recently developed an intense attraction to her, and at the same time she has developed an intense attraction to me.

These are everyday attractions that most people aren’t even aware of. I think a lot of people guess that someone might like them, and they might like someone but deny it because of a boyfriend, girlfriend, wife, husband, or whatever. It’s the man who constantly tries to talk to you, even though he might have nothing to say. It’s the woman who laughs at your terrible jokes, especially when they aren’t funny.

I’m that guy who can see what’s written plainly in front of his face. I don’t hump the beautiful woman who I sometimes work with, grabbing on to her leg like a dog, not because I’m married, not because she’s in a serious relationship, and not because I’m afraid to stain her favorite pair of pants. I don’t engage these attractions because I love the woman I’m with, and she loves me.

Yes, I still want to rip my wife’s clothes off with my teeth, take her from behind, spank her, turn her over, and frost her cupcakes; after all, I’m still a filthy dirty man with filthy dirty man needs. I don’t want to do this with other women. I’m not some gay guy pretending I’m straight, and I’m not super sensitive to the point where I believe that cheating is the end of life itself. In fact, I kind of see it as mostly insignificant, but it’s not something I’ve ever done, and it’s not something I entertain at all.

I love my woman, and I love my life. All things are in a constant state of change, but I want to continue to learn, grow, and age with the woman who I’m crazy in love with. I don’t think marriage is the reason not to have sex with other people. I think love is that reason. This lasting, life long, love is what has kept me from pulling my “money” out of my pants and sticking it into any “roast beef wallet” that has come along.

I have to stop writing now. All of the sudden, I’m hungry for a sandwich with lots of meat and extra mayo.

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November 4

Take a Picture it Lies Longer

Video Camera
Video Camera (Photo credit: pursuethepassion)

I was listening to the radio on my way home from work the other day. I know it’s crazy not to listen to music that I spent hours selecting and illegally downloading off the internet, but sometimes I like to listen to news or talk. On this station, they were discussing the idea of documenting every aspect of a life. People spend all sorts of time photographing and taking videos of their lives. These photos and videos make great memories, and they are nice to share with family and friends. The woman on the radio argued that this fanatical over documenting that people do doesn’t allow them to actually live in the moment. Instead of being the person in the moment, you become the person documenting the moment.

I have to say, the idea of living in the moment and not documenting it is not a new concept to me. Most of the reason that I almost never photograph a moment or record something to video is because I want to actually enjoy the moment, live in it. Now, I don’t think that taking a 30 second video or taking 1 or 2 pictures is going to spoil your fun, but I do agree that recording an entire birthday party means that you are not truly living in that moment.

The biggest problem that I had with this radio program was that they never mentioned the idea of documentation as an outright lie. A real documentary is to stage nothing, be impartial, and show things fairly. We document our lives and our families lives not as a documentarian but instead we stage moments, we are completely biased, and we only show what we want. Even for those of us who actually take candid shots, most people aren’t keeping the pictures where people look unhappy.

I think most people stage photos. Nobody smiles 16 hours a day. Even people who are ridiculously happy spend most of their time not smiling.

All of these thoughts lead me to a very sad memory. In the summer, my beautiful nephews (identical twin boys) turned 2. I was so happy, excited, and just completely involved in the moment when they got to open their presents. The first 2 presents were given to them by my wife and me. They had huge smiles on their faces, and they were about to rip into the presents. Most people would see this as a perfect opportunity to document it by taking some candid photos and video taping it, but my very typical family/extended family decided to stop the boys from opening their presents because the video camera wasn’t yet ready. My sister even grabbed their hands and told them to wait. One of those boys almost cried. I put up a serious protest with my sister and told her to let them open the presents because I could see that she was ruining the moment for them. She wouldn’t listen to me, and everyone in the room made me feel as though I was being ridiculous.

After the video camera was finally figured out, the boys had no interest in opening the presents. They had to be coaxed into it by everyone in the room. In ten years from now, the video camera is going to tell the memory of 2-year-old boys opening their presents. Yes, they will have unaffected looks on their faces, but people will just say that’s how they acted when opening presents. Who really knows with a 2-year-old anyway? The video camera will tell the lie that everyone wants to believe. The video camera will never tell the story of how their mother completely ruined the first time that they’ve ever really cared about opening presents in their lives. Spoiling the moment and creating a lie was worthwhile to everyone in the room (except for me and the birthday boys), but missing the true moment and allowing the birthday boys to enjoy their birthday was completely out of the question.

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November 3

Accepting Today

Liane
Liane (Photo credit: adreson)

Ring . . . ring . . . ring.

“Hello?”

“Hello, my name is Emily, and I’m calling from Empire Credit Card. Is Ryan home today?”

“Yes. I’m Ryan.”

“Hello Ryan. How are you today?”

“I’m feeling a little melancholy for no particular reason. This is fairly common though. I’m also a tad bit peckish, and I’m frustratingly horny, so much so that I can barely stop myself from getting an erection, even if I think of my grandmother nude, who is not a bad-looking woman, but she is much older and related to me. How are you today Emily?”

“Um . . .”

I hear her shuffling through notes. I’ve put her off script, and she’s only just begun.

She begins again: “um . . . I’m good. I’m with Quality Control Customer Service, and I’m calling to see how your recent phone call went with our Customer Service representative Jessica.”

“Swimmingly.”

“Swimmingly? Sir?”

I hear her shuffling again.

“Ryan,” I say.

“Sorry Mr. Ryan.”

“Ryan is my first name.”

“Sorry sir.”

“Emily, please call me Ryan.”

“Oh, of course. Are you able to take a short survey?”

“What’s your definition of short?”

“I have 20 questions.”

I laugh, heartily.

“That’s funny,” I remark.

“What’s funny?”

“20 questions – like the game.”

“Sir?”

“Ryan, not sir. Say Emily, how old are you?”

“I’m 22. Why?”

“I kinda wanted to extend that whole grandma theme. The little guy is really starting to wake up. I’m afraid 22 just won’t do it. You even sound young on the phone. Can we pretend that you’re older?”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to do that. I’m just supposed to ask you 20 questions.”

“Right, but while you ask me, can you try to sound a bit older?”

“How old?”

“80!”

She starts giggling like a school girl.

“Ah, you want me to do an old woman voice?”

“Precisely.”

“Like this?”

“Wow. You sound like Carol Burnett. That’s kind of a huge turn on.”

“Whose Carol Burnett?”

“Never mind that, just keep talking in the old woman voice.”

“OK, sir.”

“Perfect, but don’t call me sir.”

“OK, Ryan – the survey is kept anonymous, but we do ask for your first name.”

There’s a long pause.

“Ryan, are you still there?”

“Yes, and I love the voice.”

“Oh, OK, I thought you had gone somewhere. So first question is what’s your first name?”

“Ryan.”

“R-Y-A-N. OK, Ryan from a 1 to 5, 1 being not satisfied and 5 being completely satisfied, how would you rate the service that Jessica gave you?”

“Well, she didn’t talk to me like an old woman.”

“You shouldn’t rate her based on that.”

“I was just joking. I didn’t ask her to talk to me like that.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I didn’t even talk to her.”

“It says here that you spoke on October 31 at 8pm for 30 minutes.”

“I didn’t. I didn’t call in at all, and I haven’t for months.”

“Oh, there must be some mistake. I’m sorry Mr . . . I mean Ryan.”

“Don’t be sorry you’ve been delightful. Say, would you like to meet?”

“I’m in Montreal.”

“Great, so you’re only 2 hours away. I’ll see you in 2 hours.”

“I don’t think I’m allowed to.”

“Emily, if you don’t want to, that’s cool, but who cares if you’re allowed to.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just that I have a boyfriend.”

“You have a boyfriend, and I have a grandmother; it’ll never work out.”

“You don’t really like older women do you?”

“I like women as young as you, but not quite as old as my grandmother.”

“I guess I should let you go. It’s been fun,” Emily says in her normal voice.

“Em, don’t think about yesterday, and don’t think about tomorrow. Think about what you want to do right now, today.”

“My friends don’t call me Em. I like you calling me Em though – it sounds nice.”

“Em, I’ll meet you at the Biodome in 2 hours.”

“Why shouldn’t I think about yesterday or tomorrow? Why today? Today is just a yesterday waiting to happen – that’s what my dad always says.”

“Today isn’t a yesterday. Today is today. Yesterday doesn’t actually exist. Have you ever visited yesterday? It’s just a memory of today. Tomorrow doesn’t exist either. Everyone tries to visit tomorrow, but by the time you get there, it’s today. Tomorrow is a hope and a dream but not a day,” I say.

“So, you’re saying that I have a memory. I have today, and I have a hope and a dream.”

“Yes. Will you be with me today? It exists. It’s here.”

“I think, um . . . yes, Ryan. I’ll see you in 2 hours.”

“I will be holding a single red rose, and I’ll meet you at the main entrance. Until then.”

“Goodbye.”

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November 2

A Hole . . . Lotta . . . Drugs

Green Door

I’m outside the world’s sketchiest house. I feel that I’m running from something, so I open the world’s flimsiest green wooden door and go inside. There’s music playing, but it’s turned down real low, so I can’t make out the words in the song, and even if I could, I expect I would have never heard that song before.

I hear a man yell: “I’m going to get you.”

I run quickly into the nearest closet, another flimsy green wooden door. The paint is peeling off and the edges are worn. I slowly shut the door behind me when I hear a loud stomping noise come down the stairs. The stomping ends at the closet door. He yells out my name, “Ryan . . . I’m going to get you.” Then he moves on.

A woman’s scream bellows out from the basement. What if he is torturing her? What if he’s killing her? I run downstairs to an unfinished basement to see a woman wearing only an expensive new red bra and matching red panties. She has dark brown hair, a plain face, and the body of a 40-year-old office worker who doesn’t exercise. She isn’t overweight, but she isn’t exciting to look at either.

There are hypodermic needles spread out over the grey floor, and there’s an old man wearing tight white underwear and sitting down on a very old, unpainted, wooden chair that has four distinctly round legs.

“Who are you?” I ask the lady.

“I’m Lotta.”

She comes over to me and starts touching my chest. I’m not really attracted to her, but as a man, I’m programmed to never shrug off female attention, especially if that female is in her underwear. I kiss her cheek, grab her back gently but firmly just above her panty line, and just at that moment I hear stomping on the stairs.

A man with crazy anger in his eyes, thick dark hair, and a meat carving knife comes raging towards us. The old man runs away in terror, and the crazy man heads towards him, as though he will run upstairs after him. I move towards the crazy man, but he runs around me in the opposite direction, straight for Lotta, and he plunges the knife directly into her heart.

I run for Lotta, trying to help her, but I know it’s too late. I’m down, kneeling on broken needles, next to her fallen body, trying to hear the last few words that she’s gasping out. The crazy man breaks some sort of small vial on the floor next to us, and a puff of smoke comes up into the air, clouding my eyes. I see the smoke, but I don’t run away from it. I inhale it deeply, but I don’t know why. I’ve been poisoned.

My journey has begun. I see my wife and kids running out of my funeral. It’s the end of the world. There are these weird giant frogs, the size of dogs that keep eating up small children. A wise looking man comes to me and says: “get to a church; you’ll be safe there.” He seems to be the only one who can see or hear me, so who am I not to listen.

I’ll be at a church soon, and my trip will be over.

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November 1

Where’s the Muse at?

Hesiod and the Muse
Hesiod and the Muse (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Sometimes when I’m writing anything, a story, a poem, or maybe even a clever email, I run into a touch of writer’s block. I even ran into writer’s block while writing this writing tip. Here are five ways that I battle writer’s block.

  1. Write down ideas through out the day when you have them.
    Writing is often a very “mood based” type of activity, but you can’t always write when you have inspiration. If you jot down the basic ideas you have while you are in the mood to write, you have already got yourself passed most of the writer’s block (the idea stage).
  2. Read and get inspired.
    Reading and even watching TV can help you with style and stories. If you have free time while you aren’t writing, fitting in a small amount of reading can give you that inspiration you need for writing time.
  3. Set aside time everyday to write.
    If you can legitimately argue that you can’t make the time to write because you are too busy, the harsh truth is that you probably aren’t a writer. Most of us already set aside time for eating, sleeping, using the washroom, and working. If you set aside time to write when you aren’t doing anything else – truly nothing else at all, you will find your muse. Sometimes I can only find half an hour to write, and even if I only come up with one good idea or one good sentence, I’ve started to push the idea snow ball down the giant mountain of literary snow.
  4. Get your mind right.
    This is my way of saying that you need to clear your head of all the bad juju. If you feel stressed, go for a run. If you’re mad at a friend, talk to him/her about the issue. If you can write better when your mind is in angst, go for it. For those of us who can’t do anything when we feel that way, clear it up, fix it – do whatever you can to get past the feeling and just write.
  5. Write what you want.
    If you’re writing the greatest novel that ever was and you’re stuck on Chapter 2, try taking the time to write a short story or a poem. Get your mind off of Chapter 2, but keep writing. I know this doesn’t mesh well with deadlines, but if you’re at risk of blowing a deadline because of writer’s block, the best thing you can do is write about something completely different. It will sometimes cure your writer’s block and allow you to get back on target with Chapter 2.
October 31

How much does it cost?

Capitalism
Capitalism (Photo credit: Juliano Mattos)

Come steal from us;
And give to them.

Please take freedom;
I say take our
Teachers, doctors.

Appropriate;
Land and water.

I’m your soldier;
She is your whore;
Meek get nothing.

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