Category Archives: Prose

Some pieces aren’t exactly fiction, and they go here

Reflections on Writing

I have been writing stories for nearly four decades. I don’t know where they come from. I don’t think they’re mine. I call their origin my muse because I don’t have any other answer. They are gifted to me in order that I might share them. I do my best to tell them, though I’m not sure I’ve ever done them justice.

Richard Bach wrote “If you will practice being fictional for awhile, you will understand that fictional characters are sometimes more real than people with bodies and heartbeats.” My characters are real. I grieve with them, laugh with them. Sometimes I don’t like them very much. Still, I treat them with respect. These are their stories, and they have asked me to tell them. So I listen to them and try to put their stories into words.

I cannot speak for other writers, I do not know how they work their craft, produce their art. I do not know if how I experience writing is common or unique. Am I crazy, or does it just sound that way? When I talk to people about my characters, about how I write, I think they think I’m crazy. But maybe it’s them and not me.

For a long time, I did not feel right calling myself a writer. I was someone who wrote, but I didn’t think that was enough to make me writer. More recently, I realized I have to write. It’s something that I’ve always needed to do. Even if I never publish a single thing (except on my blog), even if I never make a cent, I’m a writer because I can’t not write.

Words feel inadequate sometimes, but they are all I have. And I will continue to use them as long as I can still hold a pen. I write for me. If others like any of it, if anything I write means something to someone else, that is both amazing and humbling. But it’s not why I write. I write because I have to.

Hard Truths

I sat cross-legged on the floor and closed my eyes. Focusing on my breath, I simply waited. I could not say how much time passed before she arrived. Sometimes she seems to walk down a set of stairs; on other occasions – such as today – she simply appears before me. Apparently uncomfortable standing above me, she sat down.

“It has been awhile,” she began.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been . . .” She stopped me before I could finish.

“I know. I’m you, remember. You don’t need to apologize to me.”

“Okay.” Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a dark, indistinct figure. “Why did you bring him?”

“I didn’t. He’s always here. He’s your shadow.”

“Can’t you make him go away?”

“Why?”

“I don’t like him.”

“Of course you don’t like him. If you did, he wouldn’t be your shadow.”

“He makes me nervous.”

“You could try talking to him.”

“I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to reconcile with parts of me I’d rather be rid of.”

“You sound petulant.”

As soon as she said that, I knew it was true: I was being petulant. Still, facing him was something I wasn’t prepared to do. I know his weight dragged me down, but so much of who I am was wrapped up in rejecting him. What becomes of me if I actually try to deal with him?

She knew what I was thinking and gave me the space to work through it. She also knew when I was done.

“You really don’t have to do anything. No one will force you to confront him. Many people never confront theirs. Everything in life is a choice, and each brings hardships. It can be hell, and it’s ridiculous to think no one is ever faced with something more than they can handle. We damage ourselves when we think we have to face everything. Other people damage us when they try convince us to do something we aren’t prepared for. Just… Try to understand why you are making the choices you do.”

“Right now, I want to curl up in a lap and have someone comfort me.”

“I know. I would like to be able to give that to you, but you know you can’t find it here.”

“I do.” I opened my eyes and stood up. Hearing things I already knew was often unpleasant.

The Right Question

Who am I?

What kind of answer counts? Name? Job? Relationship status?

My name is an identifier, but not an identity. Jobs and relationships change.

Who answers? Me? My family? My friends?

The rune Sowelu represents wholeness. It speaks to becoming who you already are. But who is that? What is the essence of a person?

One way to approach this issue is the debate between essentialism versus existentialism. Is there an essence in place already, or does a person create an essence through their choices? As with so many important questions, this one skips over a preceding one: what is an essence of a person?

What does it matter if the essence is in place already or created after the fact, if we don’t know what it is?

For much of my life, the question of who I am has dominated my thinking. I have pestered others with it, hoping they might know. Hoping that they might have a connection to me that gives them that insight, and thus means that I belong somewhere.

“Is that the question? And if so, who answers? Who answers?” – Pearl Jam, “Alive”

For too long, I have tried to figure out who answers. I am starting to think that it isn’t the question. Who am I? The sum total of all my experiences, desires, beliefs, concerns, and more. And all of those can change. What sort of answer could capture that? What finite set of words could express that?

Who am I? That’s the wrong question, so every answer is also wrong. What’s the right question? Depends on who’s asking and why. 

The question I’ve been asking, for years, should have been: Where do I belong?

I’m still not sure I know the answer, but at least I know what the answer might look like.

Animals

I hope you will all forgive me a little self-indulgence. I have been thinking about death a little more than usual of late. It is distracting me and keeping me from my usual writing routine. (And several other routines, if I’m being honest.)

I have had a few animals die in my life, and each time it breaks my heart anew. I’ve thought a lot about why it affects me so much. Our animals depend on us. For everything. And when things go wrong, it’s not a simple matter to explain it to them. They struggle to let us know that they’re suffering, and we struggle to reassure them and to make decisions in their best interests.

It’s all a crap-shoot. All we can do is try our best to give them the best lives possible and hope that they feel secure. And when the time comes to say goodbye, all we can do is hope that we’ve made the best decision for them. None of it’s easy. And yet, life would feel so empty without them.

Calvin (from Calvin and Hobbes) once said “I’m crying because out there he’s gone, but he’s not gone inside me.” Our animals give us so much. All we can do is hope to be worthy of their love and affection.

Black Lives Matter

George Floyd’s murder at the hands of the Minneapolis police was horrifying, but all too common. George Floyd’s murder isn’t even the most recent. David McAtee was killed in his business by either the National Guard or the police. Previously, Breonna Taylor was asleep in her bed. There are too many names. Not to list, but to contemplate. Too many black lives have ended at the hands of the police. You can find a partial list based on The Washington Post’s database at https://pittsburghfoundation.org/we-will-not-be-silent.

Over one thousand black people have been killed in police shootings in the last five and a half years. This is not a new phenomenon, but George Floyd’s murder has focused attention on an issue that has gone unanswered for far too long. If we, as a society, cannot find the will to change a system that has abused black people, indigenous people, and other marginalized groups for decades and longer, then we have given up the claim that we are, in fact, a civilized society. 

This blog has, since its inception, been reserved as a creative outlet. I have run other blogs in the past that took up social commentary and other topics. With everything happening, I cannot keep my creative outlet separate from the society that is so broken. There is a cancer in our society, and we must be willing to face it and deal with it. That requires listening to and believing people of color and others when they tell us how they are treated. It requires demanding solutions and working towards them.

If those of us who are white do not recognize the police in the stories that others tell, that is one indication of our privilege. If we think, what will do without the police to protect us?, that, too, is a sign of our privilege. We can think of the police as guardians. For too many Americans, that is not the role the police play. The system needs to change. We have the luxury to ignore racism and pretend it doesn’t exist, or at least isn’t as pervasive. That is a luxury we must give up. Lives depend upon it.

Protest. Talk to your government representatives. Donate. Talk to your friends and relatives. Use your voice. And don’t forget to use your ears, too. Listen. Learn. Let those suffering lead. Don’t speak for them, but support them.

Black Lives Matter. The problem is that, in America and elsewhere, they haven’t mattered. Black lives need to matter. They need to be treated as inherently valuable and with respect. Black Lives Matter. And we need to keep saying it at least until society actually treats black lives as though they do, in fact, matter.

I will resume posting fiction and creative works. But we cannot forget that our fellow citizens, our fellow human beings need us. They need us to listen. To stand with them. To fight with them. It is an ongoing fight, and we must be willing to support them, to amplify their voices, through the long haul.

Black Lives Matter (https://blacklivesmatter.com) has resources and accepts donations.

The Cut has a list of other nonprofits that you can donate to: https://www.thecut.com/article/george-floyd-protests-how-to-help-where-to-donate.html

You can find black owned businesses to support on Black Wall Street: https://officialblackwallstreet.com/directory/

Cut and Dry

Why am I always your scapegoat?

Wait, are we assuming you’re real, or not? My answer may change accordingly.

Curious. Just for fun, let us assume I am not real.

In that case, it is to satirize believers who claim that you are the source of good things but not the bad. A sort of dramatization of the problem of evil, if you will. Mixed with a healthy dose of pointing out the absurdity of the story.

Do you think you change any minds?

Probably not, if I’m being honest.

So why do it?

Blowing off steam, I guess. Against an institution that shaped me in so many ways, many of them negative. A way of working out some old issues.

Does it help? I mean, you have been doing it for all of these years. Have you gotten anywhere?

Perhaps not.

Maybe it is time for a new tack?

Maybe.

Okay, so what if we assume I’m real?

Then it is a direct attack on you.

 That doesn’t seem wise.

I have yet to be struck by lightning.

There is, however, the matter of your immortal soul.

A lot of bad things have happened; the pain and suffering have been immeasurable. If you’re willing to put up with all of that, I suspect you can handle a little criticism that no one pays any attention to. Furthermore, I don’t want to be on the good side of someone who allows all of the things that go on here.

But is it not possible that there are reasons for . . .

Stop. I’m not interested in that sort of speculation. There is no humanly recognizable reason to allow this much misery. If there is some reason, it has nothing to do with us.

That seems . . . uncertain? . . . at best. It certainly deserves more discussion.

Nevertheless.

So which is it? Do I exist, or not?

The jury is still out, though I suspect it’s a different option altogether. You do exist, but not like so many believe you do. Thus the real you isn’t my scapegoat at all. My target is those who mischaracterize you.

That seems like a dodge.

Does it? Maybe it does. Maybe I’m just avoiding taking a side. Still, the truth is almost never so cut and dry.

I Begin

All around there is darkness, no light anywhere and nothing beneath me. There is nothing to focus attention and nothing solid on which to find footing. I am falling. What waits at the bottom? Is there a bottom?

How much time has passed? How much time is left? I do not know the answer; we never do. Right now is when I am. The past is gone. The future is blank. What will I do right this moment?

I close my eyes. (Or were they already closed?) I listen to the air move past my ears, feel it touch my skin. I focus on my heartbeat, use it to steady myself. I am still falling, but more peacefully now.

I can’t ignore my situation, but I do not let it rule me. I am not the master, but neither am I the servant. What thoughts might I have, what worlds might I create as I plummet in the dark? I do not know; I will not know. Not until I think, not until I create. And so, in the darkness, I begin.

Sacred

Longest night of the year. A sacred time.

You don’t think anything is sacred.

Yes, I do. Humanity. This night, maybe more than any other, reminds us that we need one another. The darkness can only win if we try to face it alone. Humanity is sacred.

Humanity isn’t sacred. It is an insignificant blip in the universe. In the grand scheme of things, we just don’t matter.

I’m not talking about the universe, not saying it thinks us sacred. I’m talking about us. What do we hold dear? For my part, that’s humanity. It’s worthy of honor and respect. That is what we owe each other. And ourselves.

And God?

Who is more important? God? Or people? Listen closely to how someone answers; it will tell you everything you need to know about them. Does God need anything from us? If so, that’s not God. Who needs? Humans. We need others. God doesn’t need anything from us. Other human beings need help. And that’s where our focus should be. Winter reminds us how fragile we are. Look to your neighbor, to the stranger. That is where the sacred is. If we cannot see the sacred in each other, it doesn’t matter what else we call sacred.

Do you have any friends at all?

I have you.

I suppose that’s true. Happy solstice, then.

Happy solstice.

Rote Thankfulness

What are you thankful for?

I hate that question.

Why?

Because the answers always seem so rote. Family. Friends. Home. Health.

You aren’t thankful for those things?

I am, but that’s not the point. We have answers like that memorized. One day of the year, we give the most cursory thought to what we have before moving on to other concerns. We rarely stop to truly reflect on what we have to appreciate. Most of the year, we take things for granted. Then we set aside one day for token thankfulness.

Is that true for everyone? Or is that just your cynicism showing?

So it’s just me, projecting my own failing onto everyone else?

Is it?

I hate you.

Because I’m right?

… Maybe.

Set aside everyone else. What are you thankful for? And don’t give your rote answer. Don’t do the thing you hate. Really reflect. What are you thankful for?

That is a hard question.

Quit deflecting. What are you doing, right now?

Writing.

So?

I am thankful I can write?

Bragging, now?

No. I mean, I am thankful for the ability to hold a pen, the resources to own paper, the luxury of time. I am thankful I can write, whether or not I’m any good at it.

Okay. That’s a start. Anything else?

Ugh. I keep going back to negative things.

Look, it’s not a question of ignoring the bad. But you’ve got all year for that. Just a few moments for balance. You don’t need to pretend it’s all sunshine and roses. Just acknowledge some good.

I am thankful that there are other people who love and care for animals.

Really?

Yeah. It gives me hope. It connects me to other people, even if I don’t know them. I’m glad people feel something I do. And that animals are getting taken care of.

Okay, then.

For that matter, I am thankful for the internet, for showing me that there are others who share my values, my concern about the world. As much crap as there is, it’s good to know I’m not entirely alone.

You think it’s important to remember this more than one day a year?

Yes.

Do you think others might share that value?

… Yes.

Then – and I don’t mean to sound preachy – maybe dial back the cynicism a little?

… Yeah.