ReWrote my The first paragraph of project 2 in creative writing because I hated it.

Hermann had secrets. The dean of eldritch studies at Ingolstadt had many secrets. He had already spent half his life collecting those secrets. Hermann wore a brown Coburn greatcoat over a plain white colored shirt, navy blue trousers, long brown riding boots, and a beaver tricorn hiked under his arm. With his other arm, he ran his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to tame the brown locks as he passed through the lecture hall—empty now—where his mentor, provost Wilheim indoctrinates the newest scholars in the search for truth and meaning through empirical science. Ingolstadt scholars had led the abandonment of the sacred church decades ago. The great city of Arheimar followed quickly when they saw the scholars use their discoveries to heal the people. The peasants thought it was magic or actual miracles saving the lepers and healing tuberculosis without bloodletting and people from all over the world came to imbibe in the healing from this knowledge. After the lecture hall, he went through the laboratories. Here scientists had glass jugs with water, spinal or cerebral fluid but they all contained eyes. Every kind of eyes. Human eyes, canine eyes, bovine eyes, feline eyes, reptilian eyes, even eyes from the massive beasts of the seas. Aside from the eyes they also had umbilical cords in various jars or jugs. Teams of scholars writing on pads or scrutinizing the specimens. Hermann was no scientist, but a scholar and he cared little for the physical work scientists did even if they were the great link between the intellectual and the material where Ingolstadt and greater Arheimer profited.

The Dinner

Last night, my girlfriend's boss at her new job invited us over for dinner. On the drive over, my girlfriend, Alicia, reiterated to me many times how crucial to her future it was to make a good impression.

I scoffed and arrogantly informed the silly woman that I always make good impressions.

Her boss is a single lady (probably in her fifties) so it was just the three of us. We chit-chatted over drinks and salads and seemed to really be hitting it off. She laughed at my well-timed, perfectly-appropriate jokes and Alicia seemed pleased.

Soon she brought out the main course, a nice big juicy steak for each of us. As I began to cut into my steak, I was disappointed to discover how under-cooked the steak was.

Now, I've had my fair share of rare steak. I prefer medium, but I can handle rare. This was barely touched the grill sort of rare. I probably could've resuscitated the heifer had I tried. Instead, I sat there fidgeting with my knife and fork, worrying about how I was going to get away with not eating this steak.

Claim vegan-ism? No, I'd already feigned great enthusiasm upon seeing the steak.

Just then, our hostess excused herself to the kitchen to take care of some dessert preparations. As I looked across the fancy dining room table at the open window of the 3rd story apartment... a cartoon light bulb appeared over my head.

I knew I had to be decisive, realizing that she could return at any moment. I committed. I grabbed the steak with my hand, gently shook off the juice and executed a perfect throw right through the center of the open window.

The window wasn't open. It was the cleanest fricking window you've ever seen in your life. That is until my mostly raw slab of steak slammed up against it and slowly slid down leaving a trail of bloody juice in its wake.

Alicia—who’s steak was a nice medium rare and was unaware of my predicament—turned, mouth agape, and stared at me like I was an alien from another planet. This look then slowly morphed into more of a there-is-no-place-on-this-planet-you-can-ever-hide-from-me expression of demonic anger.

Alicia's boss heard the thud of the steak-on-window impact and came quickly. She took in the scene, the steak sitting on the window sill, the blood trail, my empty plate, and then gave me an inquisitive, puzzled look.

I just didn't know what to say. It felt like a minute of silence but was probably 3 or 4 seconds. Finally, the best I could manage was "I... I'm so sorry. I am such a klutz... I don't know... I was just cutting it.. and... it... ... it slipped... just ask Alicia, I really am a klutz... right honey?... (no help coming from that direction) ... I will clean this up... I can't believe this... I am so sorry,"

Both women continued to stare at me like I had escaped from the loony bin, as I smeared the blood around the window with my cloth napkin, dusted off the steak, and continued to mutter my incoherent explanation. I knew no one was buying the story.

I knew what I had to do. I sheepishly returned to my seat and proceeded to eat every bite of that disgusting, cold, chewy, bloody, raw steak.

I remained silent the rest of the evening; begging Alicia for forgiveness profusely on the way home, and she responded very confidently, "I'm fine."

Writing Fiction

For me, it seems like the common thread of anxiety centers around this belief that we have something to say, and we're all trying to find those perfect words to express our ideas. When I am imagining my story, I’m not thinking about all of the nitty-gritty details and nuts and bolts that make the story work. It doesn’t always occur to me that my great scene is entirely pointless, or my climax isn't as climactic as something that happens in the middle or having all of the POV characters start out together then separate as a recipe for the pacing slowing to a crawl, etc. I think it's inherent to the process of writing. I’m using whatever words I want to use to describe scenes that never happened and that only exist inside my mind. That's a lot of freedom, and -- well, it's scary to have that much freedom; there are almost infinite options, and only a small number will be good, and just a tiny amount will be excellent.

Another thing is--assuming writers see themselves as artists--our art is in literally speaking to our audience; we're just not physically there for them to hear our voice. We have a conversation with them like we're close friends, but we don't know whether they're friendly when we approach them. And there are a lot of writers who will take the first thing that comes to mind and call it good enough, and have a great deal less pain with the whole process. But if I do that, then I don't like what I write, and that kind of flat, good-enough writing doesn't give me any subtle underground stuff to work with as I keep going in the story. (That's what writing is like for me -- if I'm careful in the early chapters, then I leave a lot of seeds in the ground that grow and sprout exciting stuff in the later chapters.) In my opinion, writing is the purest art form because it offers no medium to hide behind, no picture, melody, or identity (think acting) to conceal us. Every sentence is a thought we've had. Every character is a fragment of our soul.

A writer is by definition one who writes. If you don't write it down, no matter how appealing or trite the idea, you're not writing, and therefore you're not a writer.

The Ebony Cathedral

He saw a valley deep below the precipice. Tall birch and aspens stirred in the wind, water escaped the valley along the creek bed, bats flitted in and out of sight, but David could not hear anything, as if the sounds were being inhaled. The moon the only light stuck in the middle of the sky. David trudged along, his shoulders hung low, his gait slow, heavy as the birch and aspens give way to beach and oak. The last color had faded out of the land when he came to the glade and the gates of the cathedral. The gates were massive heavy rails leaning over approachers, the cold rolled black iron absorbed the last remaining warmth out of the living.    David camped that night on a barren slope as far from those imposing gates as he could get. He came here for insight, but his thoughts abandoned him as soon as they arrived. It was almost like his thoughts were being devoured. From this vantage point, the form of the original cathedral could be distinguished from the silent trees and overgrowth consuming the man-made structure of worship. As the moon slid down behind the ancient form the light slowly waxed and waned and then refracted off the ivory surface of the ebony structure. The result was overwhelming. It was as if the barren world around David had turned to diamonds. The green leaves seemed to glow in the dancing refracted moonlight. The sky now appeared endless as every star became visible and then disappeared with the beating of the light, across which now slowly floated low hanging islands of darkening clouds. The air grew heavy, and David could smell the rain before it began to pound the valley. Capturing the water which had tried to escape in the creek bed. Then he heard it, the only sound he could hear all night, the desperate cries of an infant, coming from the presently dead ancient cathedral.

The poem “It”

Creativity

The clarity that comes from monotonous tasks such as mowing the grass, or doing the dishes has always been my favorite time to ponder about my fantasies. Whether it be a story, something I want to change about my life or a different perspective on life. The smell of the fresh cut grass or the aroma of dish soap do something to concentrate my mind taking me away from the task at hand and into my own thoughts below reality but above disbelief. It is here that my fantasies come to life and begin to flesh out. However, there is a difference between pondering and applying my creativity to a piece. I need to have a drive, something inside me has to burn its way through the veil of reality and drive me to bring it into the world. I can keep the fantastic thoughts at bay with periodical musings in the yard or in front of the sink but eventually, they have to come out. They pour out without form or structure and barely form to fit the container, on the page, the “canvas” or the plate.

Once these ideas begin to roll out the world falls away and it doesn’t matter what is going on around me the problems and joys of the world fall away and it is just me and accomplishing what I need to deliver to the world mine or the world at large. I often listen to music that will either enhance or suppress the mood these ideas produce in their wake. Music isn’t often necessary but it can help. When pushes evolve to shoves however the best motivator for my creativity are deadlines.

First Memories

    Are our lives more than a streak of memories? Victories, trophies, scars, failures all of these, except for the elusive present, a moment that passes like the moment between the inhale and exhale of a breath, make up the greater part of our lives. How often we find ourselves hauling our past along with us, informing our view of the present. Our perceptions and judgments of the world are formed from our first memories, each successive memory affects the present of the next instant which then affects the memory of that moment like cascading dominoes.

     Perhaps it's the memory of competition that has most affected my worldview. I remember playing T-ball at the behest of my father. I can recall the first time at bat staring down the ball, unmoving, unfazed by the bat in my hands. That summer was a struggle for me, I had little love for baseball, my father's love. I learned many things about myself, objective things, observed not only by myself but my peers as well. Baseball is a finesse sport. It didn't matter how hard I threw the ball, nor how strong I swung the bat, the ball resisted me in both respects. Baseball requires specific technique learned over thousands of repetitions and the difference between good and bad is one or two successes. It may as well have been magic for a 6-year-old boy.

    The year of T-ball did teach me something else about myself, I may not have been especially coordinated and certainly not the most dedicated but I could run fast and I needed to win. These memories would serve me well when I stepped on the football field the first time. In all my seven years I had never run so much, been so thoroughly spent both physically and mentally or been so determined so single-minded. I was going to earn my pads. Nobody was going to prohibit me from donning that armor and becoming a real football player, a child gladiator. Of course not long after I earned the pads (surviving the first cuts when we lost twenty of our number) I learned what real football truly is. If baseball is a finesse sport, football is a physical sport. I loved it, and if I loved the pummeling I learned to take my first year I loved delivering my physical will upon my opponent even more the second year and beyond. However, what is even more valuable was learning the mental aspect of the game. Remembering your reads, the snap count, the discipline to watch the ball, the weaknesses of your adversary, all vital to that which is most prized: victory.

    As a young boy, I learned the beauty of the objectivity of winning. It didn't matter how desperately we wanted to win, or how long it had been since the last time we tasted it the scoreboard was impartial. Acquiescing only to the game clock as it ticked down. Emotion had little effect on any outcome only your execution. I carry these memories, these lessons, with me every day reminding me that competition is fickle, cold and sublime. The last time I strapped on my football pads was November 2005 but, I use those lessons of competition whenever I am in the marketplace and I love that competition. Maybe, maybe one day I will hear my father whisper into my heart that he is proud, proud of my effort, proud of my success, proud of my memories....

   Looking up toward the canopy of redwoods, peering down from atop Rockefeller Plaza, drifting in the endless blue of the Atlantic Ocean, getting lost in the pastoral beauty of Lexington’s horse farms, or trudging through desert sand devoid of life, just as my mind was void of any ideas starting this post. Then I thought about the limitlessness of place. How many different settings there are not only on our world but outside it and within the hearts of its inhabitants. My greatest appreciation of place lies not simply upon the physical surface, reflecting light back into my corneas to create a landscape in my brain but where those places can carry me off too in my mind, and in my heart.

   Maybe I am standing in an ancient forest of redwoods my mind wandering into the vastness of history. I dream of who else may have stood under this tree, did they dream of who was here before them, as I do, or perhaps who would come next? I connect with the ancients in this way, within my own heart anyway. I can be standing atop the center of western civilization my shadow looming down over the millions below gleaming my effect on the world. The rolling hills, appearing blue with the right native eyes, of Lexington Kentucky are my home more than the palm trees or beaches of Florida ever were. Each of these places sends my mind to a new higher vantage point or connects me to someone else or carries me to another time.

   Most of all place stimulates deep personal memories which are building blocks with which to draw creative energy from either directly or indirectly.  For example, I can use my personal experience with a setting to show feeling without necessarily revealing the specific relevance of the place to my life. Just as easily I can go to a place of powerful memories either physically, mentally or spiritually and draw out my feelings or help develop narratives.

   Lastly, I think remembering place is important for self-knowledge. Knowing where you were when an event happened that connects you to the community like 9/11 or Obama’s election grounds us in commonality. This isn’t limited to the physical place but also extends to moments in life, was I child then? Of course, place can also be personal. Where was I when my father died? Where was he? Why weren’t we closer? Do I still carry this moment with me? Can others see these places in my expressions or when I write? Places like life for me always dissolve into unanswered questions, so many unanswered questions.