Evolution of a Writer

I drove from Ohio to Tennessee yesterday. A little over seven hours. It’s a journey I often made when living in Tennessee. Now that I live on the other end, not as much. The drive isn’t as scenic as I remember. Nostalgia and all that, I suppose.

Through most of the trek, from just outside Dayton to just beyond Nashville, I listened to Jack Kerouac’s Big Sur as read by Tom Parker playing on my phone via an earbud in my right ear. The car I borrowed lacked a radio. Despite having read On The Road five times in the last 12 years, this was only the second book of Kerouac’s I’d read. The two books were published only 5 years apart, but there seemed to me, at least, a noticeable difference in style which if I had to put a finger on, I’d say was due to Kerouac’s evolution as a writer.

I’m no literary scholar. Let’s get that out of the way right now. Neither am I an expert on Kerouac. My assumptions of the differences between these two works could be and probably are stupidly erroneous. Whatever. I guess that’s not really the point I’m making. It made me think about how writers mature and how that maturation reveals itself in the writing. Mostly because I’m going through the same.

The guiding philosophy of my writing has been the same since undergrad; “Everything is Broken,” like the Bob Dylan song off 1989’s Oh Mercy. I used to believe that. Part of me probably still does if I cared to delve. But I’ve changed not just as a writer but as a human person in all those years. By God, I hope so, anyway. It should go that my philosophy should change right along, too. And then it came to me.

I’m not getting into details or personal emotional, psychoanalytical, Myers-Briggs, woe-is-me, personality plop. Nope. But I will say that as I sat at my mind-numbing, mind-eviscerating temp day job a few weeks ago, my brain coughed up this little loogie-gem from out of nowhere. Wasn’t even thinking about it. “Your stories are haunted by the inability of characters to ever truly connect with others.” I wanted to dramatically fall out of my chair as a sort of acknowledgment and respect for the revelation, but work wasn’t the time or place. If a writer must write of which he knows, and as I’ve written, he does, then this guiding ideology is my special domain.

It’s a special kind of realization, recognizing what you’re meant to write. It’s like if someone dropped a calculus textbook in my lap and told me to memorize it, but when I opened it I found I’d written it. I’m home. And I’m so excited to write.

Bacon Blogger

A few months back I applied to be a bacon blogger. Yes, I too was surprised that such a job existed. As part of the application process I had to write a 600 words or less blog about my favorite bacon memories. Time has progressed and I didn’t get the gig, so I’m posting the story here. Enjoy.

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The Pig is a magical creature. There’s scarcely a part of the pig that isn’t, either naturally or through some culinary witchcraft, delicious. From the mild, juicy tenderloin to the full pork explosion of chicharrón; from the lip smearing decadence of Jamon Iberico to the southern tradition of barbecue Boston butt; it’s as if the gods looked down from Olympus and, in a rare moment of pity, gave to us mere mortals a porcine gift. Because more than chops and roasts, better than hocks and hams, tastier than ribs and wursts, there’s bacon. We may not be gods but at least we have bacon.

I have a friend who followed a kosher diet. Outwardly I respected her choice while inwardly I railed and screamed at the stars, “but there’s bacon!” Maybe the stars heard me and intervened because she recently posted to Facebook that she’s eating bacon. You’d think she had a baby or kicked a drug habit, I was so proud of her. Her next several posts were all about bacon. How she dreams about it. How she cooks pancakes in bacon grease. Her latest post reads, “Bacon on my salad is changing my life.”

Of course it is. It’s bacon. Bacon is life. To know bacon is to know love. I think, therefore I eat bacon. Much has been said about bacon over the years. None of it does bacon justice. Its transcendence is tantalizing yet terrifying. It resists all attempts to quantify its taste and appeal. We’re told it’s bad for our health but we crave it nonetheless. My favorite bacon memories are any in which the supply of bacon is unlimited. Even that paper thin, factory produced, Old Country Buffet bacon fills the bacon shaped hole in my heart.

Years ago, before the bacon craze of today, I ordered breakfast at a local restaurant in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. I asked for a side of bacon with my eggs. The waitress replied with the most beautiful question I’d ever heard: “What kind of bacon?”

What kind of bacon? My head swum. With quivering lips I stuttered, “What kinds do you have?”

“Applewood, maple, and peppered,” she said as if bored of blowing people’s minds. I couldn’t possibly choose. So I didn’t. “All three” I managed to grunt.

I don’t remember anything else about that restaurant. I don’t remember its name or how my eggs turned out. I don’t even remember how I got home. All I do remember is a plate of thick center cut bacon and a Zen feeling of contentment and being one with the universe. The rashers snapped with just enough resistance but yielded quickly as I chewed. The flavors of pepper, Applewood, and maple syrup were present but only as background singers to the real star of the show. It was bacon nirvana.

Bacon, or at the very least cured pork, has played a part in most of the great meals of my life.

The first time I had guanciale, essentially bacon from the pig’s jowls, it was home cured by a chef friend of mine and served at a secret dinner, wrapped around a locally sourced organic strawberry. I must have chewed it for ten minutes. Not because it was tough but because I didn’t want the experience to end.

And I still don’t. Bacon is not created equal. Some bacons are better than others. But all bacon is better than all other food. This is food fact número uno. It can turn a lifetime Kosher eater into a bacon fanatic. Does it deserve its own blog, reviewer, and a place on our plates?

You bet your bacon.

Time

“How did it get so late so soon?” – Dr. Seuss.

Time.

There never seems to be enough of it.

We live in a three dimensional world. The computer on which I type has height, width, and depth. Three dimensions with which to interact.

But time.

We only get one dimension of time.

It never slows. It never stops. You can’t stop to study a particular moment because as soon as you do that moment is gone. Too late. Three more moments whiz by before you realize you’ve just wasted four moments you’ll never get back. You’re older and none the wiser.

When you’re in a hurry time seems to speed up. When you’re bored it can drag on forever. But it’s not time. It’s you.

Time gets away from us. We lose track of it. Try to find it. Beat it. Push it back. When we’re young it doesn’t pass fast enough.

When we’re old, it just won’t slow down.

Yet for all this, we can’t touch it.

We act like we keep it on our wrists, our walls, in our pockets.

But it was never ours to own. To touch.

We’ll never interact with time. All we’ll ever do is be carried along in it.

The slow march of time.

We have no control over time. Admitting the absence of control is liberating.

One less thing to worry about.

Time passes. We either use our time wisely or we don’t. We either make time a friend or an enemy. We make those decisions every day. Every moment of every day. Don’t stop to look at the moment. Don’t focus on what you cannot control. Don’t waste time regretting the time you’ve wasted. Because even though we’ll never touch time, it’s still currency. Imagine a steady stream of $1 bills passing through your hands. As soon as you’re given a new one, the old one is taken away. You can’t stockpile. You can’t ask for more. You have only a moment to spend the $1 you have or let it go to waste.

On what will you spend your $1?

On what will you spend your time?

Kidnapping the Muse

They say inspiration can’t be taught.

But that isn’t to say it can’t be learned.

You never know when true inspiration will strike. It can come in any form. Sometimes it’s the way a person walks or the way a woman’s hair falls in front of her face. Sometimes life throws curve balls. Swing and a miss, our game and balance are gone.

When inspiration reveals itself we must be ready. As writers, we carry pen and paper, a tablet, anything to jot down notes or scribble madly to nudge the floodgates open a little wider. Inspiration can be fickle, fleeting. We have to be awake and attentive. Ready at a moment’s notice.

But is there another way?

Yes. And no.

You can’t bypass the waiting. The watching. The long stretches of nothing. The missed opportunities. These come with the territory. Part of being a writer. And being human.

But, given enough time and practice, and one other ingredient, it can all give way to a second approach.

What’s the missing ingredient?

Honor.

When you honor something, you respect it. You show respect by paying attention to it. You allow it to lead you. You show deference. You study it in order to be more like it. You defend it. Value it. Treasure it, even.

If you honor inspiration, and as an artist you absolutely should, you become better and better acquainted with it. You know its habits. You know where it’s likely to appear. Honor it and it will allow you into its inner circle. Instead of waiting for inspiration to find you, you will know where to find inspiration.

Pay attention to when and where inspiration strikes. Don’t just write down the new inspired idea, write down the contextual details. Where are you? Who are you with? What time of day or night? What are you wearing? Smelling? Hearing? Feeling? Learn as much as you can about your muse. Everyone’s muse is different. What is yours like? Honor it by paying attention to it. Acknowledging it. I promise, if you do this, your muse will appear more often.

I can’t teach you about your muse. No one can. But you can learn about your muse by honoring it. Honor your desire to write by writing. Honor your muse by being aware of what inspires you. Surround yourself with that inspiration and watch your writing grow.

Beauty in the Common

There is beauty in the common.

The commonplace can be anything but. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Do you know what that means? It means beauty isn’t on the canvas. It isn’t on the stage or screen. It isn’t in a book, or a face, or the horizon, or anything you can touch with your hands. Beauty isn’t seen. It is experienced. It is in your eye because it is in your perception.

Philosopher Edmond Burke suggested that the sublime, the quality of beauty or greatness with accompanying spiritual sense of awe, is most poignant when experienced alongside or through pain. He wrote that it isn’t in the presence of great beauty but great trauma that the ultimate level of the sublime is experienced.

What is it about pain that changes our perception, that prepares us for beauty? And is the common a painful place?

Good is the enemy of best. Banality is the enemy of originality.

We live in the common but are wired to want more. To see more. To perceive more.

There is little or no conflict in the common. It is a balance of forces. Entropy is high in the common. There is little to do and little energy with which to do it. This goes against human nature.

We are creators. Explorers. Inventors. Pioneers. Artists. At our best, we repel stagnation. We turn boredom to ingenuity. We find beauty in the common as a source of inspiration.

There is beauty in the common because there must be.

My friend is writing a book. Won’t you help him by including your story?

beautyinthecommon.com

#beautyinthecommon

Resisting Arrest

I wasn’t planning on writing this. I had another post all written and schedule to go up today. I don’t even know if writing this is a good idea, or necessary. But it’s in my head and like a demon it needs exorcised. So bring in an old priest and a young priest and probably more than a smidgen of holy water and let’s get this over with. “The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you!”

This world has problems. Ain’t no one gonna argue that.

America has problems. And as “awesome” as Fox News believes America to be, even they wouldn’t argue that stuff’s not broken.

Nothing I write today or ever will fix all or any of America’s problems. “I’m not Jesus Christ. I’ve come to accept that now.”

But I have two cents in my pocket and as a consumer I feel the need to spend them on something.

I read a great post by Mike Rowe written in response to a question he received on Facebook about the recent protests concerning the deaths of Eric Garner and Michael Brown. You can read his entire response here but in short he said that he is in favor of both “peaceful protests” and “rooting out bad cops” but that he believes resisting arrest is stupid.

I have a lot of respect for Mike Rowe. It grew out of my early fears that he was an android back when he was instructing me how to use my PrimeStar Satellite TV remote control. Those impossibly blue eyes. The name, Mike Row, too similar to “micro” to be a coincidence. Then he switched to hosting Dirty Jobs and while he may still be a mechanized man, I realized he’s not hell-bent on destroying all humans. I respected his response. It was fair and well thought-out. Except for the part about resisting arrest being a stupid thing.

In general, yes. Resisting arrest is not a wise decision. But let’s remember that not all decisions have the privilege of being made after a good night’s sleep. Being arrested, I imagine, can be a highly emotional experience. A lot of things run through your mind, not least of which might be all the cases of police brutality the media loves to show us. We are told the police are here to protect us and 90% of the time, or higher, that’s probably true. But there are always going to be bad apples that spoil the whole barrel. If you’ve done something to warrant arrest, chances are you’re not in the best frame of mind or emotion. Why should the police expect you to cooperate with your incarceration? What do the police do to calm the situation down prior to slapping on the cuffs? Very little from the looks of things. If the media portrayal of police is accurate, they all respond with fear and aggression which doesn’t take a scientist to realize escalates an already heightened situation. And in many communities where citizens have learned through experience and stereotypes to fear the police, how can we expect them to act any differently than they do?

My personal reaction to Fight or Flight stimulus is fight. When it all hits the fan, I fight back. It’s not a conscious decision. It’s not a logical, strategic approach to the situation. You come at me, I’m going to come back at you. It’s not trying to be a tough guy. It’s not like I’m trying to prove anything. It’s a physiological response. I can’t curb it. If I suddenly found myself staring down the barrel of a gun while cops are trying to restrain me, my natural reaction is to resist. I’m claustrophobic. For me, it’s less about tight spaces and more about freedom to move my limbs. If I can’t move my arms, I start to panic. If my hands were cuffed behind my back, I’m not responsible for what I say or do. And I don’t see the cops, as they are portrayed in the media and candid cell phone video, doing anything to address this reality. The reality that what they do, and more importantly how they do it, creates and reinforces the negative stereotype of the police force. Force being the key word. They are not a Police Service. They are not a Police Nicety. They are a Police Force. Too often it is the exact wrong kind of person, the person attracted to violence and authority, who enrolls in the police force. Again, I realize that many if not most cops are decent, well-meaning individuals and I thank them for their daily serving and protecting. I understand they risk their lives on a near daily basis and that can’t be an easy thing. But what we in the masses see is our police fighting violence with violence. Or worse, shooting first. That’s not risking your life. That’s cowardice. Risking your life would be to assess the situation to see what kind of action is warranted. Shooting first and waiting for a grand jury to find you innocent of any wrongdoing is the coward’s approach. Of course cops should be concerned for their own safety. But the job they are paid to do is to put our safety first. The job is to serve and protect the public, not serve and protect themselves. When I see a YouTube video of a cop breaking a girl’s car window after she refused to roll it “all the way” down simply because he was more concerned for his safety than hers, it makes me proper angry. Yeah, maybe she should have cooperated. Maybe that guy shouldn’t be a cop.

The police want people to view them in a better light so people will stop resisting arrest. But it’s every citizen’s right to resist unlawful arrest. Unfortunately, what constitutes an “unlawful arrest” isn’t determined until after the fact, and by then you’ve probably already been tasered, beaten, or shot. As long as the police respond to violence with violence, as long as they act preemptively with violence in order to protect themselves instead of their citizenry, this situation is only going to get worse. They created the negative stereotype they insist isn’t true. But you know what? Despite all this, I want to like cops. If a cop pulls up behind me at a drive –thru, I buy his or her meal. The few times I’ve been pulled over it’s been a relatively painless experience because I treat them respect and speak politely. I’ve never been profiled or abused by cops. I can’t speak to that experience. The few cops I’ve known, including my father, were good people. I want to give cops the benefit of the doubt. I want to, but I don’t know how safe that is. The bureaucracy that continues to put angry and abusive individuals into police uniforms and then defend their obviously hate-motivated crimes gives all cops a bad name. And for those cops who are good but say nothing, they’re complicit.

I don’t have an answer. I don’t have a solution. I wish we could all just “be excellent to each other.” But the temptations of power and authority prove too much for some people. And the feeling of entitlement too strong for others. It’s a broken system in a broken world. I don’t know if there is an answer. Maybe it’s already happening. All these cell phone videos of police abuse. The more evidence we gather the more imperative it will be for the police to make a change. They can’t operate in the dark any longer. All things will be revealed. Change can’t come soon enough.

Just ask the families of Eric Garner and Michael Brown.

Make the Best of Your Holiday

Merry Christmas.

Or if you’re in the UK, Happy Christmas.

Or, if you don’t celebrate Christmas, Happy Holidays.

Don’t waste it. Don’t spoil it.

Don’t take advantage or for granted.

Cherish the good. Forget the bad.

Keep it simple.

Mind your manners. Say please and thank you.

Share.

Remember those who’ve gone. Call those who couldn’t make it.

Give grandma an extra hug.

Laugh.

Forgive.

Play.

Open & Honest Dialogue

I want this. I want it badly. And it makes me sad that it will never happen. Not about race. Not about religion. Not about sexual orientation, abortion, politics, terrorism, capital punishment, or any other controversial or even quasi-controversial topic. It will never happen. And that’s terrible.

It won’t happen because people. We are our own worst enemy. We are walking, skipping, jumping, swimming, jazzerblading, and in all other ways contradictions.  Our strengths are our weaknesses. What makes us stronger does in fact kill us. The passion that moves people to take to the streets in protest is the same passion that deafens their ears to the opposition. We shout our opinions from our soapboxes and keyboard mountaintops because it’s our constitutional right to free speech but no one has the time or patience to shut up and listen for a minute. We are all too eager to be offended.

I have an opinion on offense (it’s my ‘Murican right). I’m not alone in this opinion, either. At least one other guy I know agrees with me. So, you know. I’m not a lone nut or anything. Ready? Here it is.

Offense is a choice.

You can’t choose to offend someone. But you can choose to be offended.

I made the choice several years ago to not be offended. You can’t offend me. You can say whatever you want. Make fun of my religion, my politics, my beard. Be as vile and repulsive as you want. I’m not offended. If I allow anything you do or say to offend me, that means you have power over me. I don’t give you the right to offend me. If I take offense, I’m choosing to put more value in what you say or do than I put into myself. I know who I am. I know my faults, my strengths. You can’t offend me because your opinion doesn’t influence what I know to be true. That isn’t to say I’m not open to learning or to adjusting what I know. In fact, offense prevents education. Offense immediately builds a wall around the offendee, preventing any further constructive exchange. That’s why we’ll never see true open and honest dialogue.

How would the world be different if we were less interested in making sure people heard our opinions than in hearing others? What if representatives from two opposing sides of a controversy could sit in a room and discuss what’s on their hearts and minds without fear of offending each other?

What if Police Officers sat down with the Black community in Ferguson and neither side had to worry about offending the other? I am in no way saying that what happened in their town, and across the country, isn’t a terrible tragedy. But for healing and progress to begin, strong people who choose to not be offended are needed. Open and honest dialogue is impossible without them.

What if pastors sat down with LGBT community members and both discussed their fears, worries, experiences, hopes, values, prayers, and dreams without fear of condemnation or offense? How many burned bridges could be rebuilt? How many wounds healed?

What if mothers against abortion could sit down with mothers who felt they had no option but abortion, and share their their hearts without fear of backlash or judgment?

I’m not saying this is a magical salve that will heal the world overnight. I’m saying that brave people need to stand up and boldly choose to not be offended. It’s a simple, one-time choice. Know who you are. Be secure in who you are. And let no man have sway over you. Choose to ignore offense and keep the walls of ignorance and separation from growing. Not just because I want open and honest dialogue. I do. But the world needs it.

The world needs it. But do I think it likely? Will I see this in my lifetime? I wish I were an optimist because I really want to say yes. But no, I don’t think so. I love being proven wrong, though.

Please, brave people, prove me wrong.

Where Do Babies Come From?

Let’s face it. Not all babies are cute. Your baby is cute because you are genetically designed to think it’s cute so you’re more likely to protect it when the dingo comes for it. Maybe your baby is cute. Probably it is. But not all of them are. No one will tell you your baby isn’t cute, or that it’s mildly creepy looking, or that it somehow found an ugly stick in your womb and beat itself silly with it. They won’t say that to your face, or to anyone’s face. Most people aren’t that rude or insensitive. Or honest. And there’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t advise you point out every ugly baby you see at the mall’s play pit. And not just because you’d be outnumbered by a gang of angry mothers although that’s a scary enough scenario. Social niceties, for the most part, help us get along and be productive as a society. And I’m all for getting along. But not all babies are cute. Even if we don’t admit it openly, we should admit it to ourselves.

For the record, concerning the title, no, I’m not asking. I figured that one out a long time ago. I was too young when my sister mentioned, in passing, just how penguins mate. I said something to the effect of, “That’s gross,” to which my sister responded, “How do you think people do it, idiot?” She probably didn’t say the idiot part, but it was implied. I simply shut my mouth and walked away, stunned. All in all, though, probably better than learning about it on the playground at school like most kids. Whatever. The point is, I know where babies come from. If you know me at all or are familiar with how I write, you’ll know I’m slowly working my way towards a metaphor. A weak, ill-constructed metaphor in all likelihood because perfection is boring.

I don’t have babies. Or baby. But I know what they are. I’ve held them. Smelled them. Fed them. Changed them. Put up with them. Avoided them. Run away from them. Been bitten by them. And I’m good. I’m all set. Other people’s kids are enough. I love my sister’s kids. I’m sure I’ll love my brother’s kid when I meet it. But whatever genetic impulse that convinces people to raise children, yeah, I don’t have that. The impulse to make children, sure. But any responsibility past that seems exhausting. Why anyone chooses it is beyond me.

The closest I want to get to having a baby is writing a script. No, they aren’t really that close. That’s kind of the point. But there are slight and occasional similarities, enough that I know I don’t want there to be any additional.

Babies keep you up at night. So does writing. When I think I’ve done enough writing for the day I close the laptop, maybe try and watch some TV then go to bed. Just as I’m about to fall asleep, the script starts crying out to me. “Hey! Hey you! Dummy who thought being a writer was a good idea! What if in the second half of Act II Johnny Protagonist steals a harrier jet? It worked for True Lies!”

“No, it really didn’t. And shut up, I’m trying to sleep. We’ve got work in the morning.”

“But fighter jets are so coooooooooollll!! We get to blow stuff up!”

“It’s a Romantic Comedy. Stuff’s not supposed to blow up.”

“That’s why no one buys your scripts. You should write me like a Michael Bay script. Michael Bay is the best.”

*Click-click*

“Say that again and I swear I will shoot my laptop and kill you in the process.”

“…Michael Bay wouldn’t hesitate to-”

*BAM*

And that’s why I buy cheap laptops.

Babies need to be raised. So do scripts. It all starts with an idea. Maybe you’re in bed, the mood is right, and wham-bam thank you ma’am you’ve got a great idea. Then a few days or weeks later, you realize you are responsible for this idea. It’s yours. You gave it life. It’s your job to raise it, develop it, turn it into a contributing member of society. You want this idea to be successful so it can support you in your old age. So you treat it like a Faberge egg. Gentle, careful, with all the love of a little girl tending to an injured baby bird she found in the back yard. Then one day you’re holding it up above your head with pride because it’s working, it’s growing, and then it throws up in your mouth. You realize it’s a long road ahead. Yeah, sometimes it takes eighteen years. And sometimes, like a child, after eighteen years of sweat and blood and sacrifice, it still turns out to be a disappointment.

Scripts need attention. They require discipline. When you’re not with them, you’re thinking about them. They make you happy, cry, and tear your hair out in great clumps. If someone tries to steal your script you protect it with your life. When it’s young and bright and new and someone tries to tell you it’s ugly you ignore them because they’re obviously blind. A script is a part of me, born with my DNA. And that’s near enough to progeny for me. Because unlike a child, I can sell a script when I’m done with it.

 

The only thing we have…

In the summer of 2007 I went camping. It was a last-minute decision to get out and see more of the area I had recently moved to. I was new to Tennessee but an experienced camper and was excited to get into nature, if only for a night. One Saturday morning I packed a bag and drove forty-five minutes to a state campground, paid for a spot for the night, and settled in. In truth there wasn’t much to settle. I planned to sleep in my van. All I was really concerned about was leaving the campsite behind and hiking the trails. So as soon as I parked I emptied my pack of non-essentials, grabbed a bottle of water, and headed into the woods.

Near the head of the trail were other campers, but soon enough the trail cleared and it was mostly me and nature. Having grown up living and working at a camp, I felt in my element. The woods of Tennessee weren’t too dissimilar from the woods of Ohio. I kept an eye out for wild edibles, the few I knew: buttercups, wisteria, mint, various berries, and my favorite, sassafras. In Ohio I’d often forage for sassafras saplings in order to boil the roots to make sassafras tea. But despite appearing familiar at first look, the Tennessee wilderness offered up none of these comforts from home. The ground was mostly level so the hike was easy. At one point the trail led to a dry creek bed. I followed it, my feet sinking slightly into rounded river stones. Eventually the creek disappeared underground. I tried to follow but the cave entrance was choked with sticks and bramble. I climbed back to the trail and kept going, my depleting energy supply masked by my enthusiasm for the outdoors.

An hour later I decided I’d had enough and started to make my way back to my campsite, and this is where things started to go wrong. I didn’t want to go back the way I came because I’d already seen it. I wanted new surroundings, new sights to take in. I figured I had a good sense of direction and could ditch the trail and make my way back to the camp. I hadn’t seen any “stay on the trail” signs so figured this would be a fun adventure.

When I claimed to be an experienced camper, it was a bit of an overstatement. Yes, I had been camping since I was very young, and even spent seven years living and working at a camp. I would often take day treks into the woods, leaving the trails behind in favor of unmolested wilderness. But I also knew the boundaries of the property. I knew the trails backwards and forwards. My confidence was built on knowledge and experience of the grounds. In Tennessee I still felt that confidence, but it was a lie. I knew a little about how to survive in the woods… at my camp in Ohio. I knew nothing about where I was in Tennessee. The result of which was, I was soon lost.

People make bad decisions when they panic. Panic sneaks up on you. At first, you don’t even realize you’re panicking. You believe you’re thinking on your feet, making decisions as you go. It clouds your judgment. It certainly clouded mine. I knew how to get back to camp. I had walked a straight, perpendicular line since abandoning the trail. All I had to do was turn around and walk back. I would eventually reach the trail and then I could walk out. Easy enough. But panic told me it would be better to keep going straight. Or left. Or right, maybe. Eventually, I’d find another trail that would lead me out. Or maybe I’d find a road and could hitchhike to the camp. I checked my cell phone for signal. Maybe I could call the rangers and get rescued. I dialed the ranger station, but the signal was lost before anyone picked up. I eventually did find another trail. It looked like a farmer’s access road. It led to a fenced-in field. I had to be at the boundary of the state park. I followed the path for a while, until it got too muddy to walk on. My shoes were caked in mud. I was exhausted. The sun was setting. I was out of water. Wait…

The sun was setting. The sun. I knew the trail head was east of my campsite, and the trail itself ran mostly northeast. I left the trail going northwest. If I kept the sun on my right I could walk south and find either the trail or the campground. I retreated down the path until I found the point at which I’d come across it, then headed south. I felt like I was finally making a good decision. Hope rose within me that I’d get back to my campsite and get a good night’s sleep.

Eventually I did find the path again. About that time, I also began to feel rather embarrassed. I’d made stupid decisions. I knew better. But overconfidence betrayed me. And I let my emotions get the better of me. Eight hours after setting off, I made it back to my van and collapsed. I didn’t even make a fire or eat dinner. I gulped some water and went to sleep.

Looking back, that experience was a turning point of sorts. It wasn’t a conscious decision but soon after, I started distrusting my emotions. I distanced myself from them, preferring instead the cold rationality of logic. I could trust it. It was rigid, it didn’t change. I had never been an overly emotional person to begin with. But I withdrew even further. Where I had once been sentimental, I threw away many of my sentimental keepsakes because they didn’t serve a practical purpose. I started having to fake emotional responses in social situations so as not to appear depressed. And I wasn’t depressed. I was quite happy, actually. Or maybe content is a better word. Emotions could lead to hurt. Logic and reason didn’t. They were my allies.

I feel as if this story should go somewhere from here, but that’s where it ends. There is no world-shattering epiphany that emotions are the real virtue and I should embrace them, as painful as they can be. Our culture certainly seems to be trying to tell me this, that love is all I need, that true happiness is an emotional experience. But is that true? Or does it have to be true for everyone? I’m not saying emotions don’t serve a purpose. I would never say that emotions aren’t valid, at least to a point. Emotion and logic are, in the end, two sides of the same coin. Without logic and reason, mankind would not have advanced. The same could be said for emotion because there would have been no passion to drive man forward. Perhaps my logic, too, is driven by emotion. After all, I feel as if this story should go somewhere from here. I feel.

As a storyteller I must know, be intimately acquainted with, human emotion. In order to accurately and effectively communicate the human experience I must know loss, love, hatred, bitterness, regret, desire, rejection, anticipation, joy, anger, bliss, and awe. These aren’t found in logic, but it is logical that I be familiar with them. These, and also fear. Fear of being hurt. Fear of getting lost. Fear of emotion, because it isn’t controlled as easily as reason. Fear is the thing I fear most of all. F.D.R. was on to something. And that’s why I’m writing a horror movie/book. To explore the emotion I dislike the most. To mine the depths of human emotion. To become a better storyteller. To write better stories.