YELLOW

Daddy was a trucker.

An overhaul, large freight, tractor-trailer. He hauled large pieces of equipment, supplies for major corporations, even once a "top-secret", super expensive car for a blockbuster action movie. No matter what it was, Daddy hauled it across 48 states. YELLOW was the first word I learned to spell. Y-E-L-L-O-W is what I'd spell when teachers asked what my Daddy did for a living. You see, he drove for YELLOW trucking company, and those letters were emblazoned  in large orange letters on the top and sides of his truck. Anyone from miles around could see who he worked for--YELLOW could be seen from miles down the road.

Seeing those letters still makes me happy. To this day, it gives me butterflies and makes my stomach all warm.

Daddy would be gone for weeks at a time working, so that left me and Mama alone a lot. But whenever Daddy was on his way home--after dumping his cargo across the country--he'd call the house just to let me know. The moment the phone rang, I always knew when it was him. I'd drop whatever I was doing and rush to the kitchen, clawing at Mama's skirt until she handed the receiver down to me. "ETA ready, baby girl," he'd say, wanting to let me know the exact time he'd be pulling back into town. Our house was only a few blocks from the highway and right before the exit for our town. There was a spot in the highway where the sound barrier had cracked and a small opening was visible. Daddy showed it to me once, and it was where I returned once a month.

On those days, I'd watch the clock on our kitchen wall like a hawk. I hovered in the kitchen, running back and forth from my room numerous times and willing the time to speed up. At the appointed hour, I'd rush out to the garage and jump onto my big-wheel. I paddled out of the garage and headed towards the highway--my feet never pumping hard enough.

My heart was always so light and happy. I thought about his face and smile and paddled faster. Being away from him for so long was cruel torture. All I wanted was to be wrapped in his arms.

The trees would thin and I could see the sound barrier stretching in front of me. I could hear the roar of the highway as I got closer and I slowed down my big-wheel. I pulled over on the side of the road, jumped off my ride and jumped over the safety fence that separated me from the highway. I crawled beneath the underbrush and stood up, sodden with grass and weeds. I inched through the crack in the sound barrier, and the wind from the highway would whip my face.

Horns blared, heat rose from the asphalt, and the smell of gasoline engrossed me. But my attention was to the north, where Daddy's truck would be any minute. I eagerly looked for him, excitement building.

And right on time--as he always was-- YELLOW appeared on the horizon. Daddy was a mere half mile from me. My heart leaped and I literally jumped for joy. I jumped, I hooted and hollered, and waved my Daddy into the home stretch. He knew exactly where to look for me, and as soon as our eyes met he bore down on his truck horn.

BEEP!BEEP!BEEP!BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!was his welcome, for me and only me. It was the sound of  his love. I could see his hands waving, but he kept on beeping his horn until he passed me on the highway and drove on to the truck depot, where he'd drop off his truck and come home to me.

It was our tradition. Our secret way of greeting each other after weeks of separation. It was our special moment of love and something I lived for every month. Mama hated it, saying I was liable to get hit by a car or worse. Every time I left the house she rolled her eyes and told me to be careful. I always was and trusted Daddy with all my heart.

As soon as he was out of sight, I was back , crawling under the underbrush and hopping the fence. I'd race home with the adrenaline of a full grown man. The way home was always quicker, and I'd be firmly planted on my front porch before I knew it. I always waited for Daddy in this same spot. Even if it took all night, I'd wait and wait for that first embrace. Daddy needed to unload his truck, return supplies, collect his pay, and sometimes he stayed after to speak to some of his buddies--which sometimes was an all night affair and Mama would have to tuck my sleeping form into bed. Most nights, though, he'd race down the street like a bat out of hell, barely parking the car in our driveway. No matter how tired he was, he'd jump out of the car, we'd rush to each other and he'd swing me around into a tight embrace. After, we'd sit down on the porch--me cradled in his arms--and he'd tell me all about his latest trucking adventure.

"I drove all the way to California, Jenny. Do you know where that is?" he'd ask.

"Tell me, Daddy," I'd say even if I knew perfectly well where the state was.

"It's clear on the other side of the country. Had to drive through 9 states just to get there. It's where all the pretty movie stars live."

"Prettier than me, Daddy?'

"No one is prettier than you, baby girl."

I'd smile and lean back into his arms, as he continued to talk. Most nights, I'd fall asleep right there and he'd lift me up and take me into my room and to bed.

It was in those moments that I knew how much my Daddy loved me and never wanted to leave me. The separation was torture for him, too. The visits were always short--never more than a week--and eventually Daddy was back out on the road. But I knew our tradition would keep me with him always.

Eventually, the road-trips got longer, the phone calls got shorter, and his days home were virtually nonexistent. I heard them fighting a lot--Mama and Daddy. On the phone, in person, the screaming was constant. Then the front door would slam and the house would be silent again. Mama cried herself to sleep almost every night and Daddy started sleeping on the couch. His affection never waned for me. He was as attentive and loving to me as he'd always been. But our house became uneasy and the air was hot with tension. Something was changing. My family was changing.

Then one day, after an extremely long and loud night, Daddy didn't come home. Not for breakfast. Not for lunch. Not even dinner. Days passed and he never called or came to pick up clean clothes. I waited on the porch all day, knowing he'd be back any moment. Mama had to put me to bed that night, after I fell asleep on the hard wooden planks.

Daddy never came home after that. Never came back to us or his house. Mama told me he had left us for his other family.

"Other family?" I asked.

She looked at me long and hard and answered me truthfully. "Daddy has another family, Jenny. Another little girl with another Mama. In Oregon."

She kept talking, crying eventually and then clinging to me like I was the adult. I didn't understand. I didn't understand how my Daddy could have another family. I comforted my Mama as best as I could but I was far from understanding what it all meant.

I convinced myself that Mama was wrong and that Daddy was just on an extra long haul. He'd be home any day--jumping from his car and swinging me around in a warm embrace. I started staking out the crack in the highway--our special place and where I always felt most secure. That's where I spent my Saturday's and my after school hours. I peered down the highway until my eyes hurt from the strain. "Any minute now," I'd whisper to myself, kind of like a prayer.

But he never came back.

Most nights, Mama would come get me from the highway as it started to get dark. She'd beep the horn and I'd wordlessly admit my defeat and retreat back to her car and home. Never once did she roll her eyes as I climbed into the passenger seat. She was silent and rarely looked at me. I know in her heart she was hoping YELLOW pulled onto the highway that day, but she never said a word. She just kept driving.

The last time I saw my Daddy was 10 years ago. He would call every once in awhile-- on the weekends, birthdays, Christmas. But eventually those calls happened less and less. He made a lot of empty promises about bringing me out to see him. I cried to him, begged him to come home and love my Mama again. To love me again. He always said he loved me to the tip of his toes but I'd understand one day why he couldn't come home.

I never learned to understand why he couldn't come home. Why my Mama and me weren't enough. Why he would never sweep me into his arms again. Why our love didn't fill him the way his new family did.

But I have never stopped looking for him. To this day, every time I pass a tractor-trailer on the highway I steal a glance at the driver, hoping to find my Daddy.

And Y-E-L-L-O-W still makes my heart skip a beat.

Never Love

Broken down from your hard looks
And uncaring affection,
Took my happy and left
A girl stripped of innocence and  worth.
Your hugs were tight but lacked warmth,
Never true, you only loved you.
You swatted me away,
My love an unwanted pest.


I lost myself in you,
To your hate and paranoia.
Eggshells and broken glass
Was the floor beneath my feet.
Tears and pain I shed
With you listening on the other line.
Never once did you better it.
Never once did you see me.


Wasted smiles and kisses
On a man who cannot feel.
I was a fool to ever see beyond it.
To see who you might be
Instead of the cruel monster
All warned about.
I see you and all you are
Never again will you be a prince and savior


I hate you, for all you did,
For the lies, the cold looks, the screams you inflected.
The frustration you took out on me
Because no one else cared.
I hate you for the girl you left behind,
The girl unable to trust, to love, to open up.


I am stronger without you
Never looking back to the past.


I wish you well
That you find peace and happiness within yourself.
One day I will forgive you,
But not today,
Never today.
Free from your hold at last
Moving to the future
Only hoping for love.

True Love.

The Year of the Pyromaniacs

“You go first.” 

 “This was your idea!”

 “Your house is closer."

“Just go. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Yeah but if they’re in there, they’ll get me and you’ll run!”

Frozen in space and time, Lyndsay and I stood at the entrance to the woods behind her house, arguing who would take the daring first step beneath the trees. Neither of us wanted to be the sacrificial lamb sent to the slaughter, so we stood, dead still, waiting and hoping the other would get some nerve. I looked ahead, peering into the wooded distance, hoping to see any sign of movement or reason for us run like hell. Nothing moved and, although my 11 year old eyes were weakening fast, there was no sign of the notorious KB gang.

The woods that divided our development from The Franklin Mills Mall and the wild streets of Philadelphia were notorious. These woods protected our little suburb from the “big bad city," but it was into these woods that the underbelly of society fled. Thieves from the mall frequented the trees, dodging cops and mall security who were hot on their trail. It wasn’t uncommon for the inhabitants of my development to see helicopters flying overhead, shining beacons of light into the wooded area below or cop cars slowly driving by at night. But for us kids, something more sinister lurked inside.  For the KB, or the Kick Butt Gang, the woods were their “home away from home." Mostly teenagers, they went back there to drink, get high, or cause some sort of mischief. Everyone knew a friend of the kid, who knew someone, who got dragged back there and beat up. No one went back there alone, expecting to come out again in one piece.

Me and Lyndsay were different.

Best friends and kindred spirits, we wanted to venture inside. The allure of those tall trees that stretched on and up, tickled our imaginations. At night, the trees whispered, pleading for us to take the plunge. We didn’t answer their call, at first anyway. We weren’t stupid; we heard the stories about the KB Gang. We didn't know what “to be raped” meant, but we convinced ourselves that this would be the consequence if they ever caught us. We knew it was bad--the word just emoted fear in use-- and that was enough.

 For us, it didn’t matter; we could no longer avoid the call.

“Fine, we’ll go together!” I said after realizing Lyndsay was not going to budge. We clasped hands and after a reassuring nod, stepped onto the path beneath the trees. 

A vacuum sucked the sound out of the woods. There were no birds, squirrels, or even the sound of falling leaves to pacify the overwhelming quiet. The quiet made us cautious. Every step was thought out and our eyes darted from tree to tree, looking for concealment. Our hands formed one, solid bond that urged us on. We followed the path, knowing it would be foolish to leave it. The path widened and we stepped into a small clearing. We found the KB gang’s hang out; the remainder of a tree house created a wooden, solid floor beneath the leaves, an old couch, worn from the weather, sat in the middle, with beer cans and cigarette butts littering the ground.

            “What do we do now?” Lyndsay asked. 

A twig snapped and without a second thought, we darted to the left path. We ran, still clutching each other’s hands, never daring to look behind. We followed the path down and around, getting closer and closer to the small creek that ran through the woods. Eventually after a few minutes of running like maniacs, we realized we were being stupid; no one was following us. We stopped to catch our breaths and look around. We stood on top of a sort of cliff that overlooked the creek. Across the creek, we saw a small clearing, surrounded by trees with an open space in the middle.

“We need to get down there," I said, feeling drawn to it. With some difficulty, we managed to climb down the “ravine.” We crossed the creek and stepped, for the first time, onto the little space.

The trees seemed to separate in a perfect circle, growing everywhere but in the small dirt space where we now stood. The grass was the greenest I had ever seen; nothing like it grew in Philadelphia or in any of its area suburbs. We walked around in wonder; peering through trees and branches, walking slowly on the pebble beach that led to the creek, and running our hands through the cold stream that led us here. It was perfect. The clearing had been waiting all this time, dreaming of the day we would come and claim it.

 KB Gang or not, this was ours.

The next few weeks, we dedicated to fixing up our place. Every spare minute was spent in the woods. We ran from school to the trees. Weekends were no longer our own; they were used for one common goal--to block in our little clearing and make it our own. Figuring we needed some help, we told Lyndsay’s brother, Michael and a few others from the neighborhood about what we found. Naturally, we bound them by secret oath. And we found it necessary to blind fold each new member on their first trip down, which was very tricky when crossing the creek but an essential in the long run. We no longer feared the KB gang; we passed through their hangout without a second glance. We found freedom in the woods that not even the KB Gang could take away. A freedom like nothing we had ever experienced. We could scream and run, and every day we learned something new.

We discovered fire in the woods.

It had been raining all day, but we had a commitment to the woods. A little rain could not stop us. Once we stepped beneath the shade, we felt immune to the outside world; inside our hideout, nothing could touch us. The woods gave us super-human strength, or so we thought. The trees above did not protect us from the elements and within a half hour, we were soaked. But to call it a day wasn’t in us.

                       

“Hey! Let’s make a fire!” Lyndsay yelled, as if this was her first brilliant idea. She quickly dashed back to her house to get matches.

In the time it took her to run back, we both could have been snug and dry inside her house, but that was too easy. We were ruffin’ it, or at least we convinced ourselves we were. When she got back, I had made a little fire pit out of stones and had collected  dry sticks and leaves for a fire. We knelt down over the pit, and struck the matches. One, two, three matches gone. Our age showed we did not know what we were doing--this was before either of us had thought of smoking. And before Girl Scouts had taught us how to properly construct a fire. We wasted almost half the book until, finally, we got a spark. Throwing it down into the pit, we watched as the leaves slowly ignited. They shriveled and contorted in shape and smoke rose from their ashes. The sticks were too wet and there were no flames, but that was enough. That one spark had triggered something in us both.

 

We were addicted to the flame. Smokey the Bear had warned us about the “danger of forest fires," but the smell of burning wood had consumed our senses. We craved it like a drug. The remedy for every problem was to light a fire; “It’s been a long day….let’s light a fire, ” was our favorite excuse. When it got hotter, and the sweat poured down our faces, we still lit fires. Now, we went to the woods to be pyromaniacs and not a day went by that we weren’t striking matches into a waiting pit of twigs and newspaper.

Because of the constant fires, our clothes reeked from the smoke, and our new fear was of our parents smelling it. Our parents really did not know we were going down there in the first place, let alone starting fires. We had a few remedies to mask the scent; we tried standing outside for a while, before going into Lyndsay’s house or we scrubbed the stench from our hands in the stream. But, some thing’s we could not control- like the smell of fire outside. One night, after a long day of lighting fires in the woods, Lyndsay and I were sitting in her room getting ready for bed. Her mom came in to say goodnight and said, “It smells like something’s burning outside. Goodnight girls." With eyes bulging out of my head, I tried to remain calm. I waited until she left the room, and then reacted.

“Are you sure we put that last one out?” I asked, running to Lyndsay’s window, expecting to see flames leaping from the woods.

“I think we did,” she answered, questioningly.

We did not sleep a wink that night. We expected to hear fire engines at any moment, or the cops coming to arrest us. Every hour, one of us got up to look out the window, just in case we needed to warn the neighbors.

Scared is an understatement; we imagined life in prison and prayed for morning.

           

The fire engines never came. The woods were still in one piece the next morning and so was our sanity. There was a huge sigh of relief when we looked out the window at 8 AM, still seeing the green from the trees. We were saved and for us, it did not change a thing. We went down that very day and started another blaze, like nothing happened.

 Then the bottom really fell out.

           

A few weeks later, a small group of us were down in the woods. Lyndsay’s cousin Ally was visiting for the weekend and we needed to “initiate” her, which involved Ally lighting her first fire. We handed her the matches and told her what to do. Before long, she had a small flame going. I turned my back on her for a second, and when I turned back , she was holding what looked like a fire ball. She found a dried out bush and when she held it over the fire, it instantly ignited. Fearing she would burn her hands, she dropped it into the small fire, causing a huge flame to burst from the pit. We stood around in wonder, hypnotized by the dancing flames.

“OH MY GOD! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” we heard someone scream. We looked up, and saw that a woman was standing outside of her house, which sat directly in front of us. We never realized, in all those weeks, that her house had a perfect view of our hideout. We quickly put the flames out and, like prairie dogs, hit the ground. I looked up and saw that the woman was trying to navigate her way down to us.

           

“Run,” I screamed.

Everyone shot up and started to run towards the entrance of the hideout. As we sprinted across the creek and up the other side, Ally tripped, causing a domino affect of everyone who was behind her. “Get up! Get up! Do you wanna get caught?” I yelled. The panic had sunk in, and I could only imagine what would happen if that woman found us down there with matches and smelling of soot. Jumping to our feet, we ran up and out of the woods. It was a mass exodus; kids ran this way and that, trying to put as much space between them and the woods as possible. Lyndsay, Michael, Ally, and I ran into her house and slammed the door behind us--slamming the door on our days in the woods.

It is now ten years later, and we have yet to return to the woods. That experience scared us straight, and it was our last fire. Not long after that day, green signs were posted at every entrance to the woods. They read;

“ENTRANCE PROHIBITED BETWEEN THE HOURS OF

4PM AND 6AM. $1,000 FINE FOR ANY PERSONS FOUND

DURING THESE HOURS.”

To this day, whenever Lyndsay and I see those signs, we laugh. We are not sure if the KB gang is the real reason for them, but we like to think we played a large part in it. Afterall, the KB gang had ruled those woods for years, but the signs only appeared after one of our fires got out of control.

Years have passed, but that inner longing for the woods has not diminished for either of us. I run by it on a nightly basis and when the weather is especially nice and I can smell the trees, I still hear the woods calling my name. To return to those wild days. One day, I know Lyndsay and I will venture back there again; hands clasped and hearts aching for some new adventure.

                       

Warrior Defined

I have a thing for words and their different uses. Obviously, stringing them together is a passion of mine but words on their own--just one word--are pretty awesome, too. You can create whole worlds with sentences, but uttering one word can create just as much. They have just as much mystery and power. The most fascinating thing for me with words is that one syllable can mean different things to everyone. Every word has different connotations across the world or even to people living next door to each other--it's the whole nature versus nurture thing but with verbiage. Once uttered, a picture is created in the hearers mind and they associate that word with that picture--like the flashcards our parents used to jump-start our educations. No flowery descriptions are needed, the word can simply emote the emotion or thing wanted by the sayer.

The most powerful words emote the strongest description worldwide.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the word "warrior". A pretty short and regular looking word, but it seems to be thrown at many these days. It is definitely one of those power words I am referring to. So I decided to do a little research in regards to this seemingly "normal" word.

Looking to my handy dictionary, I find the word "warrior" comes from the Old Northern French werreieor, from werre war.Very french sounding--even if the French aren't what I would consider "warriors". I found one simple definition

warrior: A person who engages in or promotes war.

Then looking to my trusty thesaurus, I found the following synonyms:

           warrior: champion, combatant, fighter, fighting man, gladiator, man-at-war, soldier.

Both are pretty straightforward definitions. It doesn't go into detail about bravery or fortitude, so much is left to ones own perception. In this way, all nations and societies can have their own distinction on what qualifies a warrior. So, who is to say that little boys playing in the streets, pretending sticks are swords, aren't warriors in their own way?

Turning back to my available resources (this time being the internet), I decided to Google "warrior" and see what happened to pop up. Here is what I found;

Martial arts or a samurai are pretty synonymous with warrior-like behaviors. I think the Japanese actually wrote the book on warriors and warrior-like behavior. It was actually a disgrace for samurai's to be taken captive in battle--most would commit suicide with their own swords, rather then be taken alive.

If you don't know, this is Xena: Warrior Princess starring Lucy Lawless. A show on the WB network (now the CW for you youngens) in the early/late 90's. She was the female version of Hercules (another show on the now de-funk WB network starring Kevin Sorbo). She was pretty badass and I'll admit I did actually watch this show. By the way, does anyone know what ever happened to Lucy Lawless?

Obviously, this needs no explanation.

I've never actually seen this movie, but this is a picture from Mad Max: Road Warrior starring the oh so charming and young Mel Gibson. This is pre-drunken, antisemitic, wife beating rant days. And he was pretty damn gorgeous here too.

Native Americans are warriors by nature and this quote from Sitting Bull--arguably the most famous Native American--pretty much sums up the mantra of a warrior. There is an aspect of humility to warrior-ship. It's not all sword-yielding and gun-slinging.

So the fruits of my research have given me much food for thought. Warriors are brave to a fault, not afraid of death, self-sacrificing, humble, work hard, and never give up even when all seems lost.

With all this in mind, there is one person in my life who is synonymous with a warrior; my aunt, Ann Ford.

She is not your typical warrior.She has not been to different countries, killed a man with her bare hands, wielded a weapon of mighty power, defended her people against aggression or invaders with no hope of survival.

But in the same sense, she is a "champion", "combatant", " fighter", "gladiator" and a "(wo)man at arms." She has the bravery and fortitude of most grown men. Has faced adversity and sadness with a calm and level head. For 5 years, she has fought the fight of her life, not for herself but for her family, friends and all those who love and care about her. She has defeated every opponent that has crossed her path, and has learned a lesson from each. She fought to victory with a smile on her face--an epic battle that most men who runaway, screaming with their tail between their legs--and always cared about others before herself. But through all of this, she knows in her hearts of hearts that her fight is not over--it has merely just begun. Her enemy will rear its ugly head again and again. It is only a matter of time, as her opponent is a relentless beast who cannot be contained. Knowing this, she lives each day as her last, but will never give up her fight to survive.

Most warriors wear coats of arm, medals or show some sort of distinction on their person, so all those around them know that they are "true warriors". My aunt does not ask for notoriety or fame. She is too humble to admit what she has been through. But she proudly displays her "ribbons of honor" in her heart to announce to all she knows

 that she has fought and come out a survivor.

Conformation and a Bow to the KING of Modern Fiction

I am a pretty avid reader.

I average about a book a week--a habit that was only perpetuated in undergrad where I basically had to  read a novel a week, if not more. To me there's no better way to end the day or pass time that would otherwise be wasted in other pursuits--which has gotten me in trouble in the past. In grade and high school, I used to put a book inside my text book, lean back in my chair and pretend I was intently listening to my teacher lecture or reading the latest chapter in Spanish class. In reality, I was miles away, totally engrossed in whatever story I happened to be reading at the moment. I almost consistently had books taken away from me--the one I remember quite clearly was The Diary of Anne Frank during Spanish class in 8th grade.I argued with Senora for 15 minutes, explaining that no, I could not translate the verbs she had just explained to the class but I could summarize the daily life of the Frank family in Poland.

She didn't find it funny.

 I didn't get my book back for a week.

All this to say, I read quite a bit. I always carry a book with me (and a notebook of course) and try to squeeze in as much reading time as I can a day. I usually have a book or two "waiting in the wings" for me to pick up as soon as I finish one. But imagine my surprise when I finished Tim O'Brien's Tomcat in Love (which if you haven't read O'Brien please do! He is AMAZING and the writer I want to be.He has a pretty large portfolio but I'd start with If I Die in a Combat Zone, his memoir on Vietnam.) and had no "wingman" the next day. I felt lost and utterly perplexed.

Lucky for me, my best friend has the same mentality with reading and we pretty consistently trade books back and forth--because we trust each others judgement and know we will get the borrowed books back once finished (I do not trust people with my library). On my way home from work, I dropped by her house to drop off a few things and she handed me a stack of four books to read. I was almost giddy and couldn't wait to get home to start. "Oh wait! There's one more," she told me and ran upstairs. She came back down and handed me Stephen King's On Writing, A Memoir of the Craft.  I followed this with a look of "Really?"


Ok two things;
As a writer, I think it is the most egotistical thing for a writer to write a book on writing. Like come on now! Is your head the size of a watermelon or something? Are you that perfect to think you can actually teach someone, something that is unteachable? No one can teach someone to write--it is a craft, like a predisposition to music or languages. Someone who has never written a thing in their life cannot wake up one day and say "Today I will write the next Great American Novel," just because they happened to pick your book up. It doesn't happen! I truly believe people are born knowing they will be a writer--trust me, I've known since the age of 5. Writing is not like medicine, where you can memorize answers out of a textbook and then perform brain surgery. Instructional books are bull shit and are obviously geared towards non-writers--because writers would never waste their money on them.

And secondly, I avoid Stephen King like the plague. Horror is not my thing. Gore, blood and serial killers? No thanks. Not to mention that the majority of his book-turned movies scared the shit out of me when I was little. Case in point:

I can barely look at this picture!

If you don't know, the above is Pennywise the Clown from Stephen King's IT. I saw IT for the first time when I was 9 years old and as a result, didn't sleep for weeks and stayed away from drainage grates. This one movie turned me off from the genre in its entirety. Haven't seen a horror movie since. And don't get me wrong, some of King's work I do like--like Stand By Me and Shawshank Redemption. Loved them! Have I read the print versions? No, because I was scared away at the age of 9. The movie adaptations were enough and my memory is still assualted by those images of horror. Truly, I'd rather not give King a dime of my money. Without reading his work, I pretty much believe he was a hack, one-trick pony who had no literary clout. In my eyes, Stephen King was not a good writer.

So when she handed me his memoir, I was secretly planning on never reading it. "Seriously Penny, it's one of the best books I picked up. It made me want to write!" She's never steered me wrong in the past--she turned me on to The Hunger Games and Geraldine Brooks and they were complete home runs. So I took it, deciding to read it first--but  if it sucked in 5 pages, I'd return it the next day.

Welp.

I stand corrected.

 And I apologize to you, Mr. Stephen King.

Within those aforementioned 5 pages, I was completely hooked and understood what the hype was about--Stephen King is a damn good writer!

Seriously, On Writing is probably one of the best books I have read in a very long time. It should be a prerequisite for all writers--a bible even! Part memoir, part instructional (which is actually pretty funny because he flat out says the instructional part is bullshit and he's just regurgitating the standard stuff because he has to, not because any it actually adheres to true writers. All writers have their own mannerisms, tricks and techniques when it comes to writing. No technique are the same and will work for everyone), he talks about his life in writing and how he got to where he is now. It was inspiring to read about his past and see that his insane passion for writing kept him going, even when things were really bad. I had a preconceived notion on him--that he had it easy, broke into the "biz" overnight at a young age and it's been nothing but rainbows and unicorns since. In reality he struggled for the majority of his life. He came from a broken home, his mother moved him and his brother from relative to relative looking for work. But from a young age, his mother was his biggest supporter and champion in the field (except when she suggested he get a teachers certification just in case "this writing thing" doesn't work out. Which I can definitely relate to). He went to college, met his wife (who, shockingly, he is still married to) and worked menial jobs just to put food on the table. He was broke and living in a trailer with a wife and two kids for the majority of his 20's. He was a college grad but worked in an industrial laundromat or cleaned high school locker rooms for years--this is actually where he got much of his inspiration. But he never stopped writing and dreaming big. His first big break, Carrie, came from cleaning a girls locker room one day. He went home and wrote an entire first draft, but thought it was shit so crumpled it up and threw it away. Lucky for him that his wife saw it when emptying the trashcans, read it and pushed him to finish it. Can you imagine if she hadn't? Images of blood soaked prom queens would never haunt high school gymnasiums!

Truly amazing when you think about it!

After this, he dives right into the fact that reading his book will not make you a writer, to actually stop reading if that's what you intend. Freaking brilliant! Most books I have read (for school of course) use all this flowery language, call themselves experts in the craft of tutoring young authors, and try to "encourage all to write." King doesn't do that. He doesn't claim to be a master of the craft. He is not God--although some would disagree. He cannot make a miracle happen out of nothing. HE CANNOT MAKE YOU A WRITER. As I have already stated and King agrees, writers are not made out of the blue. It is a talent you need to be born with. Sure, all writers need polish and will get a lot out of writers groups, but sitting down and trying to teach someone who has never written is impossible. Give up! It won't happen if it already hasn't! A writer knows they are a writer because they actually write.

Perfect example.
My junior year of college, I took a Creative Non-fiction class. The majority of my classmates were "majors" as we liked to call it--English or creative writing affiliated. But this class was considered a humanities course so anyone could take it. We had a sprinkling of communication and business majors who could in fact write. But then there was one girl--I believe she was a Biology major--who should've dropped the course from day one. This class encompassed a lot of writing obviously, and it was about topics that were personal and needed to be told--Creative NonFiction is the truth, turned up. Every week we had a writing assignment--basically a theme that we had to cover in our writing--and once completed we had to bring copies to the class and pass them out in a small group to be peer edited.Pretty standard in a writing course. This girl was in my editing group a few times and when I say she couldn't write, she couldn't write. Not even a paragraph. There was no style, no story, no writing dynamics. Her "stories" consisted of a mish-mash of thoughts that were pointless. I remember reading them and thinking "How the hell can I critique this? I have to basically tell her how to write a paragraph." It was bad. The edits I handed back were full of the "red marks of death", and I really couldn't look at her while discussing her "writing." And if you don't believe me, one of my followers can attest to this--I remember him turning to me and saying, "Thanks for warning me about that one," after she was in his group for one session.

Obviously this girl thought because she excelled in one aspect of academics, she could succeed in everything. "A stupid writing class will be a breeze." No, not the case.Writing is actual work and not everyone can do it.

This girl had no business writing or being in that class.Harsh, yes. Truth? Yes.

King also says that most writers know they should write when they read something and think "I could've written this better." It takes being able to see flaws and knowing how they should have been corrected. He did this frequently as a child. He was a huge fan of sci-fi and horror obviously, but the majority of prints out there were seedy and not written to par. So, he'd take the stories, rewrite them and sell them to friends at school. It's actually a great writing tip and helps build skill.

Case in point:
Twilight.

Stephenie Meyer's phenomenon that set young girls flocking to stores and dreaming about vampires. It has sold millions of copies worldwide and has successfully dawned 4 (soon to be 5) blockbuster movies.

Twilight is the biggest piece of shit fiction that has graced the shelves of bookstores in recent years. I'm sorry but it's the truth and anyone who wants to argue with me about its validity will be talking to deaf ears. I truly shutter at the fact that its a New York Times BestSeller, simply because it shows the degradation of our society. Young readers couldn't see a bad book if it slapped them in the face, especially if it involves a dreamy male lead. I'll admit I have read all 4 books--which was pretty painful, especially with the 4th one. I truly tried to see the merit in it, especially since it was written by a female in a heavily male-dominated genre. But shit is shit, no matter how you dress it.

Meyers had a good story--original, no, but good. We've seen it how many times; a pair of star-crossed lovers faced with adversity as result of their love. But even comparing Twilight to Romeo and Juliet or Wuthering Heights (which Meyers does in Twilight) is a travesty. Shakespeare is probably rolling in his grave. Where Meyers fell short is her story-telling. All fiction follows a certain pattern--problem is introduced, characters go through trial and adversity, a climax of action occurs where everything comes to a head in a spectacular scene, the problem resolves, story ends. Pretty simple. Meyers started her story out fine, she built up her conflict in the normal matter and even brings the story to a climax. But just when you expect a huge altercation, the story flat lines. The reader expects something huge to happen because of how it is built up, only to turn the page and see that everything very neatly resolves itself in one sentence. She did this in each book and left me scratching my head.

And please, its pretty obvious the woman can't write a love scene. She is a Mormon after all.

If you disagree, follow the link below to see what Stephen King thinks about Ms. Stephenie Meyers.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zb72V_4N5ko&feature=results_main&playnext=1&list=PL9F56C22AEECD5E6E

It's actually hilarious to think Twi-hearts actually accuse Stephen King of being jealous of Twilight. HILARIOUS!

Back to writing now....

King also says that you should never write with the industry or a mass public response in mind. It will blurr your vision and take away from the story. Never ever write because you want to be on the Bestseller list. Honestly it probably will never happen. Write for one person--an Ideal Reader, or IR as he calls it. This IR is the one person in your life who you want to impress at all costs. You write with them in mind--jokes you write are meant to make that person laugh, mysteries are supposed to stump them.Everything you do is for their enjoyment. You write simply to see the look on their face once they have placed the manuscript down.Their opinions of your writing is the only thing that matters. For King, his IR is his wife Tabatha. She is the first person to read every story he has written and her opinion is the only one that matters. He talks about how he likes to sneak peeks at her while she is reading one of his manuscript, just to see her reaction. If she doesn't laugh or gasp at certain moments, he knows it's back to the drawing board. According to King, your spouse or someone you love is the best IR as you know an unbiased opinion is on the way.

Ideal Readers are important to all writers. I know who mine is, but I highly doubt they know....

Wrapping this up here, don't worry.

Seriously, if you want a good read pick up Stephen King's On Writing. You won't be disappointed. It has inspired me to write, once again. And to pick up a few of King's other novels.

Just not IT .

Best MOH Speech

 My older sister got married over the summer, and as tradition states, the Maid of Honor must give a speech at the reception. This honor fell on me. Naturally, being a writer, I had written the whole thing in my head 6 months prior to her big day. I will admit, there wasn't a dry eye in the hall.

            

When you grow up in a house with five women and you have a father like Bob S******, it’s no surprise that you have extremely unrealistic expectations about men. You expect the fairy tale—the complete perfection of romance and selflessness of your partner that we all avidly watched as little girls. You believe “one day my prince will come”, that he will not only be gorgeous and sweep you off your feet with only one sentence uttered, but that he can also slay any dragon with a simple swing of his sword, and for the more time appropriate, wake up at 4am during a blizzard to dig his daughter’s and wife’s 5 cars out of 2 feet of snow so they will get to work or school safely the next day—thanks for that Daddy. He is perfect in every way, and it’s only a matter of finding him. Naturally, this is the home that my big sister grew up in.

  

 Meg has had a lot of “princes” in her day—she started slow with a few school girl crushes. Joey McIntyre from New Kids on the block is the first obsession I remember. She had the sheets, a doll, a life-sized wooden cut out that hung by her bed. She watched their cartoon every Saturday morning and their cassette was on a constant rewind. Little girls grow up eventually and we started hearing more about some of the boys she went to grade school with—who I guarantee my dad still remembers their names. Then she hit her teens and she swore she finally found her prince and it was only a matter of time before he drove to Philadelphia and met her. Bridget and Lauren Michalik can probably guess who I’m talking about. She taped every appearance of his on TV. Bought every magazine he graced the cover of. Plastered her bedroom walls with his picture. Tried to get tickets for every concert in the area. She even started signing her name, “Mrs. Megan Timberlake”. I think we were all a little worried about her for a few years there because she swore to the high heavens he would be hers. And no one could convince her of anything different

As you can see this is not that wedding. And luckily for her and us, she met Bob.

  

 I wished and hoped for a long time that my big sister would find happiness and love in the real world. It’s really been my biggest hope since I was a little girl. And it finally happened.

I was away at college when I got a frantic call from Megan. It was early in the morning and I’m pretty sure she woke me up. I wanted to be angry but the first thing she said to me was “I met someone”. She started telling me about this guy named Bob Sinclair, who she had known for awhile and she described as “tall with red hair and looked like a leprechaun.” Naturally, my first thought was looking like a leprechaun is not a good thing. But then she started telling me the reason why she called. The night before she was getting ready for bed after hanging out with her friends and Bob, when her phone got a text. It was after 2 am so she was a bit confused when she read the text “is yours’ the house with the big red door.” A little freaked out she responded yes. An answer came and it said “come to the door.”  

 “So I went downstairs and opened the door,” she told me, "and it was Bob. He kissed me right there. It was like a fairy tale”. The minute she said that little phrase, I knew this was the real deal.

And I guess the rest is history! 

 I am nothing but happy and overjoyed for my big sister and welcoming Bob into our family. When I was 9 years old, I asked Santa for a baby brother—so I guess I’m just getting an early Christmas present, 16 years late. I know you will make her happy, Bob. I can tell just by the way you look at her, and laugh at her. Meg, I love you with all my heart. I am honored to have been a part of today and of the beginning of your life together. Always remember what Mommy has told us--that no matter what happens in life, no matter where we go, everything started in our house. We will be as close as we are today, 50 years from now simply because we are sisters. I wish you both a lifetime of joy and to have a marriage like the fairy tales. I wish you as many happy endings as you can stomach and a marriage like our parents. 

To Megan and Bob.

An Optimistic View on New Beginnings

So I have successfully navigated my first week in the publishing field. 5 days of editing, proofing and reading until my brain hurts. Really pretty intense to tell you the truth. I've basically had to learn a new language in a matter of days--if any of you have used AMA style on a weekly basis, or at all, seriously God bless you. I have a new found respect for doctors, nurses, anyone really in the medical field. Seriously, there is a book the size and weight of my head (it has to be over a 1000 pages long) that states all the rules, usages, common mistakes, numerical rules, citations, commonly used acronyms (etc., etc., etc) that I basically have to memorize and adhere to. Trust me,  I've editing and proof read articles before, but with this style there is a whole new way of doing it--4 pages of the 1000 list just the symbols to use in editing. Then there are words like disease modyifying antirhuematic drugs (commonly known as DMARD), treatment pathways, lipids and Bosytinid Efficacy and safety in Chronic Myeloid Luekemia ( BELA) that are now common in my vernacular.

If its not obvious, I have absolutely no fucking clue what any of that means!

It may as well be Japanese. And trust me, if some of these words are spelled wrong, I wouldn't be able to tell you. On the flip side, I'm supposed to know when these words are spelled wrong! Oh the irony! Literally, I went in for my first day, was handed a manuscript and told to "Go to Town". Well....not really. They kind of just handed me the edit sheet, told me I was coming at the worst possible time of the month, they were behind on deadline and didn't have much time to formerly train me.

Yes....a bit nerve-wracking.

 I guess most would run away screaming, but I saw it as a challenge. And I'm not one to ever back down to a challenge. I sat down at my desk with the edits and went to work. I guess I did okay since they just kept handing more to do. In reality, I felt like a chicken with my head cut off--wobbling this way and that, grasping onto the ground for dear life. Yeah, I was scared.

5 o'clock couldn't have come fast enough that first day. Had a splitting headache from all the information I had absorbed and my eyes were starting to go crossed. But, I'm not complaining. I realize with all new jobs, there's always a lot to get used to. Here's a short list I've made for myself.

My Co-Workers
I'm used to a pretty large, rambunctious, loud and hilarious team of co-workers. We laughed all day long and helped each other get through the day. Now, I am exactly 1 of 6 in the editorial department (1 of about 40 in the entire firm). I am one of 3 editors, 1 proofreader and a layout coordinator. My desk is located in what is known as "Quadrant 4". I'm not quite sure what it means, but hey I'll go along with it.

I am without a doubt the youngest working employee. My first two days, people kept asking me if I was someone's daughter, shadowing for the day. "No, no, no. I work here. Yep. I'm on payroll. I'm actually 25." There is at least a 10-year age gap between me and the other youngest person. This being said, it's definitely a different dynamic. There's laughing and joking around, sure, but it's a lot more serious. And quiet. Very quiet.

The Editorial Director, my boss, is a character to herself. She's in her late 50's, middle height and has a very strong European accent. I say European because I haven't quite placed it yet. Definitely not England or the British Isles. Could be French. Possibly Italian. Maybe Eastern European. Let's just say it's foreign, thick and hard to grasp at times. During my initial interview, I sat--as she spoke--and all I could think about was figuring out where the heck she was from. Literally had to refocus myself a few times when she asked direct questions. On my third day, she mentioned to one of the other editors that she was going "home" over the summer and started to mention where that was, but naturally the heating system turned on at the same time and I completely missed it. Damn heat! More investigation to follow--I will report back!

My other co-workers have different accents. Being of the New Yorkian breed. Which makes sense as my job is pretty close to the "Big Apple." Don't get me wrong, I have a pretty thick Philadelphia accent (or so I've been told), but its funny for me to hear it. The differing pronunciation of vowels is the most prominent. If I'm there for long term, I may just pick up a few things!

I'm still trying to feel out if my new team actually likes me. I'm not sure about one woman--I can't tell if she hates me or is just pissed because she quit smoking a few weeks ago. Really could be either! We shall see.

The Bathrooms
Our offices are located in a renovated grade-school from the 1950's. Our offices are on the second floor and we share gender-specific bathrooms with the other inhabitants of the building. As I was given my tour of the building on my first day, I was shown the bathroom and also handed a key--that I would need to get inside.

Does that sound strange to anyone? Needing a key to get into a bathroom in an office building? Feels kind of like a gas station--where you had to ask the dirty attendant inside for a key to the nastiest hole in hell because you can't hold it any longer and you'd rather not go in the woods. Except this one is pink, has fake flowers on the sink and "Call Tina for a good time" isn't etched into the stall walls.

Also kind of need to trust that everyone who uses the key, washes their hands after "doing their business." Or begs the question, "Where do you put the key?" Hopefully the other "users" are leaving the key on the sink, as I am doing, and not taking it into the stall with them.

On the topic of washing your hands; I'm still trying to un-train my memory from the past.The bathrooms at my old job had sensorized faucets.After lathering up, all you had to do was position your hands under the faucet and the sensor would trigger the water to start running. Most public bathrooms have them these days.

Well, my current employer does not.

And I have yet to remember that.

All last week I stood at the faucet, placed my hands under the faucet and waited for the water to pour. When nothing happened, I pulled my hands in and out, even banged on the faucet to make it start. Then I looked down to the water knobs and felt like a complete ass. There was not sensor! Seriously did it all week and have left the bathroom feeling like a complete fool.

Goal for next week: Think before the Rinse.

Driving
I undoubtedly agreed to a hell-of-a commute to work.It's about a 45 to 1 hour drive each way. 5 days a week.On the New Jersey Turnpike. Gas prices and tolls are going to kill me, this I realize.

For me, the drive isn't too bad. It's actually kind of nice. Great time to to clear my head and listen to music (BTW- Any good music you can suggest will be appreciated. Stating to get tired of personal music catalog).

Ok, maybe I'm idealizing the drive. It's a bitch.Especially with traffic. And New Jersey drivers are really the worst (no offense to all New Jersians). Not to say I'm the best driver in the world either--I'd probably rate myself pretty poorly and I'd get lost in a paper-bag--but I've seen a lot of dumb shit the last few days. Like cutting people off, driving 20 miles an hour on the interstate, talking on the cell-phone, or--the worst--merging into traffic without even watching for other cars. Haven't had so many close calls with accidents in my entire driving past. My brakes are working overtime!


All in all, an okay start to my new career. It's been rough and I assuredly have a long road ahead of me. I just have to stop, breathe and realize that I cannot be perfect in 1 day. This new job will take awhile to get used to and master. But I know it will be worth it. Anything is better than my last job! Just going to keep my eyes bright and my attitude shining.