Defining a Generation

I tried to stop it, this creeping feeling that I have to say something about the election, but I literally can’t avoid those words anymore. Not after last night.

As a writer, a documenter of the human condition, and a person who generally tries to operate from a place of logic, I feel that sitting back to simply watch it all unfold is, at this brief moment in time, a useless waste of my voice.

So here I am. And here you are too.

Maybe you’re here by mistake. Maybe by some miracle Google actually brought you here through a search and you have no idea what this blog is all about, who I am, how long I’ve been sharing my snarky opinion with the interwebs.

Or maybe you’re one of the people I know and love and you’re going to agree with everything I say here because we have similar views on the world and the people who inhabit this planet.

Regardless of who you are and what your political views might be, I hope you’ll stick with me through to the end and leave an informed comment if you should choose. I welcome debate. I do not tolerate hate, bullying, or meme-based “facts.”

While watching the debate last night nothing particularly mind blowing or shocking occurred. He talked, she talked, he lied, she tried not to laugh, she attempted to make points, he stalked around interrupting her at any chance he got, she tried to at least touch on some type of answer to the questions the audience members asked (sometimes), he proved he has no idea where or what Syria/Aleppo are and gave an actual answer to only one question all night (despite repeated attempts by both moderators to force his hand)– what do you respect in the other candidate.

As I listened to the words pour out of their mouths, I started doing math. Someone who is just eligible to vote today was born in 1998. Two years before Bill Clinton was voted out of the presidency.

Wow. Way to make myself feel even older.

Because the first term for, then Governor, Clinton was my first chance to vote. 1992. I was 19 years old. It feels like a freaking lifetime ago now but, still, I can remember my level of excitement at having the chance to vote in the next POTUS election.

My vote mattered! I was making a difference!

And you bet your ass I voted for Bill.

Because he was progressive. He was just a dude who thought he could unite our country under a common goal of reducing our deficit and lightening the hell up. Loosening the collar we’d tightened around ourselves to the point of a total loss of American air. He wanted to show that a President could be a human. That they could bring back fun.

And I was 19. That’s pretty much all I cared about or knew about at that age.

He seemed more like me, an average person with issues of my own, not just an old rich guy I couldn’t even understand or relate to. Not a guy who I felt fearful he could lose it one night and push “the button.”

I felt so confident that he could fix our country. Though, at 19, I had no idea what was even broken about it. I just knew he sounded really sure of himself and his eyes told us he gave a shit.

Because, and I’m being brutally honest here, I didn’t know a freaking thing about politics, how it worked, or what the hell I was doing. But I voted for him and then he won! Imagine how proud I was, that I had something to do with him being elected. I DO make a difference!

After that election I learned about red states, blue states, electoral college, crusty old politicians and how nothing actually happens unless they orchestrate it into existence. I learned my vote doesn’t matter as much as I originally thought, that, of course Clinton won my state because I lived in Massachusetts.

Fast forward all these years later to an older and (hopefully) wiser (or at least jaded enough to look at all the facts on both sides of the coin) me. I’m a bleeding heart living in a state that pours red from its very core.

I am the obvious political minority in Arizona. No matter who I vote for other than a Republican my choices are all but guaranteed to lose. There’s no hope for another candidate.

Or is there?

The AZ Republic publically denounced support for the Republican candidate (RC) and threw all their support behind the Democratic candidate (DC) for the first time in over a century.

And that was before RC’s pro-sexual assault tape was released.

But even here in our state where it’s guns for everyone, tent city for criminals, quality public education for nobody (AKA: the polar opposite of the place I grew up) even the Republicans are finally asking “what the actual fuck is wrong with that guy?????”

And with good reason. He has shamed, belittled, marginalized almost everyone on the entire planet with the exception of (hate to say it even if it’s true) rich, white people. And again, I almost hate to say it but at this critical time in our human history we need a leader who actually gives a shit about ALL people, not just the ones who can help that leader make more money or so they can say “I WIN!!!!”

All of us are so wrapped up in the he lied-she lied battle we’re missing the bigger picture.

The human race being the most important point of contention. Because, hello, without humans all that fighting over walls and emails is completely moot.

The Earth’s resources are dwindling, our food supply is being Frankenized, energy options are ignored instead of explored. While they orchestrate this glamorous meme-driven puppet show, the human race is literally imploding and everyone is so busy calling him a misogynist and her a liar, they’re too blinded to notice.

But that brings up a point.

I’d like to share a few definitions for words that have come to mind over the past 6 months or so while watching this debacle unfold because I believe being informed means turning a critical eye on all candidates.

Their pros and cons at being professional con artists.

Democracy - government by the people; a form of government in which the supreme power is vested in the people and exercised directly by them or by their elected agents under a free electoral system. <-- words to note: vested in the people.

Narcissist - a person who is overly self-involved, and often vain and selfish. <-- every politician with Presidential aspirations because you pretty much have to be one in order to have desire to “run” the free world.

Demagogue - a person, especially an orator or political leader, who gains power and popularity by arousing the emotions, passions, and prejudices of the people. <-- words to note: arousing prejudices.

Egomaniac - psychologically abnormal. <-- for more, see narcissist.

Liar - a person who tells lies. <-- so let’s be honest, everyone’s pants are on fire.

Remorse - deep and painful regret for wrongdoing; compunction. <-- saying sorry doesn’t cut it, you actually have to mean it.

Apology - a written or spoken expression of one's regret, remorse, or sorrow for having insulted, failed, injured, or wronged another. <-- deep and painful regret isn’t something a politician can afford to show otherwise they’re deemed “weak.”

Misogyny - hatred, dislike, or mistrust of women, or prejudice against women. <-- don’t try to tell me this doesn’t apply because the extensive and exhaustive ringer DC has been put through has everything to do with her vagina and sheeple being afraid to admit that’s why they don’t like her.

Fact-check - to confirm the truth of (an assertion made in speech or writing), often as part of the research or editorial process. <-- a useless job in this election because nobody cares if it’s true, just how they feel about the story they read on Facebook, because that is considered research.

Historic –I’m straying from the actual definition to remind everyone that no matter who wins, this election will be historic. One party presents the first nominated female in history. Another party presents the first nominated non-public service member/military member in history. If any of the other parties win their states it would be another historical first.

That is the most important thing to remember in all of this: no matter how uncomfortable you are with change, it’s coming no matter what so suck it up buttercup, wake up and pay attention.

When the debate wrapped up I think it’s safe to assume most people turned their attention to the Sunday Night Football-esque commentary, as spouted by the people who were there to cover the debate and report back to you their thoughts on how it all went for both candidates.

AKA: Their skewed, flawed, and human perspective of how the candidates did (based entirely on which channel you happened to watch).

But not me. Nope. I turned my attention back to the candidates in question.

Want to know what I saw?

One candidate stepped further into the circle, shook hands with the people who came to listen and ask their questions of the candidates. The other candidate made a beeline for his family and, RC didn’t attempt to shake a single hand until the people came to him. He just allowed his family to cloak him, shielding his tremendous ego from all the people looking for real answers.

Even Chelsea flipping Clinton made her way over to every single one of his kids, shook their hands and smiled at them. They stood and shook her hand then Chelsea moved on while the gorgeous reality TV stars stood statue still talking to no one else but each other. Unless someone came to them.

There were 30 or so UNDECIDED voters who were right there, accessible, and willing to listen to both of you spit your rhetoric for 2 hours. They were there to make a decision. And maybe most of them don’t know where Syria is either but they do know where RC is.

He’s up in his tower made of money and gold, looking down on the little people. And I’m not being snide when I say I truly believe that he believes the little people are everyone besides him and his family.

He proved it last night by avoiding everyone when he had a golden opportunity to turn public opinion.

Maybe he’s scared because he actually has to be a politician, something he seemed shocked to have to say about himself, but if he actually wants to win over more voters than DC (the electoral college consists of 538 people, including women, FYI), he needs to do some miraculous damage control.

Pretty tough to do when you don’t understand that the first person you should have made a beeline to talk to was the woman who asked the question about Islam-a-phobia. Talking to her, taking an interest in that one person would have been damage control on so many levels: immigration policy fanatics, Muslims, women. But he shanked it by literally turning his back on those UNDECIDED voters to talk to his kids.

At the very least go talk to Anderson Cooper or, better yet, Martha Raddatz so you can clearly demonstrate how you don’t care who got to talk more because you’re classy and a friend to all women, especially those in powerful positions.

He failed to do that and meanwhile DC worked the crowd like a pro. Admittedly she has years of political experience so that shit comes naturally to her. But the fact is RC has been a public figure (if not in public service) for decades. Talking to people shouldn’t be a big deal to someone who dubs himself as that famous.

There’s less than a month until the election. I don’t care if you’re voting for either of the major party candidates, a mid-sized party candidate, or writing in “your mom” on the ballot this year. The most important thing of all is to get yourself informed.

Study. Research. Read. Learn.

Learn about all of it. Every point of contention, every issue that matters to you as a HUMAN and vote your conscience once you have all the facts in hand. Those facts being real actual plans for what any or all of the candidates hope to try to get done while they hold the highest level of public service in the country.

The fate of our nation lies in our hands. It is high time we learned about all the issues and stopped defining ourselves in limited Democrat or Republican terms and started investing in ourselves as humans first and foremost.

Educated humans.

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In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Waiting Patiently

It’s Primary day here in Arizona. Well, actually, that isn’t entirely true. I mean it is true that voting happens today but the actual AZ primary isn’t until the end of August. Today is Preference day. But not for everybody.

Things in this fine state get even more complicated when it comes to voicing your choice depending how you registered. If you’re living here and registered democrat or republican then get on out there and make your vote count!

Registered independent? Go on ahead and stay home. There’s no room for your choice on the ballot.

Yup. That’s right. Here in Arizona the independent voters – AKA: people who haven’t yet made up their minds and want to keep all the options open since, you know, this thing doesn’t happen for another eight months – get the shaft.

Because in AZ it kind of only partially, sorta, kinda, a little bit, counts to say who you’d like to see get the nod. People who want the freedom of choice don’t get a say. Which, frankly, sorta, kinda, a little bit, stinks.

I feel for those people, in truth they’re the bulk of the entire voting system and they don’t even get a say. Well not yet anyway. But by the time those registered independents get to punch their card, tap on their screen, or whatever, it could be too late.

Their initial candidate of choice might just be out of the thing entirely. There’s a long way to go before the general election.

As someone who hasn’t always been granted an opportunity to voice their opinion, I can understand the frustration that registered independents are likely feeling today.

Four years ago, I tried to vote. My first presidential election as an Arizona resident! I was all kinds of excited when Matt and I were heading out to our voting location.

But I must have done something wrong. I thought I’d registered. After all, it’s free and really easy. All I have to do is check the little box when I renew my registration online and voila! Registered.

Apparently however, I was either an idiot or something was broken because when we showed up, waited in line and presented ID, I was told they didn’t have me on the list. No matter what I did, identification I tried to present, or way I tried to get in there to do my freaking civic duty I was turned away.

While Matt had the opportunity to check off all of his selections I sat in the car scrolling through Facebook or something. Getting jealous about all my friends who were able to get that little red, white, and blue sticker indicating they got out and did the thing we’re all supposed to do.

So this time I made sure to do things the right way. I think.

I have my voter registration card. I have my designated party affiliation and it allows me the opportunity to go and vote this month instead of waiting until August. Or whenever people who registered indie get their say. All of that is still very unclear to me.

Locations are open until this evening so Matt and I are going to wait and head on out together a little later today.

It feels good to put my pen to paper (or whatever) and make my pick. Only problem? I still don’t know who I’m voting for.

Seriously.

I don’t like to get super political over here most of the time. In fact, it’s my right as a voter to not tell anyone, even Matt, who I vote for. Which candidate is the one of choice for me.

However, since I have a vagina and a uterus you can probably surmise that I won’t be voting right. That presumption is 100% accurate. And while focusing on only one side, it still doesn’t help me narrow down from the eligible candidates left on the page.

I have strong feelings for and against both candidates who reside on the left. Some of those feelings are based on my gender and the unique challenges that come with it from pay to healthcare. Some on my feelings about legalization of cannabis. Some on education, taxes, small business, war, the food I eat and how it was grown.

Hilary and Bernie are both democrats, sure, but they couldn’t be more different if they tried. Which is the very reason I’m dreading making the choice later. If the ballot was in front of me right now, I honestly have no idea who I’d pick.

Between watching the news, reading the articles, listening to their own words in countless speeches and debates I am at a literal 50 / 50 split.

I guess I know what that means. For the next 11 hours I need to read more, listen more, watch more. Maybe even write out the pro and con list for each candidate.

But I’m a realist enough to know, in the end none of that shit will even matter. My choice will come to me in the moment. As it is with every American, my choice will be based on nothing more than my personal choice of who’s face and voice I want to experience for the next 4 years.

Or maybe not. Because making that choice and keeping it to myself is my American born right.

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Seeing the Person for the Politics

In doing all this research for real estate agent blog posts, I started noticing a trend. No matter where I focused my attention one of the top things people look for is a neighborhood full of nice people.

That’s it. Plain and simple. People don’t want to be surrounded by assholes. Shocker, I know, but it really got me thinking about what’s truly important about our neighborhoods.

Also, what makes someone “nice” as opposed to not nice?

That was a biggie for me to consider. Especially in these months leading up to a presidential election.

I mean, are you a dick because you share a differing political view and put a sign in front of your home for a candidate I don’t support? Because you want solar panels on your roof that I’ll have a view of from my back yard? Because you let your dog sit outside in the backyard and bark all day long at everything? (Okay to be clear, yes, that last one makes you an awful person, take better care of your animals for goodness sake.)

The world is made up of lots of different kinds of people and it feels sometimes like we’re more divided now than we ever were before. But why is that?

Is it because of niceness or of perceived niceness?

I have no idea what political party my neighbors are affiliated with because they don’t have signs out front. But let’s just say they were backing a candidate I loathed and displayed as much with signs and banners, that wouldn’t make me any less likely to wave and smile as I passed their house. Because that’s the literal depth of our relationship. And I like that, it’s nice.

If I started yammering in their face about why their candidate sucks so bad or why they should choose someone else, well, that would make me the dick. Frankly, I don’t know those people well enough to become an opinionated asshole trying to change their already made up mind.

I don’t hang out with my neighbors, never have and probably never will. I don’t know how they treat their spouses, children, pets (except that freaking dog, seriously), friends, family. I do know they always smile and wave. So I do the same.

Because of politics, could I change my mind about their niceness? In short, sort of, but not on purpose. If everyone in my ‘hood put signs in front of their house wouldn’t we know exactly who they are just because of some rectangular piece of cardboard displaying the name of another person?

I’ve been conditioned to believe certain things about each candidate and in turn apply all of those convenient labels to the people supporting said candidate, right? I mean, haven’t we all?

In this particular presidential election I think that’s the essential driving force behind every candidate. Yes, every candidate.

If you support Clinton you support a liar, hence you must be a liar.

If you support Kasich you clearly don’t support equal rights for women. Women hater.

Bernie? Idealistic socialist.

Cruz? Conservative Christian.

Trump? Racist, sexist, misogynist with no political experience or soul.

Because each of these messages is the thing the news media wants us to believe about each candidate. Nobody cares whether the facts are 100% true or not. All we care about is that we support X, Y, or Z and the other ones are all idiots. All wrong.

But that’s exactly the opposite of how we should look at this thing.

I know someone who supports Kasich, we had a conversation about it last weekend. This person is someone I consider to be one of the nicest people I know. Fun, loyal, supportive.

All I said in response was:

“There’s no way I could vote for that guy, I have a vagina.”

Because, in response to the politics, the things he does or doesn’t support as a matter of policy, I can firmly state that he would never be my candidate of choice.

Again, I have no clue if Kasich is a nice man or not. We don't jam on Friday nights. But I’m not about to judge someone I already know to be nice as not nice just because they support the guy and I don't.

That’s the kind of shit that got us into this name-calling firestorm to begin with.

The other night we were watching the NatGeo series Generation X and I was taken back to my youth. To a time before I even knew what politics were. Before I knew that the president could never be the sole decision maker for our country.

I have no clue how little nuggets get trapped in the brain, things we remember forever even if we rarely access the memory. Things like how to make pasta sauce, shortcuts in our hometowns after not driving those roads for decades.

Or maybe even the chorus of a super cheezy afterschool-special-esque stage show that I saw maybe once about 30 years ago (or more).

Before I knew what hit me I was singing the entire chorus to Matt, word-for-word, straight from memory. The show?

Up with People.

Did you ever see it? Did the troupe make the rounds to your school back in the late ‘80’s, early ‘90’s? They made it to Arlington and I loved it. The cast looked like extras who all jumped out of the cafeteria on Saved by the Bell with their brightly colored clothing and khaki pants.

Or maybe they were the backup dancers for The Jets.

Either way their message was all about being positive, being nice to each other. As a kid who was bullied for a lot of my youth it was super inspiring to hear adults singing their little hearts out about being kind, caring towards each other.

I felt like, maybe, once I got out of school I’d find where all those nice people were and we’d start our own little think tank of love and positivity.

Throw a fist into the air in stop-motion while smiling! Let’s dance! Woo!

All I’m saying is, sometimes, I like being idealistic. It allows me to go back to that time in my youth where I could assume everyone was nice unless they acted like a dick to me on a personal level.

But it had nothing to do with politics or party affiliation, what neighborhood you lived in or the color of your scrunchie. It had to do with being open hearted, accepting of differences, and understanding that while those differences may not be your personal choice, they were their choice and the right to choose is the very thing that should bring us together, not push us apart.

Maybe all of the candidates and their supporters need to be reminded of that moment in their youth when they believed that anything was possible.

This one’s for you guys.

“It don’t help nobody up when you put somebody down.”

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

No Longer Trapped in a Box

Until very recently I didn’t realize how special it is that I held onto just about every single journal, diary, or piece of fiction I’ve ever written. When I tell people this information I get a barrage of comments.

Mostly, those comments include words like – wow, you’re lucky, I tossed all that stuff years ago, even my parents got rid of all my early writing.

I. Would. Sooner. Die.

In no way can I imagine a life where I don’t have that enormous box full of my words. Countless hours (and money on pens) spent getting it all down. All of it. Other than digitally written stuff, my life’s work is inside that box. Anything I’ve penned since I was approximately twelve years old.

(Though I’m not entirely sure of the exact start date; I didn’t always date my work back then and I frequently write different things in multiple journals at any given time.)

Now, I know some people might think I’m using this word in the wrong way, but I’m not…

Literally my life is inside that flimsy cardboard container. At least, the written equivalent of my emotional life.

Every single crush, heartache, burst of inspiration, biting witty remark, or sarcastic feeling is somewhere inside the box, noted on countless pages of numerous journals and loose scraps of paper. Written down in blue or black ink. Edited in red pen or pencil.

I care so much about that box of words that someone once asked: if I could save 3 things from a burning building what would they be? Guess what was number one?

When I lived in my very first apartment and drove around in my 1974 Buick Apollo, that box of writing traveled with me. Everywhere. Yes, I drove around town with my life contained in the trunk of my car.

People picked on me for that behavior. Incessantly I might add.

But who gets the last laugh?

Okay, in all fairness, them. Because I’m not actually laughing, just smiling.

In fact, I’m freaking stoked to still have access to all those memories. To have prioritized that box full of words for all these years.

That I still have it in my possession at all is pretty amazing. (Seriously, it could have easily been lost in my first apartment or the twenty-two other places I’ve lived since I moved out of my mom’s place. And in all honesty, 22 isn’t an exaggerated number, in fact I could have even forgotten a few. I moved around a lot. But I digress.)

My entire history, and everywhere I’ve been, the things I’ve done (or haven’t done) live in that box.

So at some point over this past summer I started re-reading all the work I’d written. At first I wasn’t entirely sure why. And to be honest, it’s not the first time I’ve done that in my life so it didn’t occur to me to care. But something happened the last time.

All of a sudden I realized just how many viable, unfinished pieces of fiction I had written over the years. And they were just sitting in a box. Collecting dust. Acting as reminders of the past mistakes I’d made (or wished I could have made). Including the greatest mistake of all.

To leave that work unpublished for so long.

I considered just how to go about publishing work I’d written back when I was fifteen years old. I’m forty-two now. In case you’re slow at math like I am, that’s twenty-seven years’ worth of memories, stories, bits of inspiration.

These days I’m working on book 3 in my Shaw McLeary Mystery Series and I know the story. Know the character. Inside and out. So it irritates me to no end that I can’t seem to get it down on the page.

But every time I want to beat myself up for taking days off in a row instead of typing, try to convince myself that I’m “slacking off” or “lazy” about my job, I have to remind myself of the most important part of my career choice:

The process.

Writing is a process, not just a talent or a creative art. Even when I’m not working, actually physically sitting down with a laptop and typing, I’m still working. Somewhere in the back of my head, characters, scenes, situations are always forming. Dialogue between people everywhere is fodder for future work. Always.

Just, sometimes, I don’t like that part. The part where it can’t entirely be forced. I want it to come out as fast as I know it, the story in its entirety. But it doesn’t always do that. In fact, it almost never does that.

Case in point: the box of writing.

Twenty-seven years is a long time in any respect. A marriage, job, owning a home. To sit on a collection of stories.

So I finally started pulling them out of hiding, transcribing, editing. I’m going to finally put them all out there. Somewhere. I don’t know if I’ll enter contests, collect a bunch and release a short story book, give them all away for free in my newsletter like I’m doing now.

The ones that spark some new feeling, or even an old one that’s re-born, are open to re-writes, edits and release. I mean, I’ve been doing this shit forever. It’s high time to let it all out of the box.

• • • • • • • • • • • 
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Those Who Can’t Teach

So a couple days ago I scribbled a note on a teeny notepad. Side note: I love teeny notepads. If you ever want to win over a writer give them a bucket full of teeny notepads.

Anyway, on that 2-1/2” x 1-1/2” piece of paper was the list of crap I needed to buy on Amazon and just enough space to also squeeze in:

What to do if I’m one of those who can’t teach?

Because you know that saying – those who can’t do, teach.

Well, last weekend I said it out loud and my sister, a former teacher, ughed me into oblivion (yes I made the word ugh into a verb, or, more accurately she did when she made the sound that went with the eye roll).

I never thought of it implying anyone is inadequate but the opposite. That there are some people in the world who don’t just do one thing, they train many people in many things. Share their gift with the world. The gift of knowledge.

And maybe that’s why I was intent on being a teacher for a while. I wanted to impart my wisdom on the young and impressionable.

For some reason I kept thinking that’s the way I had to go, that I needed to be the one to tell people how to do stuff. Stuff I can’t seem to figure out how to do.

If you can’t do…

Thing is, I can’t teach either.

I love telling people things but I honestly couldn’t give a shit less if they learn or not. I think I mostly just like the sound of my own voice since I don’t really get to use it all that often anymore.

Which of course left me in a really weird place in my head. Because if I can’t seem to figure out how to “do” the thing and clearly nobody is showing up for me to “teach” them the thing, where the heck does that leave me?

No do, no teach, no purpose or direction.

Truth is, I’m simply exhausted. Spent. I’ve given all I had to give for the past 4 decades and I’m just about finished. Because my body is giving out, my brain can’t handle it anymore. I’m tired of spending every day, alone, cooped up in this self-made prison where I have to work on things I couldn’t give a shit about so I feel that tiny rush of excitement when I sell one book and make a whopping $2.76 next month.

This life, this career I’ve built is a god damn joke. I’m nothing more than a fraud, a shyster, trying to smile and be fucking beautiful so everyone will want to buy what I’m selling.

Even if what I’m peddling is worth nothing.

And even just typing it out makes me crazy because it’s all the same crap I’ve been vomiting into this blog for the past month. Or for the past 8 years as the case may be.

Why? Because I never fucking learn.

I obsess over the same questions all the time, never answer them, or, more accurately, glaze over the fact that they’re the wrong questions in the first place, and still I think I’m actually going to get somewhere. It’s pitiful, that’s what it is.

Maybe it’s finally time to just admit defeat. Give in and leave all of this stupid bullshit behind. Let it all go. Kill her. Kill the dream.

When she disappears nobody will be all that broken up about it because she’s been nothing but a huge drain on everything for so many years – physical, mental, financial – that within months there will be such a noticeable shift out of the current state of affairs that pretty soon all the people who were supposed to be sad about her leaving will secretly be rejoicing inside to be free of the strain. Free of the hassle. Free of her forever.

Going on to live their lives the world will continue to function. Nobody will really be sad. Nobody will miss her.

I sure as fuck won’t miss her.

Who is she?

She’s the part of me I’ve been holding onto since age 19.

The girl who believed in romance and flowers and love and life being able to work out exactly as you want it to just as long as you skip down the street singing a song about unicorns under a rainbow made of roses and just believe that the world is going to work out.

Because the reality is that nothing ever “works out”, things just end and other things begin. Life is a motherfucker. It will kick you and punch you and laugh, pointing, in your face. People who say that everything happens for a reason make me want to hurl. Because the only reason they say that is to justify crap happening.

Free tip? Crap is going to happen. The reason? Because you’re alive.

Welcome to the real world where people don’t care. Where money never stretches like it should. Where hate is so prevalent we have to make up stupid inspirational shit just to make our precious little egos think that there’s still hope.

And oh my god, fuck hope.

Because hope is an illusion. A dangling carrot if you will. The thing we all wake up in the morning and put on our socks for. The most remote of chances that something we wished for, dreamed about, worked our ass off to get might actually happen.

When’s the last time you remember that happening? Oh it might appear at first like it does – you got that new car after saving for a year, finally installed that kitchen, got pregnant, graduated, started a business – but the moment you have it you realize the very nature of the whole thing was built on nothing more than a hope and a dream.

Turns out the dream is never the reality.

Wait, what? Yeah, I know, profound right? Well sadly until about 6 months ago I sort of still believed those two concepts went hand-in-hand.

But then we all wake up to the reality when that car payment is too high, the house burns down a week later, you didn’t want a baby, now student loans are costing you every dime you have, you fail.

No matter how many health problems I give myself stressing out by working really hard, nothing ever fucking works out anyway.

At least not according to the doe-eyed imbecile I’ve been trying to pretend to be for the past couple of decades. The idiot who exudes sugary goodness and actually believes there’s a chance this will “all work out” because doesn’t everything?

The idiot moron who opened her eyes 23 years ago but pretended not to see. The girl who broke her own heart and couldn’t follow through.

So I’m shooting that sorry excuse for a person right between the eyes at point blank range.

That gullible idiot side of me is no longer as dumb as she once appeared, she’s tired of hope. Tired of platitudes. Tired of trying to convince herself that she can have everything she ever wanted.

She needs to die.

Because if I’m going to believe in anything anymore it won’t be based on hope. It won’t be based on dreams.

I’ll keep pulling the trigger until the wannabe teacher is cold, lying on a metal slab in a freezing room in the subbasement morgue.

Here lies hope, dreams, and the girl who once believed in both.

It’s time for the other side of me to rise from the dead, to ask the right questions and to finally start answering them for real.

Image courtesy Serge Bertasius Photography on freedigitalphotos.net

Insert Catchy Title Here

Yet again, I'm coming back to my old trusty friend after a freaking recoculously long break. Seriously, my last post here was in May? No wonder I'm so irritated. This used to be my therapy.

Sort of.

But now I don't even know where to begin. Maybe the start is a decent option. But if you've ever read my words on this blog then you already know how many times I've "apologized" for slacking off on writing here because I spend all day, every day, writing.

Well, I'm over it.

I'm done with following convention. The concept never sat comfortably with me before, and after trying to fit my square head into a round hole in the brick wall for the past 5 years, I'm done with the banging.

My forehead hurts.

Matt & I sat around the other night talking about my business, career, work life and how/why things are so stagnated. In the end he was right, it's time to break some fucking rules.

AKA: 

He said something that really hit home. To him, it didn’t appear that I was having as much fun with my work and writing life as I used to. That maybe I’m not doing what I “love” for a living.

At first I denied it saying, no babe, I love my job!

But I spent the whole day yesterday working on my business plan for Writesy Press, frustrated that I wasn’t doing as well as I wanted to be doing at this point in my career and it all just suddenly hit me.

I fucking hate doing the writing I’ve been doing for the past 3 years. It just isn’t me.

I mean, I want to sell my books of course but struggling for 3 days a month to come up with, essentially, 350 headlines/hashtags/clever ways to make people read my articles and then miraculously decide to spend their money on my books is a giant waste of my time.

Let me just say that I understand in today’s market there’s no way to sell without marketing. I also get that most writers would rather slit their monitor than try to sell to people.

I’m a shameless self-promoter. That’s my voice. I don’t tease you with clickbait only to under-deliver and have you click away before even thinking of buying my stuff. Though I’ve been pretending that’s me for a few years now.

Instead of

“Will Shaw get away and find love? *|URL|* #whothehellcares”

I’d much rather just rant about losing my passion for the past 3 years and say you can get my books here if you want to know what that passion is.

But for far too long now I somehow thought it was smarter to write to force advice and tips down the throats of other writers. And sure there are a lot of new writers who need help. But I finally realized yesterday that I can’t actually help any of them.

Every writer has to do it their own way. Every writer has to get over fear of releasing their words in their own time. I can’t help them find their voice either. Hell, I couldn’t hold onto my own for close to half a decade so why would they even listen to me anyway?

No matter how many times I pick up the pom-poms to try to encourage someone it just won’t matter, because I’m no cheerleader.

I tried and quit cheerleading in the same week when I was about 12 years old because I realized I just don’t have that much spirit. Cynical advice isn’t really a thing.

I’m over it. I’m over trying to encourage people to do the very thing I can’t seem to figure out how to do – sell their books with countless, useless words that fall on deaf ears. And I’m over trying to tell people the best practices for anything just so my blog gets a few extra notches in the search engines.

It feels fake, and fake makes me squirm.

If I’m going to advise anyone of anything it’s going to come out like this – in snarky little bits of random babble that eventually have some kind of meaning. Maybe. Even if it’s just to see how fucked up my life is so it will act as a warning to others.

But I can’t tell anyone what to do with their own words. That’s just tacky.

So I’m over it. And instead, I’m back over here.

And in case you wondered, here’s some other things I'm also over (that all the top marketing people would have a heart attack if they read):

- Giving a crap what platform my blog lives on. Blogger has been good to me since 2007, it's free and I understand how it works. I’m sure Wordpress is great for marketing but, see above rant for why I just don’t care about any of that.

- Caring if I'm optimized for SE-whatever. I'm not a marketing god so I just don't have time (or mental capacity) to care about any of that. If it hits Google well yippie-do. If it doesn’t then I guess nobody is going to read it outside my family anyway.

- Length and layout of my posts. Sometimes it'll be 4 words and an image. Sometimes 4,000 words and no sub-headers. If you can't handle it, don't read it. The thing is called Randomness and Lunacy for a reason.

- Posting consistently on some rigid schedule. Blech. This blog thing may have morphed over the years but they started out as online journals and I’m old so I like things the way they used to be. And I can’t guarantee that I’ll have some perfect post to share every Friday at 7:02 AM because someone once said that’s the best time for a blog to go out.

- Grammar. Yeah, I know I’m getting tossed out of the writer’s club for even admitting that one out loud but I write this blog like I talk – stream of consciousness – so sometimes my sentences will be fractured, or (much more likely) run-ons, and sometimes I’m ending a sentence in a pronoun. Anyone who cares about that can suck it.

- Being perfect. Ah yes, I saved the biggie for last but I’m sure you knew it was coming. I will curse like a sailor. I will write and blog crap just to write (case in point: you’re reading it right now). I’ll ignore family, friends, laundry, personal hygiene and eating just to get words out at times. I’ll be lost in my own head and character development at least 50% of the time you spend time with me. Okay, it’s probably closer to 98%. I will study you and your demeanor so I can use it in a book. I will be awkward all the time, way too intense and serious and say shit that makes the average person uncomfortable. You're welcome.

I won’t be everyone’s taste but I just don’t care because, like Matt reminded me of last night:

“Well-behaved woman seldom make history.” – Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
and I’m still of the belief that I’m going to do just that.

• • • • • • • • • • •
EDITOR's NOTE: As of November 2015, shit is gonna get real. I'll no longer focus on my pitifully visited blog for new writers, every freaking blogger has a blog for new writers and I'm tired of trying to muscle my way into a club where the snacks already ran out. Because, what's the point if there's no food, right? Instead, I'll be back here and focused on bringing you the most random of the inner workings of my head as well as sharing short fiction pieces in my newsletter. Sign up, read them, bookmark this site...or whatever other call to action I'm supposed to use in this situation.

I Resolve to Blah Blah Blah

Why is it that we look to the first day of a new calendar year to kick-start actually living our lives? But instead of looking forward to the promise of that new year, why do we spend hours looking back over the year we’re still living in to qualify the things we plan to do in the new year?

Resolutions are supposed to be about making changes while moving forward. Seems pretty impossible to do while facing the other way right?

It’s like we need to see what great times we had, or mistakes we made, and then we resolve to either fix or do more of that shit starting on January 1. But what’s the point right? I mean all we’re doing is looking at what we used to do; thinking about what could have been.

Not what is.

I’m guilty of doing it too. Especially this year.

But I truly think the people who “fail at resolutions” don’t really fail. They just weren’t facing the right direction.

So this upcoming year I’m facing the future, not the past.

I fully intend to take this year by the balls and make it my bitch.

Or something like that.

The definition of resolution in the case of New Year’s is “firmness of purpose or intent.”

But I’m not getting hung up in the meaning of the word, the definition as purported by millions, if not billions, of people worldwide.

Because as far as I’m concerned the calendar year isn’t really a crucial part of the plans I have, other than it being a gentle guide for the things I plan to do.

See, for me this upcoming year isn’t about resolving to do anything.

I will set goals.

Because goals challenge me. They make me try harder. They make me focus, get down to work, and then get down to celebrating when I achieve them.

And I don’t care if I achieve all of them within the tight restrictions of January 1 – December 31. I’m setting my goals and working to achieve them, so if they come to fruition this year then great! If not, that doesn’t mean I give up. It means I keep trying no matter what the date says.

As we all know goals can change mid-stream. They’re fluid, flexible and always evolving in order to get you to the best version of yourself you can dream up and go after.

New Year’s resolutions come with a built in pass/fail mechanism. You either do the thing or you don’t.

Bleh. How limiting is that?

I have four goals I want to tackle this year:

Release new books (yes, multiple).

Learn to cook (meals that aren’t boring).

Read more (books specifically).

Be more active (watching less and doing more).

Yup. That’s it.

Because if I can set out on a course to do all of those things then all the other stuff I might think about in terms of resolutions will just fall into place.

Eating healthy, exercising, getting my career on track, traveling, saving money, or anything else I could dream up that I’d love to change about myself, I’m simply striving to be a better version of me in 2015.

But I’m not going to consider the whole year a failure if I take 3 days off from writing or veg out in front of the television occasionally either.

I’ve always got the next day to get back on track. There’s no point in looking at a little misguided step as a fail. Like I said, facing backwards doesn’t help me achieve my goals.

So as my vacation comes to an end, and a brand new calendar year gets started, I’m looking forward to doing my best to achieve all the goals I’ve got laid out in front of me.

Have a safe and festive New Year everyone!

• • • • • • • • • • • STUFF & THINGS: A new window opens when you click to comment. Posts older than 3 days = automatic comment moderation. Obvious or outright spam will be deleted.

Have You Ever Just…

…wanted to scream, laugh, cry, shake, dance, yell, applaud, thank and shout all in the exact same moment?

Well if you have then you’ve got a teeny clue about what the inside of my brain has looked like for the past couple months. I used to come over here and use this space to rant as my personal form of therapy when I felt like my head might just pop off at any second.

But since this summer started my ADD and overwhelmed, overflowing, over capacity mind has been in full-steam overdrive and I couldn’t seem to reign it in enough to even rant.

“I feel like I am spinning…”

Every last word of that song just segues so perfectly into the entire point of all of this stupid bullshit that I couldn’t figure out how to stop from taking over my life. But then it all took over anyway.

This past weekend Matt, my mom & I went to see Jason Mraz perform live here in Phoenix. It was the first time I’d seen him take the stage in over four years and I was looking so forward to the show that I could hardly contain my excitement.

As I predicted, the show was amazing. I soaked in all the positivity he spewed from the stage. I let the whole vibe just wash over me like a big fuzzy blanket of awesome and I felt so great.

Then something really weird happened.

The next day we were invited to go and enjoy an afternoon with some great friends. Nothing fancy. No pressure. Just some pool time, wine, fun in the sun. And I couldn’t get my ass off the couch.

All of the blackness that had been bubbling for so long came flooding up through that blanket of awesome, coated it in sludge, and pulled me into its depths of suckage.

Quicksand inside my head that folds my good thoughts into suck-tion and no matter what I do to try to swim out, I just can’t break free.

I was in such a terrible place in my head that I couldn’t imagine spending one second with anyone. I felt insanely vulnerable. Overly self-conscious. But I know it was for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

Seriously, no reason. I look fine. I don’t have any weird health stuff going on right now (thankfully). I just couldn’t wrap my head around anyone being around me. I disconnected. I was sitting here on my sofa with my mom and Matt but I was so far away from present I wondered if I would ever get back.

My mind was racing at a billion miles a second with way too many horrible things. Stuff that doesn’t matter for shit in the grand scheme of life. But stuff that makes me feel like I’m balancing precariously on the edge of that proverbial razor blade.

But I know it’s just me. Sometimes it happens and I have no choice other than to sink into it and let it happen.

I hate it though, especially when it stops me from having a good time, but I realized this morning that I can’t feel bad about it. Because when it happens I always come out the other side of it understanding more about who I actually am. I have a greater sense of what I want, what I need in my life. And also what I don’t.

A big house. A cool car. Half an acre of underutilized land. Makeup in every shade under the rainbow. Area rugs for every room. 6 colors of the same pair of jeans.

Stuff.

So much fucking stuff.

I should really follow around one of these urban legends I’ve heard about and find out how they do it. You know the people – they only work 25 hours a week, make over $100,000 a year, have a spotless fresh smelling home, totally weed-free front yards at all times, homemade organic non-GMO meals on the table every night, and bath towels that don’t smell because there hasn’t been a moment to wash them in 3 weeks.

Yeah, I know they don’t really exist, but in this world of “everything in my life is fucking great!” internet perfection it’s easy to be convinced that they do.

And it’s just too much for me to deal with anymore.

I’m weeding down.

Starting today I’m fleshing out all the things I don’t need in my life. I don’t need a Pinterest account. I don’t need a twitter account for my old company. I don’t need email addresses of people I never communicate with. I don’t need tax files from 1999.

And I don’t need a house or yard this big.

Another thing we did over this past weekend was watch the short documentary movie Tiny: A StoryAbout Living Small and it finally hit me:

Matt and I are killing ourselves just to keep up with some perceived notion of what we should have and how we should live. And for what? So I have a place to store books I haven’t read since I was 10 years old just so I can say I have them?

I started thinking about Jason being on tour. Sure, he’s got a home base where he can house all the things that mean something sentimental or otherwise, but for months at a time he lives out of a bus, or a suitcase even, but he’s enjoying the things that matter and not needing to be surrounded by copious crap all the time just to feel fulfilled.

At least I think that’s the case. I don’t know the guy or anything but based on his own statements I believe that all to be true.

And I believe it to be the most inspiring thing I’ve ever heard.

Because, why should Matt have to work 50 hours a week, me at least 45, just to make the money to pay for all of this stuff we don’t really need? It’s a pitiful existence and causes stupid shit like this to spew out of my fingers but it doesn’t actually do anything for either of us.

All it seems to do is make me feel like crap because I have too much crap. An avalanche of stuff that doesn’t help me feel any happier.

The time has come to sit down together and figure out how to release all the things that don’t matter so we can embrace more of the stuff that does.

Laughter. Hugs. Family. Friends. Passion for my career. Music. Travel. Love.

Maybe if I do that I’ll be able to make it to the next pool party my friends invite me to. Because instead of feeling chaotic, like I’m nailed to the floor but could tornado across the world at any second, I’ll have a fighting chance for a calmer mind. 

It's time to fight for focus.

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