humor

Novels Are Tough

Well, I finally finished writing it. It’s simple now, right? All I have to do is send in the manuscript to a publishing company, say, “read my shit,” and it’ll be accomplished, right?

Riiiiighhhht?

God, talking to you guys is like talking to a brick wall. Seriously, do you need some water? Are your throats parched? Worst. Audience. Ever.

I was saying–look at that, you threw me off track. Novels are not an easy task, and I learned that the hard way, having written two in almost under a year. Young amateur like me, I thought, “boy, oh, boy, I can’t wait to get these ideas down on paper!” And it’s not a bad idea, just a lot of time to work on one book over another.

It’s like a coin flip: you have to decide which one you want to complete first, usually that is the one with more promise–the one with a story that makes you sob whenever you read a particular scene. Hard choices, I tell ya, not one of them is easier; however, it is so worth it.

Novels fulfill you in some crazy writing way, as if Buddha and Gandhi had a brain child, and it was the nirvana that comes from scrawling all those thoughts down on paper, or laptop, or tissue/napkin–hey, it happens. You put so much of yourself into the darn thing, once you’ve finished it, a piece of your heart has broken off and is left in the book forever…or, until you rewrite it, again and again and again and–

Actually, I never get it when people are always complaining about how many rewrites they have to complete. Average Joe says he has to do seven rewrites. How in the holy hell is that possible? Then Average Joe’s cousin, Simple Bob, talks about his eleven rewrites! Oh Lord, get me an oxygen mask–I’m running out of air because I’m screaming my lungs out!

I could not stand it if I had to rewrites over the number three, maybe that’s just me–and yes, it probably is just me. Please excuse my out-of-this-world perspective; it’s only a little strange, like me, in general.

But I’ll let you all get back to your reading and writing and eating and shi–whoah, let’s not go there, shall we? Getting a tad tipsy, aren’t we? Been drinking too much off the water fountain?

How about we get that book published, then you can go crazy.

Unless I already am crazy…

Think daily,

A Southpaw

High School Is Silly, Really.

I just finished my last day of high school. Well, aren’t any of you going to congratulate me? Where the hell is my cake? Or the graduation money that I specifically wrote in the invitation for each of you to bring? What a bunch of lazy bums. I can’t count on anyone, can I?

It’s funny. I started this blog before senior year, and I am still writing on it after senior year has ended; although–I am sure–there are some of you out there who wish I would have stopped this blog a while ago. Been a lot of changes to it since June, not all of them the best decisions I’ve made for this blog, but, you gotta give a guy props, right?

See, when I was sitting in my math class today, with the last high school final I will ever have to take, I thought about how silly high school is, and how when you get out into the real world, it is an insignificant part of your life. I know, it seems like four years would be memorable until you’re fifty, but, considering I’m getting up in my age at eighteen, I have a seasoned view of the world.

You look at the social class system in any high school, and you realize it could not have happened any other way. Put a bunch of hormonally charged teenagers under one roof, with authority figures they disrespect, making no one special-er than the other person, what else is gonna happen? They’re going to form cliques to make sense of the craziness of their school work, like those five page math homework assignments, or an essay due by Friday, assigned on Thursday.

People make it seem so damned important, when, honestly, it’s like being King of Shit Mountain. Sure, you have your toilet paper rolls, but none of that is going to wipe off the stuff on your shoes–it’s permanent, dude. And you stay up there long enough, the fumes’ll get to ya. Trust me, I–actually, I don’t know. I try to steer clear of the likes of Shit Mountain and Piss Lake, since, you know, they’re bad for my hygiene.

Anyways, on to college and a whole bunch of new experiences and yay-college-is-so-fun!

Geez, I hope college isn’t just a revamped high school…yikes.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Life Will Slip By

Spoiler alert, in case you didn’t know: my mom and I share the same birthday. Yep, it was a little present from me to be born on the happiest day of her life–although, she berates me for it a lot of the time. What can I say? I’m a surprise wherever I end up, at least, that’s what people tell me.

People don’t actually tell me that. I just told a white lie.

Ahem. I turned eighteen yesterday. Lotsa fun. Happy times. Got a cake. And a car.

Let me rephrase that–I got the license plate and the keys for the car my dad and I have been building since last summer. There, now that sounds better, doesn’t it? It’s a 64 Chevy Nova, you know, just a pretty friggin awesome vehicle for driving around while wearing sunglasses and blasting Mozart–whoah, big mistake, I meant rock and roll.

I realized something while I was celebrating, while I walked five miles all by my lonesome and contemplated–well, things. Age is not a determinant of who you are, or who you will become, it’s a milestone, a telling of how far you’ve come. You can be six years old and be a total jack ass–and, speaking of which, that’s probably true in most cases. On the other half, you could be sixty years old and never have accomplished your life’s dream. Sad, yes, but sadly also true.

I am at the age where folks look at you as an adult, or, a guy who knows how to plunge a toilet. I have responsibilities now, massive ones, that, granted, can be spread out over time. And what I’ve heard the most?

Life is going to slip by you in a snap.

A frightening thought for a man on the edge of his adult life.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, I don’t believe most of that advice. I see life as happening fast, sure; but I feel I’ll make the most of it. Really, it’s the best you can do with how much time is given. Make the most of it. If not…then maybe those words speak some truth.

I don’t know. I’m only eighteen, haven’t experienced much yet.

All I can hope for is that it’ll be fun.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

A Hundred Posts Already?

Wow.

Seriously, wow.

Words cannot express–

Actually, I shouldn’t ruin this moment by talking. Deep breath. There we go.

Well, it–it has been a ride, has it not? We’ve been through, what, eleven months now, and we are almost at the year anniversary. I won’t get too sobby, since I have a lot more to say on the year anniversary, but, I will say, I am so surprised.

I never thought this blog would pick up, become an actual facet of my life. When I first started, I was telling myself that a blog was a stupid way to spend my time–that it was taking away from my novel; however, as time went on, it weaved itself into something unexpected.

I do not believe I would have discovered my voice as fast, had it not been for Thoughts of A Southpaw, one of the things I look forward to most every Monday and Thursday. It has been a wild ride, I gotta tell ya. I’ve done things with all these words I never would have thought possible.

As I sit here at my laptop, hearing the rain patter against the basement window, I feel excited. Why, you ask. To be honest, I cannot wait until we reach 200, even 500 posts, not because it’s a big number, but because words can change people: it can affect them in ways invisible to the naked eye.

If people read these posts and laugh, or smile–or feel as if a connection sprang up spontaneously between them and this blog, then we have done those people, and the world, a great service, and there is little else we can do than smile along with them.

I would raise a beer, but I am not yet of the drinking age, so a Powerade will have to do.

Here’s to the future, and all the good it may bring us.

And here is to you guys, you who spend the time reading these posts and spreading their messages–even if those messages are angsty teenage emotions–and you who have stuck with Thoughts of A Southpaw through the splendid number of, say it with me, 100 posts.

That is incredible.

Thank you all so much.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

This Time I Confused C.J Box

A week ago–don’t ask me why I didn’t inform you guys earlier–I met a writer named C.J Box, an interesting dude. Have no idea if any of you have heard of Mr. Box, let alone read his books. Honestly, until then, I had not read one either, so…joke’s on me. Ha ha. Funny.

I was invited to an award luncheon by my local library. The primary reason: I got third place in a mystery story contest. Fun stuff. Anyway, got there, met some folks–isn’t that awkward table talk just the best?–and ate a tasty salad, a tasty chicken, with tasty potatoes and green beans; and, oh, don’t let me forget the delicious chocolate something that looked like a cake, yet tasted like a fondue. I got full pretty fast–but, I am a runner, so…

The luncheon was created around two artists receiving awards, one of those being C.J Box, and the other a kind, local artist by the name of Charles Rockey, who is also a spectacular person, and I love his views on what art should be. It was a meeting of the minds, in other words.

So, get this, I show up to the thing, thinking, “okay, not the only teenager here–won’t be that awkward;” and, lo and behold, there is nothing but a mass of middle-aged men and women putting their fancy fur coats on the coat rack and fawning over the stack of C.J Box books. Then there’s me, a bearded teen in an enormous leather jacket, with a book in one pocket, and two bouncy balls in the other. I smiled at people. Those same people smiled back–some rolled their eyes after smiling, but that’s not the point.

For the most part, I stood around, humming to myself, until the doors opened and we were allowed to go take our seats in the ballroom. A bunch of kids and a few adults sat beside me, and we talked. Thankfully, the awkwardness died out around minute fifteen of companionship. All of the kids were writers who had placed in the contest, but I cannot tell you how the adults got there. I never did ask.

Rockey ended up being sick, unable to show himself, but he made sure a two dimensional bust of himself was present. His daughter shared his words, and they were quite touching; for, to have that feeling of sensing great artistry is hard to come across sometimes. By the way, his book of drawings and stories–a work of fifteen years–was selling for 250 dollars.

Us writers had a chance to talk to C.J Box before he spoke his piece, so, me being me, I went up ready to ask him a question. After we took a picture, he shook my hand and said, “Now, did you have something you wanted to ask me?”

I said, “Are you a plotter or a pantser?”

He squinted a moment, opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it, and said, “A plotter or a what?”

For those of you unfamiliar with the term, a pantser is someone who uses no plans to write stories, but goes with the flow, as they like to politely say. I have confessed to being one myself, since I hate planning out stories.

He told me he outlined every aspect of his story; and, inside, I was wondering how someone could pull that off without getting bored of the story. I spend around four to five months on a novel, and that is without planning. How on Earth can a person plan as long as it takes to plan, then actually write the thing down, and add in a few rewrites afterwards?

Now, I know some of you are shaking your heads at my close-mindedness, but you gotta remember that I’m a teenager, and it is hard to come by these things adults call brains sometimes. I mean, do we have to get a surgeon in here? Feeling empty!

Mr. Box had some great advice in his talk, so I told him after the luncheon had ended and he was signing my book at his tiny table. I think I was the second to last person in the line. See, I had been smart and waited for all the other guests to get their books signed in the beginning–how’s that teenage brain working now, huh? He said the expected good luck and all that jazz, but he had one more tidbit I thought was hilarious.

Want to know it? Do you really?

Get ready for 25 years of hell.

And I thought, “Buddy, I’m already going through it.”

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Fever Dreams

You know, it friggin sucks when you’re sick. As a matter of fact, that is why this post is a day late–I know, I know, the angry mobs are going to start busting down my door here in a minute. Just want to tell those fellas to hold on, and for them to let me get my bearings. I am, after all, ill, so…don’t expect lightning fast reflexes.

The coughing I can deal with, no big problem there–even if it feels like my lungs are exploding every thousand coughs. But, here’s a light of hope: it only hurts when I laugh. Ha ha ha…ooh, boy, that joke kinda died out quick, didn’t it?

It is the fever, this damn mind scrambler, that has me foaming at the mouth. I try to sleep today and, guess what, I have the weirdest dreams. One of them was about a dragon, at least I think so. It’s hard to tell when I’m slipping in and out of a dream state during the three minutes it takes me to fall asleep, which, as well, sort of has its perks.

I want it to break; however, I know the minute it does, those dreams are only going to get stranger, and I am probably going to wake up screaming, or in a cold sweat–oh, great, that means the fever’s breaking!

For now I sit and drink water and read books, going through this especially creepy horror novel right now. Not in the mood to eat. Not in the mood to move–to speak. Now it sounds like I’m bitching, so better cut this short before the mob really does crash in on me for whining about a fever and some seriously weirdo dreams.

Ah, life is too short for puny sicknesses, do you all agree? That’s my axiom. Anyhow, hope none of you are complete sickos right now–but, if you are, may I recommend a quick and costless cure?

Laugh a little bit. Even if it sets you on a coughing fit.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Constant Motion: The Story of My Life

In a world of seemingly perpetual motion, I am always trying to stay on the track.

Every day I treat differently–no, it’s not as if I give the weekdays pet names, like Wedny or Sundah. What I mean is I come into each day with a goal–I am going to do this, or I am going to do that; and during all those seconds and minutes and hours I push to accomplish that goal.

Sure it sounds typical to most of you. We are, as the human race, a pretty determined people. And kudos to all of you who feel they relate to this post. I’d give you cookies, but I forgot to bake them–or did I eat them?

Now, I hope there is still a large amount of relation between us when I say, “I cannot binge watch.” Seriously, I don’t think it’s in my genetic code. Gasps! Screams! Spilled ice cream cones! See, whenever I sit down to watch a TV show, I try limiting myself to around two episodes, tops; anything more is pushing it.

I would love to watch six episodes in a row, however–

My mind won’t let me.

It sees that I am reaching my two episode limit, then jerks up the alarm. Bwah Bwah, it goes out my ears, Bwah Bwah YOU’RE NOT MOVING! ARE YOUR LEGS BROKEN? HAVE YOU FALLEN AND YOU CANNOT GET UP?

“Nah,” I respond, “I just wanted to enjoy myself for a bit.”

Mr. Mind does not agree. So what Mr. Mind does is snap on a little guilt machine, making me feel ashamed for wanting to devour so much TV; unfortunately, it works, and I turn off the TV and curse myself for wasting so much precious time–even though I usually have around six hours left of daylight.

I get to work. It’s the only thing I can do. Doesn’t matter what I’m engaged in, so long as it is not watching the TV, or napping on the bed, or eating crap tons of food for no sane reason, save to kill a few minutes. This makes me both irritated and grateful. Irritated, because I would like to binge some times and laze around; and grateful, because it shows I have limits, even when those limits are, at times, overbearing.

Call it Constant Motion, The Story of My Life.

There are some occasions, where I win the battle and watch my two episodes without a guilt trip, but Mr. Mind does not get paid the big bucks for nothing. He saddles up and lassos that guilt complex hours after I have had my fun. For God’s sake, he’s like the Terminator: you kill him, feel like a bad ass, and he comes roaring back in the sequels, with a deeper accent and a hell of a lot more wrinkles.

Hasta la vista, ba–oh, shit, how’d he get behind me so fast?

Sorry, Arnold, just as my mind is always moving, so is my mouth.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

A Nightmare On College Street

It’s beginning to sink in…

You see, college is just around the corner, and I feel unprepared. It’s not as if I’m not ready, which I am; c’mon people, gimme a break! But it is scary to consider there will be no more guiding leash. Only yesterday, my mom was telling me I had to get a full-time job this summer. Geez Louise, Mom, I’m eighteen, it’s not like I can be a functioning member of society!

Eight hour work shift, my ass. I’ll go the full nine yards–yep, that’s me, being the overachiever. Get busy at a restaurant washing dishes, or pile horse crap onto a trailer at some farming store. Sure. And how much am I getting paid again?

College’ll be fun, of that I have little doubt. I’m studying for a teaching degree, gonna educate these high schoolers about the beeuty of grammar–oops, spelling error. I look forward to attaining my degree and becoming a teacher, which will be my safety net while I write stories and send them off to publishers. I’ll teach stuff. I’ll say stuff. I’ll write stuff on a whiteboard. Man, it sounds like the best job in the world, don’t it? Add on top of that a shitload of coffee and–well, you know what comes after you drink a lot of coffee.

Dorms don’t seem my cup of tea. I have heard plenty of horror stories about roommates and their different variations. It’s like someone puts together a Build-Me-Frankenstein doll kit and sticks all these body parts and brains on bare bodies. Yuck, gross image, right? Might have to go wash out the old noggin after that one.

But I digress–God, I hate when people say that–college is not all it is cracked up to be. No…it’s much more terrifying, a real fright for the kiddies. When people leave college, they always say…”I had to ask where the bathroom was on the first day” and, even scarier, “The kid in the desk next to me drooled on my notes.” The horror! Oh, what a monstrosity!

And on top of all that,

I have to pay for it!

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Prom and Punch

What is the number one stress of high schoolers all across America?

Finals!

Wrong!

I’m talking about prom, people! The biggest dance of your teenage life prom? The one where the guy asks the girl, and then–it–well, it goes on as normal from there. Anyway, it’s coming up for a lot of folks, which is exciting!

Don’t know if I’m going or not. I did the whole asking thing, but it didn’t turn out in my favor; go figure, huh? Might as well go stag and freak out a shitload of people with my dancing skills.

Woah, check this cat out!

Is he doing the worm? No, it looks like the anteater!

Dude, didn’t the anteater go out of style three years ago?

Yeah, man, this cat is kicking at a dry litter box; let’s beat it.

Totally.

Excellent.

Excuse Bill and Ted there, they sometimes pop up. But I don’t see Keanu Reeves much anymore; rumor is he finally found the sweet spot of Hollywood and is chomping on feature film candy as we speak.

If I do go to prom, I’ll likely stand in the back and drink punch like a creep. Girls’ll walk up to me, and I’ll say, “Hey…you think the punch is good, or what?” I will name it a victory if they don’t dump their punch in my face–oh, not the shirt, please not the shirt!

It’ll be nice. It’ll be real nice.

And you know? That’s exactly what the farmer said to Old Yeller before he shot him.

Actually, I haven’t watched it in a while, so what do I know? Guess I have plans now.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

Meet My Cousin: William Shakespeare

OMG! William Shakespeare and I have the same first name–what magic is this? Does that mean we have the same haircut, same beard, same way we put toilet paper on the bathroom roll? Ahhh! I have to reach out to him–have to tell him that we’re practically brothers–

What’s that?

Word has…it has just come in. I apologize, folks; but William Shakespeare is…dead. If you’ll excuse me, I–I have to go shed a few tears and waste three dozen boxes of Kleenex. I’ll be back with a carton of Rocky Road and a plush teddy bear holding a heart.

[Ten hours later]

Well. I have come to the realization that perhaps William Shakespeare and I were not brothers. We were; in fact, cousins from my quadruple ten thousandth–don’t know if that’s a real number–aunt, who was one billion times removed from his great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather.

I don’t want to think about how much time we lost in connecting with each other.

Oh, the possible memories I could be having right now:

Me and Shakes–that’s his pet name–reenacting the death soliloquy from Hamlet.
Me and Shakes laughing at the absurd actors who joined his plays.
Me and Shakes petting chickens who ran amuck in old England.
Me and Shakes watching Breaking Bad, which is Macbeth as a TV show.
Me and Shakes tasting all of those tasty shakes at Sonic–then me making fun of him.

Shakespeare, the fun we could have had! Why did you have to leave so early, why; even when you knew I was going to be born in the next ninety hundred something years? I would have acted out all of your plays for you–if only you had stayed alive!

It’s happening again. A breakdown. Everyone leave me in peace, or you will see tears flow as you have never seen them flow before.

Goodbye, cruel Kleenex box with your tissues that scratch the bottom of my nostrils.

Goodbye, plush Shakespeare doll sitting in my closet because it’s where you can find the most artistic inspiration.

Goodbye, all who laughed at me for proposing we had the same name, and who now continue to laugh because I am referring to you in bold text and italics, meaning I am extremely upset and wish you to go away and find solace in a tattered copy of a Shakespearean play.

Goodbye, farewell, adieu, adieu–

But, one more thing before I bust into the Sound Of Music. It’s a question I’ve been contemplating for some time–it is quite the bother, and it goes like so:

To be or not to be.

That is the question.

Think daily,

A Southpaw