Everyone Should Be A Writer

I love to write, almost as much as I love breathing, but I don’t like to describe myself as a writer, because I think everyone either is a writer or should be. Everyone should compose something, even a little thing only for their family and friends. So why don’t most people bother? What makes those who write, even if they are not published, stand out from the rest, in the fact that they do something? What makes a writer?

Three things make someone choose this creative outlet. They are all important, but the first one is the greatest:

They believe that they can.

They want to.

They make the time.

Most people “don’t want to” or can't find the time because they don’t feel they have something worthwhile to say. They don’t think the world would be interested. But they don’t have to please the world: for every creative product, there is a market. Find your niche, don’t try take on everyone.

What I have noticed is that there are published books that I think are poorly written, but are popular or are bestsellers. I’m sure there’s someone out there who absolutely hates what I put out (or would if I were actually that famous!), and someone else who absolutely loves it.

I see inspiration everywhere. My Papa could write about the time he spends reading the Bible and how that makes him feel, or his perspective on religion or life as a senior of an older, southern generation, or the philosophical aspects of baseball—and he is retired and watches TV all day! He has more interests than he thinks: Baseball, bluegrass, Dolly Parton, his family and what they mean to him. Somebody should tap into the market he belongs in. Why not him?

My cousin could write about the challenges of being married with two children at twenty. My Mom-Mom could write one of those romantic stories she loves. My mother could publish a book on life-coaching or her theories for a happy marriage. My Grandma could post something on websites about recycling or the environment, my Grandpa could send an article to a running magazine. My dad could talk about his favorite knives and guns, his boss about working as a bouncer in a Swedish brothel or meeting Timothy Leary at a love-in.

Or any one of these people could use their imagination and make something up. People love fiction.

But why is it so very hard to convert these people? They have plenty to say, they could find the time if they wanted to, and there is always a market. And now it’s easier than ever to have a blog and self-publish, and it’s free or cheap! (Hell, they even let someone like me do these things! You don’t even have to be competent, and I’m living proof!) So why not?

Because either:

They don’t think they can.

They don’t want to.

They don’t have the time.

But I have found that often the last two reasons are really only excuses for the first.

You make time for what is most important to you, often what you do for others. Many people seem unable to do anything just for themselves, out of guilt or a feeling of unworthiness. I am “selfish” sometimes, because of my favorite creative outlet. But it’s harder to be selfish if you are out of practice.

Of course, I realize that not everyone wants the kind of life I aspire to. I have “written” my own story lines since before I was literate. I would peg the age at about six years old. For many years, I didn’t sleep, I just lay there and thought of the newest exploits of my favorite Disney characters or superherpes (sorry, I meant to say superheroes!). I still do that, only now I’m older and supposed to be more mature. I pretend that I am.

And I’m not judging any of the others as having low self-esteem (well, not everyone). But I want them to be winners with me, when I become one. Why settle for mediocrity?

Find what your interests are, make a list, then narrow it down to your passions. Or, think of a character and build a story around them, maybe based on someone you know who is funny, quirky or annoying. And remember, there is always a market. So find yours.

I Want To Feel The Sunshine On My Nipples!

“Why is Wonder Woman so happy?” I wondered the other day, while trying to stalk her on the internet. “She’s such a feminist.”

Yes, we’ve all heard about the stereotype of the bitter feminist that hates men, and I know some men who can get very upset about it (as if they were forced to date these women, or they were the only ones available). But really, even with all the backwards practices in the world, I think the answer to our problems is not in hating men, but in loving ourselves.

Most feminist theory is just a cop-out against being happy. Yes, I said it. “I can’t have a good life because I’m a woman.” Men don’t have that excuse. They must be short, bald, fat or old instead. But really, even in the dark ages of history (his-story, that’s the root of the word!), there have been women who have had good lives, who have managed to be successful and happy. So why not now, even with all the unfair stuff that goes on?

I am not against feminism. How can I be, if I benefit so much from it? I don’t think women should submit to their husbands or stay home, unless they want to. But why are all these smart, aware women so miserable?

We all have excuses that “prevent” us from having the life we want. We are all handicapped in our own minds. Being a woman shouldn’t be one of them.

I guess what we should really be asking ourselves is “What are my excuses?” Instead of being resentful of nature or of men, our fellow humans (or huwomans), ask, “What are my obstacles really? How can I overcome them?” You will probably find that most obstacles are the ones you set up for yourself. They’re in your own mind, not in the outside circumstances.

What I like to do is think of in what ways I feel slighted personally, not what happened two hundred years ago or what happens in Arab countries. I feel oppressed when a man takes off his shirt and I can’t. Why are my breasts always made sexual, when their function in life is to nourish children? I want to feel the sun on my nipples!

Infantile men make breasts into sexual objects, toys, and women go along with it. If some men can’t handle bare breasts without lust, how is that my fault? Why should I take responsibility for someone else’s faults? “He couldn’t help but rape me, officer, I was wearing a tank top.”

That is the only thing that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, consistently, the male privilege of my father and brother walking around outside or in the house with no shirt.

The important thing, the one thing that will eventually change our circumstances, is voicing the problem aloud. We must complain if anything is to be done—the squeaky wheel getting the grease again. The women’s rights movement began when women started talking to each other about what they thought was injustice. Do you think men thought women wanted to vote, before they said something? Find out what bothers you personally, what you feel is unfair about your outside circumstances, and say something. Voice your concern to other women and especially to men. And remember that happiness is often created from the inside, rather than from how you are treated on the outside.

So, in summary:

1) Create your own happiness—don’t use feminism as an excuse.

2) Find out what bothers you personally, what affects your life, not others’ lives.

3) Speak up about it—but don’t harp on it.

Note to men: A lot of men have oppressed and hurt women, both in the past and foreign countries, and right here in our personal lives. Please understand that it is hard not to think that all men are like this, if this has been our experience.

In one of my short stories, which will be published on Amazon soon (I promise a link), a jester decides that he hates all knights, even as the knight he humiliates thinks that even though other knights have picked on him, he has not. It’s not exactly the jester’s fault; they are both victims, in this case. Please keep that in mind if you are not a chauvinist. Perhaps you will be lucky enough to change a few minds.

Ingredients For A Conversion: Four Emotions Every Christian Experiences And Thrives On

According to my latest theory, based on my own religious background, Christians only experience four basic emotions, which they sadly mistake for their spiritual states. Two of them alternate in cycles; one is a supplement to those two, and the fourth is a tragic side effect of the other three. These are only emotions; the “reasons” given can vary widely, depending on circumstances and individuals.

Please note: This has been my experience of Christianity. It may not be yours, but I’m betting it is. I hope I don’t seem disrespectful in this post.

Despair: This manifests itself as anything from “How can God ever forgive me?” to “I’m no good at being a Christian.” It can also be “How can I ever make this marriage work?” or “Why can’t I stop thinking sexual thoughts?”

No matter what the issue is, low self-esteem is the result.

Euphoria: This is an emotional high caused by a stirring worship service, or an intense prayer session, or really anything that makes you feel “close to God.”

It is not God’s presence, it’s just your emotions, and often it’s false or fleeting. This does not mean God approves of you, that you are in the presence of God, or anything else. It’s just an emotion.

Sadly, most Christian activity is just a pursuit of this high, or a way to convince oneself that you are a good Christian and a good person.

You may have noticed that the typical salvation experience involves both of these two emotions. In fact, the incentive for salvation used by the church is an artificially induced dosage of despair. First, show them how sinful they are. Then, thank God, there is a way to be saved. Most Christians go through an endless cycle of despair-euphoria-despair, all of their Christian lives. How many times have I been saved? About a hundred, maybe. When the euphoria is gone, they worry about their salvation, and the process is repeated. Perhaps it didn’t “stick” last time.

I am not saying Christianity is a false religion. But it helps to know the tactics used within the church.

Suspicion: This is often referred to as “discernment” or “guidance of the Holy Spirit.” This suspicion can apply to other Christians, nonbelievers, churches, movements, pastors, or even physical objects. Other Christians are not truly saved and are used unwittingly by the devil; inanimate objects are demonic or are idols. That pastor is living with hidden sin (the Holy Spirit told me!); unbelievers are spiritually blinded; that church movement believes non-biblical things; why did she do or say that, if she’s supposed to be a Christian?

Too much suspicion can turn people into judgmental, self-righteous hypocrites. It’s not fun being around them.

Suspicion can also apply to having too many rules for one’s conduct. You can’t joke about sex—“I don’t find that funny!” You get other people in trouble for what they say or do, because they have to know you don’t approve. Nothing about God or Christianity is funny.

Tiredness: Finally, the tragic result of all that suspicion, euphoria and despair. You get tired of always seeking euphoria, “God’s presence,” spiritual highs. It’s all too much.

A few years ago I “cracked.” After pushing all my life, I just got too tired to push any more. I stopped reading my bible; I don’t pray anymore. Neither of these things feel natural to me, or ever have. Churches do not feel like welcoming places anymore. I don’t belong there. And I’m generally happier, now that I’ve stopped trying so hard.

No one can say I didn’t try, really hard. And I know many, many people who are only a few setbacks away from cracking like me. The other three emotions keep one from cracking. I have experienced all of them, but no more.

Are you suspicious of me? Perhaps you are tempted to be offended or be sad or write me off as lost. Are you afraid you will be like me, someday? Does the pressure to be a good Christian seem too much? You’re not alone.

Perhaps the bit on suspicion has got you feeling “convicted,” or guilty about a sin. Prepare for another despair session. Please don’t be too hard on yourself.

Believe me, I have been where you are. My heart was truly sincere; I really wanted to please God. But now…I’m just so tired.

Deathbed Classroom

“What if you die and find out it’s not true?” someone asked our fourth-grade teacher, in the Christian school. “What if God’s not real?”

It was an unspoken question that Christian children whispered to each other when adults weren’t around. And it was always on our minds, at least a lot of the time. But mostly it was forbidden to mention it, bad to ever doubt that God, whom we could not see or hear, existed. Worse still to wonder if another religion was the truth and we were going to hell according to its standards.

We had just finished a very philosophical discussion about heaven, hell, animals, and other related matters. But I was very surprised by the flippant, dismissive remark that followed this inquiry.

“So what? You’ve lived a good life,” the teacher, Mrs. Bitter (not her real name, but close, and descriptive) fired off. And with that, the discussion was over. We were back to being children/cattle again. Our opinions weren’t respected anymore.

There seemed to be some sense of letdown settle over us. I noticed this in myself, and thought I saw it in my classmates too. That was it? That was the best answer she could give us? Somehow that remark, and the fact that she thought she had the answer, rubbed me the wrong way. It rubbed me so hard, in fact, that I’ve remembered that rug-burn ever sense. Maybe we did live good lives, but that wasn’t enough.

We knew even then what we were missing. No one had to tell us that life would be easier if we weren’t believers, if we didn’t have to worry about whether whatever we did or chose was a sin or pleased God. Those were my exact thoughts, actually: “My life would be so much easier if I wasn’t a Christian.”

So now I’m on my deathbed, but somehow I’m still in fourth grade too. All around me, my classmates are old and weak and on their deathbeds too. And Mrs. Bitch is still there! She’s still reminding us that we all lived good lives, making us feel guilty for ever questioning the afterlife.

So I’m two hundred years old (I can dream, right? This is fantasy, remember?) and I’m looking back on a long life spent serving God and trying to please Jesus. Was it happy? All these things I did, all my effort, all my abstinence (not just from sex, from anything that could be an “idol”), was it worth it?

Perhaps I had become a missionary and lived among strange people without any comforts, missing my parents terribly and wondering why I had made this mistake. But I couldn’t go back to the States, because there wasn’t enough money, and the other missionaries would hate me, and God would be so disappointed.

Maybe I had gotten married, tried to be a good submissive wife, wore skirts but no jewelry or makeup, and had five kids because some preacher said that birth control wasn’t letting God give you as many kids as you could handle. I gritted my teeth and obeyed some man against my better judgment, even when the welfare of my children was at stake. I resented all the babies that kept me from writing and pursuing my goals.

Maybe I never published anything, because I was afraid God didn’t want me to. Maybe I decided I would only write “for the glory of God,” and wasted my time with Christian novellas that always ended one way: the character gets saved. Or gets saved and falls in love. Never any sex, never any creativity. I would be miserable with so narrow a margin. It always seemed a little forced anyway.

And then I had given ten percent of my money away in “tithes” that I didn’t want to give up. I had spent my life pleasing and serving others, with no time for myself. I had not enjoyed music, art or reading that wasn’t Christian or bland. I had not bought things for myself, stuff that I enjoyed. I had given away things I loved, thinking that God would approve. I had wrestled even with my own thoughts, had thought of my “flesh” as evil, had not allowed myself to enjoy anything too much.

(There may be some denominations out there that promote a different, less strict brand of Christianity that I’m unaware of, but this was what was taught to me when I was younger.)

I relate my life story, and so do a lot of my peers. We listen in our beds as most tell a version of the same tale. A few are gone, maybe—they left the church and never looked back. We pray for their souls and lament that they are lost. And all the while, at the back of our minds, a small, tiny voice asks the question: “Wouldn’t it have been easier…wouldn’t it have been better…what if…”

But we dismiss it, knowing that that voice is the devil trying to make us walk away from God. We don’t trust that voice, even though it’s a part of ourselves.

“Ahem!” Mrs. Bitter finally clears her throat. “All eyes up here! I have an announcement to make. Class is over; you’re all dismissed.”

“But what about Heaven?” Austin, the kid who lies next to me, pipes up. “Don’t we get to go to heaven?”

“No; heaven’s cancelled. God never existed all along, it turns out. But don’t worry, you’ve all lived good lives.”

The disappointment is palpable. So much waste! I could be in a bar with the lost kids, I think. I could be having a good time until the very end. But now it’s too late. I was tricked. My one life, and I was tricked into giving it away.

“But I didn’t live a full life!” I whine. “I didn’t really live!”

My last thought as the darkness encroaches upon me, as I get sleepier, right before I cease existing forever, is, “I hope I get reincarnated.”

Listen To The Voices

I was “writing,” the other day, and I tried to make a play on the cards but it wasn’t allowed.

“Damn!” I thought. “Damn, damn, damn!”

“It’s not damned,” one of the voices told me cheerfully. “It’s only a game.”

“Why, you’re right!” I exclaimed. “It is only a game—I’m so happy. Thank you!”

I was very welcome. What a gracious voice I had—how wonderful that she was looking out for me. I hope that voice comes by to visit again soon. All my other ones are just so negative. This one makes me happy.

I think we all hear voices, if we listen. Most people pretend to be deaf, and they think you’re demented if you open up your ears and allow yourself to hear them. This one was telling me not to cuss so much. Cussing is negative; I should try to be positive.

The greatest problem I have had in my life is fear. The form has changed as I’ve grown older, but it’s still there, usually when I think I ought to do something but don’t want to. My fear made me fail my driving license test four times, and prevents me from taking a fifth test. But then, I don’t like to drive. Funny, isn’t it?

The other night I was lying in bed, trying to go to sleep in spite of the horrible knot in the pit of my stomach. I would not sleep well, I knew it, and I would likely cry myself to sleep. I tried to think of the feelings techniques I read in self-help books, so I asked my fear how long it planned on staying. I didn’t expect a response, it was more of a joke. But surprisingly it came, right away and instinctual. It was so clear. “Until you’re safe,” it said.

Instantly I was overcome with gratitude. My fear wasn’t the enemy! It was looking out for me! All these years I thought it had hated me, and I blamed it for making me miss out on everything, for making me uncomfortable when I shouldn’t have been.

But what had this voice, this fear, been trying to tell me all along? Perhaps it had saved me from situations I wasn’t equipped to handle yet, or that weren’t in my best interest. For years I had fought it, doing hundreds of things I didn’t want to do, with people that made me uncomfortable, all in the name of family. And I hated myself for being afraid. But I wasn’t crazy, it turns out. Nothing was wrong with me. If anything, here was something right about me.

When my fear talked to me, it also helped take the edge off. It didn’t feel like terror so much anymore. I was grateful to my fear. My fear would guide me tomorrow. It would look out for me and my well-being. I didn’t feel so alone anymore. I slept better that night than I had in months.

Now I have different ways of dealing with my new friend. Instead of cursing it, hating it and myself, I ask what message it’s trying to give me. Am I doing something that is not in my best interest, even self-destructive? Do I really want to do that? Does that person make me uncomfortable? If so, then maybe being around them isn’t very good for me, is toxic.

“I love you, fear,” I said to it, hugging my new friend in my mind. “You’re a part of me, and you’re looking out for me. Thank you so much. You’re so good. I love you.”

Humans are often self-destructive, but also self-healing. We have other personalities, other voices, to guide us, but we often hate them. We yell and hit them. We criticize and cuss them. But we don’t realize that they are a part of us, that we are really punishing ourselves. So we become anxious and have low self-esteem, because somebody important to us hates us. No wonder society is so screwed up.

But then, sometimes, we stumble across these hated alter-egos, and we realize that they have feelings too, that their feelings are our feelings. And these feelings are killing us. So we try to make peace with the voices, wondering if it’s too late to change a lifetime of habits.

But, to our surprise, we heal. We have peace now. We’re happy. And it feels damn good.

My Ideal Marriage

My ideal marriage is basically a Booty Call For Life.

After seeing so many couples struggle trying to “make it work” with the Conjoined Twins approach (joined at the pelvis, if they’re lucky!), I've worked out a better system. My approach isn’t very “romantic” (in other words, traditional) and is officially banned by several churches (not really, but I can only hope). But it’s insanely practical, enables you to love someone without getting hurt or caught up in their emotional problems, and does not bother with outdated “traditional values” that are rather cumbersome and impractical nowadays.

However it’s not for the faint of heart, nor for codependents. If you need someone to “complete” you, not a romantic but an unhealthy idea, this is not for you.

Separate houses.

I rather like the idea of the Chinese “walking marriage,” where the husband walks to his wife’s house every night and returns to his own every morning. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it’s hard to maintain a fairy-tale image of someone when Prince Charming scratches his ass and picks his nose in front of you. Happily Ever After is a huge pressure and burden when you’re always there to bicker about leaving the toilet seat up and shrinking the laundry. Annoying habits that bug you every day can be overlooked if you don’t see him day to day. Thus eliminating the need to be so picky, to look for that perfect someone.

Separate money.

Finances is one of the biggest fight-causing agents in a marriage. I’ve seen some couples almost divorce over it. If we can eliminate this one, we would all be much happier. So no joint savings or checking accounts.

Unless I want to be a stay-at-home mother, which is temporary, there is no need to be supported by a man (or woman). So why have the stress of what happens when two people who have very different upbringings and money management styles clash?

Here’s the deal: I don’t want a man to take my money for himself. Even if I eventually “buckle down” and have a traditional marriage, I will protect myself with a separate checking account. Especially if they do not know the other person’s credit history or sense of responsibility, both women and men need to do this. Forget “love;” entrusting someone like this is just foolish.

Sleepovers.

Is this technically living in sin, I wonder? This kind of sex sounds much more exciting than “The kids are in bed, you want to do it?”

It could be a standing appointment that you look forward to every week. He would be much more likely to bring over wine or flowers, or dinner, or clean up his own place. Then, when the romance is over, you can each go back to your own lives, without trying to prolong the good feelings. Save them for next week.

Separate bedrooms.

For the sleepovers. Can you honestly sleep good with someone else, maybe a snorer, beside you? Throw the honey in the guest room and grab a good night’s rest. You deserve it.

Or at the very least have a big bed and separate blankets. How many men you know are good at sharing the covers? There’s no need for the heartache.

Divorced-style parenting.

If you have enough support from friends and family, you could make this work. Most marriages do not end in death anyway, so if you want to be cynical, why put your kids through the stress in the first place. My young half-brother seems to think it’s normal to visit his mother on weekends; it’s what he knows.

Yes, it might be difficult, but how is parenting ever easy anyway? Slacking parents will be forced to contribute when the kids come over. And think of this: a few nights a week will be all to yourself.

Separate names.

I spent all my life building up this name; why change it now? I deserve my own unbroken identity, not to be symbolically owned. It may not be an issue for some, but it is for me.

Separate legacies.

Girls named after Mommy, boys named after Daddy. Children should be taught that the female line is important too.

These suggestions are rather radical, but why stop there? I may not even have a ceremony; I may not even make it legal (depending on what benefits there are to a marriage license). There is no need for love to go insane and become something like an obsession.

If you do not have a narrow and outmoded view of marital success, I think these methods, as much as you can apply them, will increase your odds. You will be invulnerable or somewhat shielded from the devastating effects of financial recklessness (though not your own), different parenting styles, cheating, and snoring or sleep-farting.

By eliminating the causes of most arguments, you might just make it where other two-headed creatures have failed.

The Drug Addicts of My Childhood

Here's What A Meth Addict’s House Looks Like:

Nauseating chemical-type smells, overwhelming, probably “cooking” it, mixing drugs on the stove.

Soiled diapers on the kitchen counters.

Bits of food encrusted on the inside of the fridge—the fridge has its own putrid smell. Ditto for the microwave, where she simply shoved food in—no napkin, no plate—and threw it out on the floor for her children. “That’s where it will end up anyway.”

A brand-new $800 washing machine, picked apart piece by piece. It’s in about a hundred pieces on the floor. She does not know how to put it back together. (Sometimes meth addicts like to pick things apart when they’re high.)

Spoons in her bedroom, with strange white stuff encrusted on them. (Meth that didn’t get drawn into the needle and dried there. She mixed it up in spoons.)

There was food bits all over the furniture, crumbs in the beds.

This woman’s housekeeping style was much like that of the hoarders on the documentaries on TV. But TV cannot describe the smells and stuffiness, the sickening atmosphere of it. I was too intimately acquainted with the next-door neighbor and her house. It was like my unfortunate second home for many years in my early teens.

Sure, my mother and I shouldn’t have been so involved, we should have simply called Child Services instead of waiting for her to “get it,” but we were just being good Christians, right? We had to help her out, for she was raising two little boys all alone.

Why didn’t we see at the time that she was on drugs? Was it because she was a mother? Had horses and pets? Lived in the country, spoke coherently (most of the time), drank a lot of coffee and got hyper?

For being so discerning and discriminating as to throw out stuff we thought was demonic or an “idol,” (that we loved, usually), how could we have been so blind?

(I use the word “we” a lot when thinking about that time in my life, for it seemed my mother and I were unhealthily joined at the hip. Thus, it’s “our” life and what “we” went through, even in my own mind.)

Here’s what I learned about “bad” parents, incompetent parents: They don’t reform. My mother was very gifted at taking care of children, and tried time and again to show her how to do it. Eventually she accused my mom of calling her a bad mother behind her back, and took the baby away, the baby that we had raised for almost two years. So no matter how subtly the maternal magician tried to “train” her, to show her, she knew exactly what Mom was doing. And she didn’t like it.

She didn’t learn how to clean her house, after we stepped in and did all the hard work for her, maybe four to five times. She never appreciated it, and once we got in big trouble for “throwing things away” when they were in their proper places after all.

She went through the trash every time after we finished cleaning, probably looking for her lost meth. We might have thrown it away, thinking it was a white rock.

So I learned eventually not to bail people out. I became very cynical for a number of years, depressed and unhappy and angry that I did not have a happy childhood. I had excruciating, unexplainable pain in my right shoulder and arm constantly. Still have a little pain, sometimes, and it’s still painful to write by hand.

I had no energy, could not get up in the morning, struggled with severe constipation, and kept an extremely late schedule. I think all of these things were mostly symptoms of my emotional turmoil.

I was watching a documentary on hoarders recently and flashed back to the past. I wonder how many “hoarders” are on drugs.

So what’s the point of all this reminiscence? The moral of this story is, when you’re in the thick of it, it’s hard to see you need to make changes, that you can’t go on like this. What would have happened if the neighbor had not taken the baby away from us? Would we still be helping her, hoping she would change, never dreaming that she could have a drug problem?

Ignorance is never bliss. Yet so many people choose deliberately not to see what’s right in front of them. I paid a huge price because of ignorance.

Never again.