Talking to Your Child About Courage

Man, with a title like that you'd hope I have some answers.  I don't, sorry.

Over at The Heat Lightning, newly-anointed senior editor John Spain and I have been talking about the Boys Scouts of America.  If you don't feel like clicking the link, here's the boiled-down version:

1) As a teen, Spain got a lecture from a scout master for saying goddamn and quit because the other boy scouts were a bunch of pot heads and he felt the scout master's lecture was ill-founded and hypocritical.  On THL, he questions the relevance of an organization with such an outdated moral code.

2) Curtis has a seven-year-old son named Dylan who joined the Cub Scouts this year.  Curtis claims the Boys Scouts are an excuse to start conversations which otherwise barely come up - things like character, loyalty, trustworthiness, etc. - and that the national tenets don't filter down to the local packs.


Over breakfast, we took a shot at Cub Scout Wolf Achievement 12, "Complete the Character Connection for Courage."  Discuss what courage is with your family?  No problem.  Give some examples of when it is hard to do the right thing?  You've got it; and thanks for the examples.   Discuss times it might take courage to be honest and kind?  I think you just re-phrased the last one, but sure.  


Tell about a time in your life when you needed to be brave or courageous to do the right thing.

And here's where I run into the same brick wall I always run into with Dylan; how do you talk to a seven-year-old?  I was a born-again Christian for a couple of years.  A few years after I quit the church, one of my best friends started the born-again thing.  I could've been supportive, as we usually are with our friends, by telling her how happy I was that she'd found something she'd enjoyed, that she was looking for answers, etc.  Or I could do what I did, which was question everything.  I brought up inconsistencies between what they taught and what the bible says.  I told her she'd bring my concerns to her fellow parishioners and her pastor and they would tell her exactly how to feel about it, rather than letting her think for herself.  I planted the seeds which led to her eventually leaving the church.  She's an out, proud lesbian now.  The world won that round; we need more lesbians and less born-agains.  In fact, make that my campaign slogan.

Having that conversation was scary.  My stomach was in my chest most of the time, but I wanted to tell her exactly how I felt. Unfortunately, our relationship was strained after that night.  We remained friends, but were never as close as we'd once been.


Without thinking too hard, I can come up with at least three examples like that from my past.  Sometimes truth kills.  And you can argue that if someone can't take the truth then he / she was never your friend, but bullshit like that doesn't salve the pain of losing a friend, of seeing that guarded look in someone's eye, like you're a haunted house filled with truth ghosts.

I'm weaker than I used to be.  There have been a few times in recent years when I've balked at telling how I really feel, in service of not making waves, or ruining a mood, or hurting feelings.  I've been afraid to risk confrontation so I've kept schtum.  Does this make me a better friend, or worse?

I don't know myself.  And explaining all this to a seven-year-old is impossible.  I love you and I want you to be strong, but sometimes being strong means being lonely. . . I don't want you to encourage hate and prejudice by being silent, but speaking out against it will likely open you up to ridicule. . .

Wait, I've got it.


Dylan, pink is your favorite color.  It shouldn't just be your favorite color at home.  You should have the courage to tell your classmates that pink is your favorite color.  You should never be afraid to be yourself.  You'll feel happier with honesty than trying to make others happy by choosing things you don't really love.  And if someone makes fun of you, then they weren't your friend anyway.

What do you mean bullshit like that doesn't help?

I Dreamed of Big House

In the dream we always live together, every family member I’ve ever had, Becky and her friends and family.  Tota is there, but she can hear, and she can still dance, drive, and throw a punch to anyone who disrespects the family.  The uncle I lost at nine to alcoholism is there.  I don’t remember him but there’s an uncle-shaped man of smiles and living room rug-wrestling who I call Fran.  Friends live here too, friends who’ve wandered from me over the years, or who I’ve let slip away.  There are endless rooms for all in this house, solitude when it’s needed, and adventure in undiscovered rooms.  Everyone is happy.  

I’ve yet to decide if this is my vision of heaven.  If hell is other people it can’t be heaven, right?  But that’s a question for another post.

In last night’s dream, Becky and I buy a home and everyone we’ve ever known moves in (I use “buy” loosely; these dream homes just kind of happen).  Everyone loves it immediately.  The vibe is perfect and the foundation is solid, even if there are spots which need work.  

Everyone runs out front onto the rolling hills of lawn for a huge night barbecue lit by paper lawn lanterns (thanks, Blood, Bones, and Butter).  I look back at the house, the windows blazing light, the balconies on each floor which run the entire length of the front of the house.

While I’m looking, feeling great because we’ve found such amazing accommodations, the front balcony falls off and lands on me.  Laying there stunned, pinned beneath the rubble (thanks, re-watching the first season of Lost), I open my mouth to call out to the friends and family who are already down the hill at the feast.  Losing the first balcony has caused others to loosen.  I close my eyes as two more fall toward me, thinking, this is going to be bad. 

When I wake up (I use “wake” loosely, since I’m still dreaming), we’re all inside the house again.  The mood is subdued.  My head is wrapped in so many bandages I can barely see.  Becky is nowhere.  My hand hurts.  Lifting it from my lap, I see the fingers are splayed in all directions.  The skin of my forearm is misshapen with broken bone trying to poke through.  My biceps and triceps are severed slabs of meat, the gleaming white humerus the only thing keeping my arm from falling off.  Didn’t anyone look past my head for injuries?  What kind of hospital did they take me to?   

  Turns out no one wants to take me back.  They’ve been through the interminable waiting room once for my head, they’re not going back for my arm.  They’d rather busy themselves prepping food, or lay around playing video games, they’d rather not make eye contact so I won’t see their guilt.

Not much interpretation needed.  

My first marriage crumbled and my friends and family put me back together again.  Now that I’m starting a new family, part of me worries it won’t work out.  If it doesn’t, another part of me worries no one will be interested in helping me back on my feet a second time.  

Well, I’ve dreamed that house a dozen times and it always holds.  

Also, it’s clear that I’ve not fully healed from the destruction of my marriage.  The most obvious hurt is gone, but there are still glaring wounds when you know where to look.  

Bones, poking at the skin.

I Have News

First, there was Gabrielle Hamilton’s beautiful memoir, Blood, Bones, and Butter.  Her father taught her that money, specifically a lack of money, is a stupid reason not to do something.

That phrase haunted me for a time.

Then over vodka at Fox’s Lounge, two wise friends offered counsel.  

Finally, a line from Darin Strauss’ Half a Life jumped from the page (and the subject matter), telling me: 

"That's the meter you come up with, as you approach forty.  If your relationship fills you with a sense of luck, you've chosen well."

Of course you could argue these aren’t signs in and of themselves, but merely one big sign that I’m ready.  I don’t feel like arguing. 

We had a couple of friends over for dinner, trying to get through beer left over from hosting Becky’s sister’s 30th birthday party.  Becky and I also removed Dylan’s first splinter.  Our friends ran interference by way of entertainment while I used a needle to break the skin on the sole of his foot.  It had grown over, looking nasty and red.  Once I exposed the splinter, Becky performed the extraction.    

After five minutes of freaking out, crying, squirming, and refusing uncover his foot, Dylan chose to be brave.  You could see it happen.  Still crying, he stood up straight, moved to his mother’s lap, took out his Nintendo DS, and pretended his foot belonged to someone else.  Becky and I worked together seamlessly, as we often do.    

Dinner was filled with laughter.

Sitting on our stoop after our guests had gone, I couldn’t imagine life getting any better.  Like the first time I told Becky I loved her, I simply couldn’t hold it inside any longer.  With just the right amount of beer in my system (enough to lubricate the tongue without the origin of the emotion being suspect), I told Becky I needed to ask her a question.  I told her to be honest, and I would believe her.

I asked her if she needed a ring.

She said no.

So I asked her to marry me, and she agreed.

It wasn’t how I imagined it at all.  Later that night, she dug a princess-cut pink “diamond” surrounded by smaller white “diamonds” from her jewelry box (this is an actual cardboard box, by the way).  She’d gotten the ring from lost and found when she worked at Barnes & Noble and had never worn it.  I took the ring from her, then got down on one knee and described how I had wanted my proposal to go.

My description was muddied because I’d imagined it so many different ways.  I’d get Papa Q’s permission, and Dylan’s.  I’d get a credit card and max it out to buy the perfect ring, princess cut in a platinum setting.  It would be a birthday or holiday to disguise the intent, either a really fancy dinner at a new place or a familiar dinner at one of our places.  Afterward there’d be a movie, or coffee and dessert somewhere else just for the decadence.  I’d pull her close when we got home, then accidentally-on-purpose drop my keys.  I wasn’t sure if I’d do the “hold this” a la Adrian in Sex in the City or just grab her hand and launch into my speech, happiest man alive, try to make you happy for as long as we live, share our lives, etc, etc.    

I don’t know how much of this I managed to get across.  The night I proposed is a blur of emotions, difficult to see beneath the relief that I didn’t need to wait, and that she said yes.

Darin Strauss, my friends, and Gabrielle Hamilton’s father were all right.  I feel lucky, Becky didn’t need a ring, and lack of money is a stupid reason not to do something.

Even marry the woman of your dreams.

Monkey Business

  I get it now.  It’s taken a year-and-a-half of knowing Dylan and six months of living with him, but I finally understand.  

Dylan is Becky’s son from her first marriage, and she shares joint custody with Dylan’s father.  We drop Dylan off at his dad’s on Saturday and we pick him up from after-school care on Tuesday (Dylan, not his dad; pronouns are tricky).  Becky and her ex have talked about doing one week on, one week off, but with all the changes in Dylan’s life - his parent’s separation, moving to Miami to split time in different houses, then moving to the Gables to live with this big doofus his mom seems smitten with - it would be cruel to change the one routine he’s gotten used to.  

I can’t say my parenting muscles were flabby from lack of use; I had never used them.  Baby-sitting is not parenting, and taking your nephews out for dinner and movies is not the same as raising them.  

Four days of trying to mold this boy into the best version of himself he can be, dealing with food issues, presenting yourself at your best, working with this moods, keeping him clean and happy, checking his rambunctiousness and attitude, trying to instill values you’ve taken for granted in your own life, and being patient when it’s the last thing in the world you think you’re capable of being, it’s all so exhausting. 

“Kids are easy,” a friend of mine said a few months back.  “Just give them lots of love, that’s all they need.”

This man obviously has no children.  

I said that exact thing when I had no children in my life.  It’s true, but it’s like saying, “Building pyramids is easy.  You just keep piling rocks up until they're 500 feet tall, then you stick a Pharaoh inside.” 

FYI, he picks his own outfits.

I used to anticipate Saturday the way you look forward to getting away for a three-day weekend.  I needed those breaks to keep from going crazy, to relax the muscles which had gone unused my entire life, muscles which suddenly needed to hold the world up.  When Becky got quiet after we dropped Dylan off, I figured it was a mom thing, something I’d never understand.

Now I get it.  We don’t drop Dylan off for us; we drop Dylan off because he loves his father and wants to see him.   

I still enjoy sharing time alone with Becky, but I miss Dylan when he’s not here.  I celebrate those weekends his father has plans he's unable or unwilling to change and we get more time with Dylan.  Wishing him goodbye has gone from bittersweet to just bitter.  

You’re obligated to do it, but there’s no way to enjoy it.

Don't I Know You?

A couple years after I began working at Books & Books, novelist Karen Shepard stopped by to sign stock of Don’t I Know You? for the stores.  

The ARC of Don’t I Know You? had caught my eye because of the letter she’d included.  In the letter, Shepard explained that she’d written the novel because of her fascination with a childhood classmate whose mother had been murdered.  

Like many explorations of childhood, writing the novel became partially about the discrepancy between how she remembered the incident and what had actually happened, but it was also an exploration of why this classmate haunted her.  

He kept cropping up in her fiction.  This letter called to me because whenever I wrote anything with characters younger than eighteen, sooner or later a childhood friend I’ll call Alex would appear.  

I grew up in East Syracuse, Alex grew up in Minoa.  We went to school together from fourth to twelfth grade, and sat together at the Brain table in junior high and high school.  Alex had four or five brothers, I’m not sure which.  He lived forty minutes to an hour’s ride from my suburb, in farm country.  When we were in fifth grade, his oldest brother deliberately killed himself, in front of Alex, with a gun.  

I remember it as a shotgun to the head but I’m not sure.  I remember his older brother was in high school, but I’m not sure about that, either.  I know Alex saw a psychiatrist the rest of his school career.  I know none of us ever mentioned the suicide, not once in eight years.  

There were times it seemed like he wanted to talk about it, like when he’d bring up the psychiatrist, but none of us followed up on anything he said.  We’d laugh at things Alex told us about the psychiatrist because he was joking and we wanted him to be happy, not because it was funny.  I don’t know whether we should have been better listeners, or if we should have been more curious.  I know I write about him to answer all of those questions I never asked as kid.

Don’t I Know You? turned out to be excellent.  Since Mitchell was out of town, he asked if I’d meet her and play host while she signed.  

Shepard was lovely, intelligent, and forthright.  She brought some relatives who embarrassed Shepard with tales of her success.  Shepard told me that when you’ve written a novel, the way to arm yourself from criticism and worry about how the book will perform is to be involved in your next novel.  She looked up from the stack of hardcovers she was signing, head cocked to the side.

“You know, this is the first time I’ve written something without being involved in the next project.  I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

Empire of Women was published in 2001, Bad Boy’s Wife in 2004, and Don’t I Know You? in 2006.  If we have to wait much longer, I guess we can assume it didn’t go well.  In the meantime, Don’t I Know You? remains a strong backlist seller for Books & Books.  I’ve enjoyed recommending it to book clubs and helping new readers discover it, and no one has come back to me disappointed.  

I told Shepard about Alex, of course.  I told her I’d cast Alex as a main character in the book I was writing, and I hoped I’d never see him again once it was finished.  She was most curious as to how time had played with the memory, but I told her proximity to Alex had probably stopped my imagination from running wild.  

I asked her if writing Don’t I Know You? had worked for her, if her childhood friend had stopped haunting her fiction.

“I’ll let you know how that turns out, too,” she said.

City Link Magazine Starts a Monthly Lip Service Column

I wrote a piece called Kelly Cook for myself, which is why I write anything.  I had no idea I'd edit it into something to be performed in front of a crowd, a piece called We Are More Than These Pale Shells.  Further, I never imagined Lip Service would get together with City Link, re-edit the piece for print, couple it with some amazing artwork, and publish it again as Past the Flesh.

Re-reading it as Past the Flesh, I'm proud of my work and grateful for the opportunity to reach such a wide readership, but it's not the tribute to Kelly I had intended.  Trying to come up with one makes me realize it's impossible.  

In this picture, Kelly's emitting the laugh I mention in every version of the piece.  I had several pictures to choose from, and in every one of them she's laughing or smiling, and all eyes are on her (here I cropped my high school girlfriend and a boy whose name escapes me; both were staring at Kelly, laughing right along with her).  That laugh embodies Kelly.  When I close my eyes and imagine hearing it, I smile at the same time I'm missing her.

Hearing Kelly's laugh made you forget there was pain in the world. 

Given how prone the rest of us can be to whining about our lives, obsessing over slights imagined and real, wishing we had more and better, a person like Kelly holds the mirror to that behavior.  What right do I have to be miserable when my friend with cystic fribrosis is always happy?  How could someone so delicate be so filled with life? 

We'll never know if she would have been an accomplished artist, but she was certainly talented enough to stand out at our small school.  Kelly was kind to her friends, generous with her time and attention, and a joy to be around.   

The printed version of City Link’s table of contents was topped with Kelly’s words: “God, you’re such an asshole.  Can’t you just be happy?”  When she said that to me, it was probably the only time I saw her upset.  

I’d love it if I could say that I always look on the bright side of life because of her, but it’s a lesson I running into in one form or another again and again.  

I can say she the first teacher person who taught me that lesson, and I was lucky to know her.  

I wish I’d treated her better.

Face-to-Face vs. Facebook

Facebook might help you connect with the people in your life, but it’s also a huge party with a bunch of people that lasts forever.  There's the nervousness over how you present and what people will think of you.  There are background folks you barely notice, the person who won’t stop talking your ear off, the klatch of recent marrieds and recent parents, the people you really want to talk to but hook up with all too briefly.

There's also Becky's father.  Becky's sister set his profile up for him.  When Papa Q discovered Facebook took actual time, he said no way.  This gives him a certain mystique in the virtual world.  A profile people can approach for friendship that will never answer, because the password is a distant memory.  He is the Garbo of Facebook, discussed on my blog, bandied about on updates, tagged in our pictures, but never glimpsed directly.

This approach could work for me.  

Virtual identity is supposed to be great for a writer because you can use your strongest asset to present yourself.  Little did I know, no matter the distance between what I write and who's reading it, the distance from myself to myself is the same; all the insecurities and social awkwardness I feel in life follow me online.

I see the future, the distance from neighbors and family, the little cocoons built around individual lives, or couples or families, the growing suspicion of the Other.  We make friends safely online and forget how to interact in person.  The mechanism between mind and verbal communication which creates charm will atrophy.  Face-to-face interactions will become stilted, uncomfortable, borderline creepy.  A smile from a stranger will become a thing of suspicion, greetings something to ridicule.  

Given how crazy the world can be, some people see this as self-preservation.  Given how lovely the world can be, I think Stranger Danger should never overshadow the Kindness of Strangers.

Anyway, why not find me on Facebook and friend me?  When publishers are trying to decide whether to take a chance on this unknown writer, I'll need body count.  

A Job Aint Nothin' But Work, or A Bright and Shining Lie

The other night I was at an upscale Indian restaurant, celebrating the birthday of a close friend.  It was one of those potentially awkward social situations where everyone involved knows one person but not each-other.  Sitting there, merely one beer into it, I pulled out a lie I haven’t used in years.  I loved this lie for many years but I assumed it died with all the idiocy I committed in my twenties.  

Not so much.  I told this table of old friends and new acquaintances I had been accepted to Yale.  

Let me explain, I’m not a liar.  I don’t do it comfortably, often, or well, except in print.  But when I choose a lie, it usually involves my past, and I tell it over and over until I need to remind myself it's a lie.  The truth is I didn’t want to go to college.  I was an artist.  What lame-ass artist needs college?  My guidance counselor pointed to my SAT score, my ACT score, and my academic record.  She told me I could go anywhere I wanted.

“You could get into Yale with these scores,” she said.

Somehow, this led to me telling people I was offered a full scholarship to Yale and turned it down.  The only college that offered me a free ride was the Rochester Institute of Technology.  I turned it down.  Artist, remember?  Plus, I was young enough to believe that free rides lurked around every corner.  

Throughout my twenties, I painted, I wrote, I dabbled in theater.  I worked a series of jobs which were beneath my intellectual capacity, if not my station in life.  I didn’t drink.  I dabbled in pot and mushrooms, tried coke a couple of times, and dropped a lot of acid.  And I told people I turned my back on Yale.  The lie proved that I once had potential and a fine mind, that someone important had looked at me and said, “Yes.”  

Looking back, it's obvious I wasn’t proud of how I chose to live.  Dusting the lie off after so many years must mean that again, I’m not proud of my life.  I want more than just putting a roof over my head.  I turned away from all the stupid things I’ve done, but it’s time to do something, to stop defining myself by what I’ve overcome and become.  

Because I toiled well in lowly positions, I was rewarded with toil in management positions.  I gave more hours to Starbucks and Borders than anyone should give to any job and didn't get much back besides money (and not much of that).  So I dropped out.  I quit being a manager.  I decided to toil on writing until the time my art was recognized.

Unfortunately, in the weeks leading up to the birthday dinner, I was working sixty and seventy-hour weeks.  This doesn’t make me that unusual in the working world, but I’m not some financal wizard or medical guru or any other job which might have a monitorial or altruistic payoff.  I work in a bookstore.  An independent bookstore, so good on me, but I'm two missed paychecks away from homelessness.  

That’s all business is - busy-ness.  It puts a roof over your head and food on your table, but it probably has little to do with the work God put you here to do.  I’ve been so busy lately I’ve lost that perspective.

Looking around the dinner table at the Guidance Counselor, the teachers, the independent film producer, and the musician, I saw people who are doing what they want to do... and I brought up SAT scores.  I can’t blame the beer and I can’t say it flowed naturally from the conversation; I engineered a topic so I could plant my favorite lie.    

It came from feelings of inadequacy, from letting myself drift rather than taking the oars, from letting my life live me.  

Despite what you hear, people can change.  It’s just more work beyond that first choice than most can face.  I need to choose not to be a workaholic and a perfectionist on a daily basis.  Any financial analyst will tell you two things; make your money work for you and pay yourself first.  My art isn’t working for me yet, unless it’s the satisfaction I feel in crafting something new, but I can certainly pay myself first.  I can take the time to work for myself before I work for anyone else, to be my best and brightest self at home rather than sparkling for strangers.

Someday instead of my job, my work will pay the bills.  

     

That Sounded Better in My Head

For a certain type of person, our first thought is rarely our best thought.  Not every writer is Truman Capote or Oscar Wilde, quick with a quip or comeback, irreverent yet touching toast at the ready.  The less quick-witted writers among us put perfect reposts to put into our character's mouths, but in real life we're lacking the spark.

          Them: Honestly, you looked a little nervous during that reading.

          Me: So's your mom.

          Them: Huh?

Or


          Them: I really didn't care for the last book you recommended me.

          Me: That's what she said.

          Them: Is that a joke?

          Me: No, it wasn't.  Because that wouldn't be funny at all.  I was just... 
                 emphasizing that you said it.

So now you know my secret; if it can't be filled with "so's your mother" or "that's what she said," I've got nothing.  Ironically, I've used two examples of things no one's ever told me in real life.  But they're the only scenarios I could envision on short notice.  

The speed of Becky's mind is one of the things I love about her, like when Hilldawg held up her arm and said, "Do you know how I got this bruise?" and Becky came back with her boyfriend's name without missing a beat.  It's a kind of conversational magic, one I seldom have.

In fact, I've felt quick-witted once in my life.  It was 1995.  The Disney movie Pocahontas (subtitle: Let's Destroy Truth and Fun*) had just been released.  A group of us sat around discussing the lyrics to Colors of the Wind, and my friend Kerry turned to me.

"What does 'have you ever heard the wolf cry at the blue corn moon' even mean?  Come on, you're Native American."

"I don't know," I said.  "What does 'when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie that's amore" mean?  You're Italian, don't you know?"

Maybe you had to be there.

I also felt very writerly once.  Not in the sense of crafting a piece, or reading in front of folks, but in that Capote-at-a-party way.  A group of friends were enjoying a Thanksgiving potluck dinner at an apartment on Miami Beach.   We went around the table telling what we were thankful for in the past year.  

I'd visited upstate New York over the summer and swum in Lake Ontario.  After ten years of Miami's ocean the cold was overwhelming, but the fact that I had to kick four times as hard as I was used to just to stay afloat helped me keep warm.  Come to find out, the salt in saltwater makes it much easier to stay afloat.  I knew there was a metaphor in there about life, and friendship.  I kept in the back of my mind, intending to write it down at some point.

When I opened my mouth to give thanks, that's what came out.  Since I was making it up as I spoke, the story came across as extemporaneous and sincere.  I ended by saying I was thankful for my friends, the salt that makes it easier to swim the waters of life.  Since it was a speech it lasted as long as it took to hear it, leaving an impression of love and warmth instead of mere words which could be studied to death.

Writing is what gets me out of bed in the morning, but there something to be said for the ephemery of speech. 

* All Disney animals talk. Except in Pocohontas.

You Have to Read it, It's a Classic

Friends chide me for never reading the classics. I have copies of Slaughter House Five and 1984 on my shelf that were purchased for me by friends who were appalled that I’d never read them. Purchased, as in, believed so strongly that I needed to read a book that they pulled out their wallets, spent their hard-earned cash, and put the books in my hand.

Okay, Moya bought me a $7.99 Vonnegut paperback at a 30% employee discount and Abe Froman handed me a stripped copy of Orwell he’d rescued from the trash, but it’s the effort which matters, the love of reading which is so strong it can’t abide someone calling himself a reader without having experienced these particular titles.

If I read everything I should’ve read if I took more English Literature in college, I’d have no time left for anything new.

Which dodges my real problem. Patton Oswalt, in the glorious, buy-it-now-if-you-haven’t-heard-it comedy concert Werewolves and Lollipops, does a bit about the Star Wars prequels. “Do you like Angelina Jolie?” George Lucas asks. “Well here’s a picture of Jon Voight's nutsack.”

“I don’t care where the stuff I love comes from,” Oswalt raves, “I just love the stuff I love.”

A few times I’ve tried to discover where the stuff I love comes from and it’s ended in tears of boredom. Akira Kurosawa's “Seven Samurai” comes to mind. The first disc was fine, but not fine enough for me to ever put the second disc in and see how it ended – particularly not after having seen so many decades of derivatives that the ending was never in doubt. The second disc sat on my TV stand for weeks before I admitted to myself I’d never watch it. Besides, I had another classic in my queue, just waiting to ship. “Dawson's Creek,” or something.

I went through a noir phase with mixed results. “The Third Man” blew my hair back, for sure, but “Laura” was only decent, and “The Big Sleep” put me to sleep. Twice.

When it comes to books, I balk at going back. Reading The Old Man and the Sea didn’t make me want to read The Sun Also Rises. I loved Pride and Prejudice, but not enough to pick up another Jane Austen. Put all the zombies and sea monsters you want in there, I still ain’t biting.

I imagine I’ll read Bleak House one day, and I’ve always planned on reading Great Expectations (although knowing everything which happens in the latter will surely dampen the reading pleasure), but… when? I could bust out a shelf of books in the time it will take me to slog through a Dickens, regardless of the fact that he’s the favorite author of two of my favorite authors (Stephen King and John Irving). Woolf? Dostoyevsky? The Great Gatsby? All gathering dust on my shelves while I read the next stunning / original / mesmerizing voice of his / her / our / generation.

It’s just no fun recommending a classic. Suggest Tolstoy (no, I haven’t read him) and it's like saying Meryl Streep is a good actress. Well, no shit. Thank God I asked you for help, bookseller. I think I'll just go home and wait for Oprah's next book club title.

Ah, but when you can sort through a glut of new titles and match one to its reader, you have power.

Divorced

Last week I was very excited to have scheduled a date to sign my divorce papers. As a matter of fact, I was happy about it right up until the night before. Of course I also felt nervous to see Andi.

Cruising the internet a while back, I saw a video of her performing with Exit 19. The sound quality was shit, as sound on phones and digital cameras always is, but that wasn’t the problem. Even with poor sound, I would have been mesmerized if we’d still been together. With the months apart, it was like looking at a stranger.

Along with my heart, she broke my love goggles.

I once used the metaphor of an athlete being confined to a wheelchair to describe what losing Andi was like. That felt right for a while, but it doesn’t anymore. I’m up, I’m moving forward, and being with Becky is the best kind of freedom.

Now I feel happy and sad at the same damned time. There’s the person who promised to love Andi for the rest of his life, who meant it with all his heart, and who expected to die in her arms. Well, he did die. He died alone (more accurately, surrounded by friends, but not the one friend he expected to be with) and I don’t mourn his passing, but I mourn his innocence, his world view, his absolute self-assurance in matters of the heart.

Clearly, I needed to be knocked down a peg.

I miss our friendship, but looking at her fills me with sadness. The undying lover has been replaced by a man who wishes her nothing but the best, and means it with all his heart.

The home I shared with Andi in Oasis Condominiums only exists in my memory and in some great pictures, but it will never be again. While I mourn the official end of this era in my life, I’m also looking forward to what happens next. I feel pain and excitement, sadness and relief, regret and love, all jumbled together.

Becky and I have picked a place in the Gables, where our studios will share space, where Dylan can have his own room and attend an amazing school, where our family has room to grow. Like Oasis, the Gables home with Becky only exists in my mind, in pictures, and in dreams, but it’s no less real.

I still don’t have a word for all these emotions; it’s just what happens now. Close one book and open a new one. Let one thing go to pick up another. Say goodbye to the defining relationship of your life to make room for the love of your life.

Three Week Increments

In November 2006, over the course of three weeks, I met my goal of finishing my first book, worked my first Miami Bookfair International, had an editor at Harper Collins looking at the book (yikes; I hadn’t yet learned to keep all first drafts to myself), and went up north for Thanksgiving where the three cousins I grew up with – Shane, Shawn, and Shannon – were there all at once for the first time in years.

November 2004, I took three weeks off work to go up north. I’d missed Thanksgiving the year before with work, and I was determined to gain twenty pounds. From Dinosaur Barbeque to homecooked meals, from the Thanksgiving bacchanal to Steak and Sundae, I came home twenty-three pounds heavier than when I left.

November centers around family and friends, so they’re usually good to me. But my two favorite chunks of life had nothing to do with November, and both also lasted three weeks.

In August of 96 (I’m honestly not sure of the year; keeping track of life before I started recording it all is difficult), I took a three-week road trip with Andi, driving up and down the east coast in a battered k-car. I don’t remember what we saw on the drive down and what we saw on the drive up, but we re-visited our favorite restaurant on Strawberry Street in Richmond, Virginia. We saw a friend perform on stage in The Sound of Music in New Jersey, where the ocean was dark, cold, and violent, in contrast the warm, calm waters of South Beach. Along with famous monuments, we saw some of the best artwork in the world in Washington, DC. We danced at a lesbian club in New York City despite their strict policy of not admitting men. Along the way, we ate in some amazing restaurants, lay in the sun, reminisced with friends, and partied with Mickey Mouse. It was the best vacation I’ve ever had.

Of course, any chucklehead can have a great vacation; making a glorious time out of day-to-day life is more difficult.

It’s odd considering all that went wrong while her parents were in Europe (apart from expensive, painful problems with her cat, it’s personal Quiroga family business I’ve no right to air), but these last few weeks with Becky and her son have been a little slice of heaven.

Waking without hitting snooze, getting as much writing time as possible before Dylan wakes (Becky says I can use his real name; he’s not Apple or Lourdes, after all), making breakfast, making lunches, getting to work, leaving to pick Dylan up from summer camp, getting dinner on the table for all of us, bathing Dylan and reading him to sleep, ending the day with Becky – the two of us falling asleep in front of the TV, or reading, or making love…

It’s all so mundane, and so beautiful, and so perfect. It’s a family like the one I grew up in, only smaller. My mother had breakfast on the table for all of us in succession each morning, a constant rotation of French toast, omelets, bacon and eggs, pancakes, Eggos, and cereal on Fridays. The entire family sat down for dinner every night. Recreating that on my own is more satisfying than I could have imagined. Add yoga, biking, and a book contract and I’m the person I’ve always wanted to be.

These last three weeks have been the greatest of my life because they showed me what I want out of my life.

It Could Always Be Worse

Clichés are the bane of a writer’s existence. They are also comforting for people in turmoil. In titling this post, I asked the writer version of me to turn aside in favor of plain old Aaron.

I just re-read a scrap of diary I titled Dark Night of the Soul, a perfect piece for putting my current misery into perspective. I’m frustrated over how long losing the defining relationship of my life has hurt. Understandable. But think about Tuesday, October 6th, 2009, when I came closer to suicide than any point in my life since 1980 [Yes, I tried to kill myself when I was eight years old, but the difficulty I’ve had editing this proves it’s more than I can explore here. In the end I removed that experience from this post. Suffice to say it was a genuine attempt, and it caused my parents to finally look at what alcoholism was doing to our family]. It’s a common experience for the third-born Child Of an Alcoholic, called the Lost Child, to attempt suicide without knowing why. Last fall, I knew exactly why I wanted to end my life.

A David Foster Wallace character said you kill yourself for the same reason people jump from a burning high-rise. He’d know, of course. I might not be able to describe the exact mix of emotions which leads to the point of desiring oblivion, but the Wallace quote does a decent job.

Although I’ve contemplated suicide often enough over the years, I’ve never forgotten how God spared me as a child (to clarify, I use God and Satan metaphorically, as shorthand to express myself, not to imply a biblical faith or a religious belief; human thoughts can not measure or define God). Even on my worst Dark Night of the Soul, I still believed that God never tests us with more than we can handle. You promise yourself the burden will become easier to bear, so you’ll carry it another day.

Then it gets better.

You’re humble enough to ask for companionship, and your friends surround you like campers nurturing a lick of flame into a fire, and it gets better.

Your family listens to you ramble, and it gets better.

You find a group of amazing women, ostensibly to discuss books, and it gets better.

You see a soul-fueling concert, and it gets better.

Your cat comes home, and it gets better.

The frangipani blossoms fall, Coldstone Creamery serves a Milk and Cookies shake, you write, you drink, you bike, you work, you think, you breathe in and out, and it gets better.

You meet someone special, a Queen of the Nile who feels like finding shelter after months wandering a storm, and it gets better.

I promise, it always gets better.

The Internet Scares Me

The internet is making me stupid. Used to be when someone asked me what year M*A*S*H went off the air, I would have to sit down and think about it. I’m pretty sure I was in high school. Then again I hadn’t had a date, so maybe junior high. 87? 88? (83, FYI; I was way off) If I couldn’t come up with what movie I’d first seen the bad cop from Strange Days, it would drive me crazy for a few hours until I gave up. Later, I’d wake from a sound sleep and realize he played Thor in Adventures in Babysitting.

Now instead of subconscious churning and shaking my memory, I have Google.

I must admit, I love being able to look up word definitions online. The fallacy of this comes when you read someone with a vocabulary like Lionel Shriver, who plays with tenses and usages in a way which confounds easy answers, or David Foster Wallace, whose use of antiquated terms turn “search engine” into “research project.” Still, I love it. I love reading articles online and being able to click on countries, people, and historical events I don’t know.

It’s the Information Superhighway, after all. Greeks could recite the Iliad from memory. Mohawks kept the whole history of their people alive in stories. Then we started writing stuff down, and we didn’t need to memorize everything. Memory will evolve even further. Centuries from now, it will be the same information, just stored somewhere else. Hopefully the extra room will increase our emotional capacity; our love, compassion, and empathy.

The internet is killing neighborhoods. We let our neighbors go jobless, starving our local businesses (and the suppliers those local businesses use) by sending our money thousands of miles away for a deep discount.

But that’s just an extension of the phenomenon described in James Howard Kunstler's Geography of Nowhere, a Saming of America. Do something about it or don’t.

My real concern is how the internet destroys connections. When Robert Putnam chronicled America’s growing culture of isolation in the excellent Bowling Alone, the internet was a glimmer of what it is today. The internet is gasoline on this fire.

Much has been made about how my generation is the first not to have it better than our parents. Is this really a mystery? Historically, the only benefits accrued by the working class resulted when a group of folks got together and forced a few concessions from the fat cats paying the bills. My generation has flabby fellowship muscles.

A friend recently sent a message on Facebook saying I wouldn’t be seeing him online for a while. He felt his virtual presence was eroding his real-life connections with people. I knew exactly what he meant. When we’re lonely, feeling like we’re missing intimacy with our friends, more and more of us turn to the internet.

Thinking about my friend’s decision, I realized I started Facebooking because all of my social engagements stemmed from my ex’s account. I knew my marriage was ending and didn’t want to miss anything fun.

I started Sweet with Fall and Fish and TweetwFallnFish because publishers consider your “platform” before they publish you. To get a stranger to purchase your book, virtual networking is a must.

It’s been shocking to watch this phenomenon work, by the way. When strangers tell me they enjoy my writing, I have to suppress my natural inclination to respond with, "But I'm not related to you."

It’s all intention, I suppose. You can use a bathtub filled with water to bathe or to drown a child. Neither scenario makes the water evil.

I just don't want the internet to drown me, is all.