My Gratitude for 2021

31 Friday Dec 2021

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In my previous post, I mentioned how rough 2021 was for me on a personal level and as a writer. It’s a wonder how I survived it with my sanity intact, and I’m truly grateful for the victories I celebrated and continue to appreciate. Every year has its ups and downs, and I’m certainly not alone in my experiences. It seems like the last three years have been more like one ongoing year we can’t wait to see in the rear view mirror. All the more reason to treasure the awesome moments that will undoubtedly crop up from time to time.

Just a few short months before the pandemic began to dominate the news, I met the woman who would become the love of my life. Of course, I didn’t know it immediately. It took a few weeks for it to become obvious that I had found someone unbelievably special. As we spent more time together, I only grew to appreciate how lucky I was to have met her. A string of unlikely and fortunate events propelled us together, and what a blessing it has been.

In May of 2021, I asked her to marry me. It was something I knew I wanted since early in our relationship. At the time we met, I thought I might never remarry. The prospects of repeating the past and experiencing that kind of pain made me reluctant to even contemplate marriage again. In a letter I wrote her only six weeks after we’d met, I explained how easily I had fallen in love with her, and how unexpectedly I wanted us to get married. There was only excitement and gratitude when I looked forward to a long life together. I never sent the letter. I cautioned myself that I was acting rashly. Surely revealing those feelings would terrify her, so I held onto it. Within a couple of weeks, she told me that she never would have expected she would want to get married after dating someone for such a short period of time. I ran to get the letter from where I’d hidden it, so I could show her what it said and when I had composed it.

Of course, we didn’t elope on the spot. Life isn’t a Nicholas Sparks novel. There were our kids to consider, distance between us, homes, dogs. Life delivers challenges that romance novels don’t, and we were determined to be responsible parents. It didn’t stop us from joking about running away to somewhere tropical until we had maxed out our credit cards. We took advantage of time together where we could get it. It never seemed like enough. Then COVID came along, and we realized how lucky we’d been to have so much time together at the beginning of our relationship. There were so many people who weren’t so fortunate, and dating was something COVID had rendered impossible for millions of people to experience safely.

We spent time apart, using Zoom and FaceTime, and even a hilarious attempt at watching a movie together from separate houses. COVID date nights left a lot to be desired. Being apart was excruciating. The progress our relationship had made over its first few months threatened to slowly unravel, but we were determined. We toughed it out for the promise of a future together.

That future is here.

Less than two months after our engagement, I lost my bestest puppy, Clover. She had been a source of love and comfort to me through some rough times. I’m afraid she was the kind of dog you only enjoy once in a lifetime. The grief I felt at my decision to end her pain was something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Fortunately, I had a lot of support during those first dark weeks, and the healing slowly began. Instrumental in this recovery was a quirky, flatulent, sweet little mutt, who is now part of my daily life.

After securing a new place to rent, I reveled in the knowledge that I would leave an apartment community I had grown to detest. Goodbye, Garbage Mountain and perpetually broken trash compactor. Goodbye secondhand marijuana smoke. Goodbye gun violence, package thieves, and diaper-littered pool. I promptly found a house that was perfect for my new fiancée and all of our kids. 2021 gave me another blessing, along with a future father-in-law that can help me fix it. (OK, I’ll be helping him help me.) I swiftly cancelled my rental application, and after some moving complications, I can look forward to quarantining with my fiancée in 2022.

With a quiet place to live, I’m hopeful my writing will benefit. I look forward to a new start and rejuvenated writing aspirations.

A happy New Year to all of you! I hope it is a healthy one, full of what makes you happy and fulfilled.

What are you happily anticipating from 2022? Did 2021 bring you things that fill you with gratitude? Let me know in a comment.

2021: Languishing, Heartbreak, and Brain Cloud

30 Thursday Dec 2021

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The Languishing

A therapist first used the word “languish” in one of my sessions, to describe what many have experienced since COVID’s rampage began. The dictionary app on my phone lists a number of definitions. 1) To become weak or feeble; droop; fade. This has definitely happened to me. I’m out of shape. I can barely climb my stairs without pausing for breath. My joints protest when I get up from the couch, so I typically just stay put and let the next Netflix episode start automatically. Parts of me that used to be muscular and taut now droop as if I’m slowly melting. 2) To undergo neglect or experience prolonged inactivity. It could be said that this is voluntary inactivity or perhaps only Netflix-induced hypnosis. 4) To pine with desire or longing. Missing specific people was a familiar feeling, but missing people in general was something I never thought would happen to an introvert like me. Even the people working drive-through windows felt like long-lost friends when they displayed their customer service smiles and handed me some extra ketchup.

I guess I’ve been languishing for a long time. Just when I feel like it’s starting to wane, there’s a new variant that sends me back behind my door to comb through news articles for a shred of optimism. It’s a subtle psychological torture that we’ve been experiencing, living with constant uncertainty from an unseen enemy, filling us with doubt that life will ever be like it was before. When you’re trapped inside, it’s only natural to look for comfort in the familiar, in mind-numbing entertainment. They complement each other a little too well, like chocolate chip cookies and TV.

Clover, the bestest girl

Heartbreak

I lost my best friend this year. Clover was my constant companion for nearly 14 years. The latter of these, she spent in a third floor apartment with me, never more than a few feet away. For a guy who often prefers to stay home, having a dog is such a blessing. Having a dog like Clover was more like a miracle at times, especially during the isolation that COVID demanded. When she started to show signs of age, I began to help her adapt: steps to climb up to the bed, shorter walks with more frequent breaks, dietary supplements, more cuddle time. I’m afraid to say her last day was especially hard on her, after many good days and no indication the end was upon her. It felt like I didn’t breath for the last few hours of her life. The trip to the vet was a blur. The decision to grant her mercy was excruciating and full of doubt, examining my heart for traces of selfishness that she didn’t deserve. I clung to her like if I held her tightly enough, her pain would leave and she would remain. Eventually I realized that if I didn’t let go, I might still be sobbing on the office’s linoleum the next morning. For the first couple of weeks without her, I looked for her underfoot whenever I dropped a bit of food in the kitchen. I reached for her after turning off my lamp before sleep. I swear, I could feel her there next to me on the bed. I thought maybe my grief was keeping her there with me, that she couldn’t move on to the paradise she deserved until I told her I would be ok. It might sound silly, but I believe this happened, that I freed her from pain and sent her off to chase squirrels in Heaven. Her absence has been so hard on me, that I refused to clean her nose prints from my car window for three months after her death. I’d be lying if I didn’t confess how difficult it is to write this nearly six months after I forced myself to leave her body at the emergency vet’s office. Every night, I thank God for the years I had with her and beg Him to bring us together again one day.

Brain Cloud

Did you ever see the movie, Joe vs. the Volcano? The main character is diagnosed with a brain cloud, a mysterious illness that’s the cause of his own languishing. I haven’t been diagnosed with any such thing, but I frequently attribute my lackluster attempts at writing to COVID’s social impacts. I certainly had plenty of time in isolation to complete some stories or editing of my novel. I could’ve written a blog entry every day, if nothing but an exercise to keep my writing muscles fit. Instead they have atrophied like the rest of me. My imagination and desire to write were never things I thought could be stifled by anything, yet here I am with only two pages of one new story written over the last two years. My novel collects virtual dust on my hard drive, as does a non-fiction book about living alone. I was literally doing this! It could have written itself! My blog has been inactive, with a stray reader visiting here or there, but it’s likely most of you have given me up for dead. I can’t blame you. Writers write. I did not. For something I professed to love and aspire to do professionally, this has left me with a bunch of unanswered questions concerning the future of my writing goals and dreams. Spoiler alert for a movie that came out 30 years ago, brain clouds aren’t real. The diagnosis was fake, both in the movie and in my health chart. For me, it’s just my most creative excuse ever not to write. It’s mostly a mix of self-doubt, poor time management, too much TV, and too many cookies. Eventually I will work out some way to get back to it. The laws of time will bend to my will! Or I’ll just watch less TV.

Guess what? 2021 hasn’t been all bad for me. I hope it’s been at least tolerable for you. Leave me a comment and let me know your favorite languishing activities (or inactivities). Also please check out my next entry, coming soon, that describes some awesome things from my 2021.

Only Mostly Dead…

01 Thursday Oct 2020

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“Mostly dead is slightly alive.” –Miracle Max, The Princess Bride

That line wasn’t said about this blog, but it could have been. It’s been…a while since my last entry. I’ve spent most of my time not writing other things as well as not writing here, so you can see how busy I’ve been. All the thinking about writing, well don’t get me started on how much of that has been going on. Not all of it has been done while staring at the TV.

It turns out that a nearly constant state of dread just wrings the creative juices right out of a guy. This guy anyway. I’ve written down ideas for stories and novels. I’ve edited and re-edited my first novel, as feedback has come in from readers. I’ve worked on outlining a new novel and read countless writing articles via Pinterest. All those things have not resulted in progress on a draft or the finishing of said novel.

Does my feeble word count mean I’m no longer a writer? Does my failure to submit stories to publications mean I’m not serious about being published? Did you know there are hundreds of articles on these two subjects, and I’ve read a great number of them when I should have been writing?

This blog suffers for being lower in my writing priorities than my fiction. It was conceived, by a publisher of mine, as a promotional tool for his magazine. Since I’ve had nothing published since, there has been scant promoting. I’ve filled it instead with documentation of hopes and dreams and the occasional story from my childhood. I even had a guest post about basketball that received more attention than anything I’ve written. (Note to self: develop an interest in sports.) Instead of promising more regular posts, I will promise more of the same sporadic content drops that you have come to know. The blog will cling to life and be here when maybe a chocolate-covered miracle pill will restore it to an impressive vitality.

This is a time when I need to write, perhaps more than I ever have, and yet it’s also a time when writing is extremely difficult for me. It’s a monumental task to focus on much of anything. My brain refuses to turn my imagination into words. This “deer in the headlights” feeling occasionally subsides, only to be replaced with the worry that there’s something more menacing coming down the road, something without the decency to pierce the darkness with its headlights. I can’t remember anything that distracted me this much since 9/11, when all I could do was watch the news and emotionally eat. I know this will pass, at some point, and I’ll get back to writing more regularly. We’ll all get back to whatever this current mess has replaced in our lives.

If you haven’t perused my blog’s archives, I recommend you give them a look. There are entries like the one about my humorous fishing outing with my dad. (Is fishing a sport?) There’s that one about my first kiss and another that’s a love note from my sweet tooth. There are a few about writing, too.

Are you suffering a creative drought due to current events? Are you one of those people who have experienced the opposite? Either way, I’d love to hear your story in the comment section.

Mars and Maine

31 Tuesday Mar 2020

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Here are two books I’ve recently read and highly recommend. You can read more of my book reviews at Goodreads.com: https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/37872492-aaron-hamilton

Thin Air by Richard K. Morgan

In “Thin Air”, Morgan’s vividly imagined Martian scenery and cast of deliciously damaged characters is some of his best writing yet. The twisted noir-scifi plot exceeded my expectations, even after reading his Takeshi Kovacs novels multiple times. He continues to raise the bar for darkly satisfying and thought provoking fiction. There is enough familiarity in the gritty scenery, social unrest, and overwhelming odds to remind of his previous novels, yet there is always something new and surprising in the world he creates, something that makes this novel my new favorite, at least until his next offering.

Fans of the Kovacs novels and “Thirteen” will undoubtedly find much to love, while readers new to this outstanding author can instantly learn how much more is in store for them as they continue to read his works.

Vacationland by John Hodgman

I first remember seeing John Hodgman on Comedy Central’s “The Daily Show” years ago. Occasionally I would catch him in an advertisement (notably the PC user opposite of Justin Long in the Apple computer ads) or in a bit part on TV. Most recently, I saw him in a larger role on Amazon Prime’s “The Tick”, which was unfortunately not renewed for a third season, despite the belly laughs and excitement it provided. Hodgman is also one of the personalities on the long-running and popular “Judge John Hodgman” podcast on the Maximum Fun podcast network. My point is, you’ve likely seen him or heard his dry, intelligent wit before.

Hodgman’s talents as a writer and storyteller were previously unknown to me. This was my loss. As much as I enjoy his comic acting, his talent for writing humor makes me respect him even more.

“Vactionland” is part memoir, part travelogue, and all immensely enjoyable. Intertwined are vignettes ranging from the author’s childhood to his start in writing, from his earliest memories of New England vacations to his his full embrace of life in Maine, and also memorable experiences from his speaking events. All are delivered with the subtle humor and self-effacing commentary familiar to a man recalling his earlier years with equal parts shame and laughter.

I highly recommend “Vacationland” as a peek into a brilliant mind as well as an entertaining read. I’m certain I’ll enjoy more from Hodgman in years to come.

Did you know you can connect with me on Goodreads to share books you’ve enjoyed? I would also appreciate any recommendations you want to leave in this blog’s comments section.

Missing Inaction

16 Monday Mar 2020

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Uh, hello. Remember me?

I’ve been missing for a while, so I thought I would post something before Sylvester Stallone or Chuck Norris came looking for me. I’ve been busy, just not especially writing-busy. I have been writing, but most of that is work I didn’t feel like sharing here. Some of it is too personal. Some of it is too political. While that has its place, maybe eventually another blog, I don’t want to bring that kind of often divisive monologue to this one. (Actually, the thought of another political anything right now makes me a little nauseous.) I’ve even written some truly awful poetry that nobody deserves to experience. I will likely burn it in one of my apartment complex’s BBQ grills, dump the ashes into a coffee can, bury said can, and entomb it in a concrete-lined hole to prevent it from contaminating anything. Its end will be more poetic than the poetry itself.

I’ve come to question the nature of time and my perceptions of that dimension as possible through our human constructs and celestial bodies. How can I create more time? Could I get more from people who don’t appear to be using theirs? Could I barter for it with toilet paper or hand sanitizer? What does time taste like? (Probably chicken. I like chicken.)

Time continues to disappear each day before I commit to writing. This blog entry was written in fits and starts over an entire week and was started days after I intended. With the arrival of Spring, the outdoors beckons, and I can eliminate cold temperatures as an excuse for my lethargy. I’m determined to make up for that hour of sleep I lost. Walking in the evening gives me ample time to think about writing, but often it doesn’t add to my daily word count. Until a device is invented and affordable enough to allow my thoughts to be transcribed, this will likely continue.

There are quite a number of things related to writing that consume inordinate amounts of time and don’t give me the same amount of pleasure. They often feel like the kind of work and stress writing has always helped me escape. Where writing frequently recharges my introvert energy reserves, some of the necessities common to a professional writer’s success quite dramatically oppose this. Creating a plot outline feels like building a sandcastle. Hunting for publications accepting the kind of stories I’ve written feels like negotiating the downtown streets of a strange and hostile city at rush hour. Developing a character’s backstory feels like sharing dinner with a friend. Promoting my writing on social media provides all the thrills of working on my resume. You get the idea.

When I’ve accomplished some writing, I’ve been chasing those energizing experiences that I always enjoyed when it was simply my hobby. My writing is better now, but I don’t write as much or as often as when I sought solace in it. In some respects, there’s no going back to that time before I got a couple of stories published. Part of my brain keeps saying: “See?!? People want to read your writing. People will pay to read your writing!” This pushes me to stretch for something great. I consciously attempt to write more concisely, choose more descriptive language, integrate sensory elements, show instead of tell. Instead I should probably enjoy the heedless, creative leaps in my first drafts and apply what I’ve learned to my editing.

When I haven’t been writing, I’ve spent an enormous amount of time thoroughly enjoying myself. It’s been a very therapeutic period of time, but also one heavy in carbs. That latter part needs to change before I have to buy new pants. I have read some amazing books, watched some inspiring TV storytelling, and been enchanted by atmospheric, creepy video games. All of these should provide some blogging fodder, so stay tuned.

And if there is sufficient interest expressed in the comments below, I might be persuaded to share the previously mentioned poetry before I seal it away for the good of humanity.

Recent Excellent Reads

12 Saturday Oct 2019

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There’s been less writing and more reading in my life lately, and I’ve been remiss in recommending some of my recent favorites. If you follow me on Goodreads, you can see all of my ratings and recommendations. Recently I’ve begun reading outside the genres that I write, with growing appreciation for authors who make their craft seem so natural and easy, even if they aren’t writing about aliens, elves, vampires, or alien vampire elves. I’ve even thrown in some non-fiction for good measure.

House of Sand and Fog by Andre Dubus III

As someone who likes to claim he’s a writer, I read fairly critically. I appreciate well-crafted plots, believable characters, and the artful use of language. With those in mind, please appreciate it when I say that I am, quite frankly, completely in awe of Andre Dubus III’s mastery of all of these and more. In House of Sand and Fog, he creates a plot based around a bureaucratic mistake that unleashes chaos into his characters’ lives. It is these characters, at once strong and frail, who propel this plot through the simple act of believing they are right, from opposite sides of their conflicts. They perceive their weaknesses to be strengths, they act out of passionate emotions: fear, pride, love, hatred. They fluctuate between admirable and deplorable, and this turmoil creates an emotionally gripping and compelling read. Well outside my usual genre reading preferences, I couldn’t put down this novel, and I can’t recommend it enough.

Yes, Please by Amy Poehler

I seldom watched Saturday Night Live during Poehler’s tenure, but I fell in love with her work on Parks and Recreation and have been an enthusiastic fan of her work since. In “Yes, Please”, I was treated to satisfying autobiographical pieces from her childhood through her career highs and lows, and I found myself laughing hysterically and, just as easily, moved by some very emotional points in her life as a comic actor, improviser, and mother. There’s wisdom from what she’s learned, and laughs at her own mistakes. She portrays fame and all the hard work it required with honest, self-deprecating humor that endears her to me and gains my respect for her and other women struggling in the same arena. It’s easy to see why she has become beloved by so many fans and peers.

Even for those unfamiliar with Poehler’s work, I recommend this book as a funny look at comedy, television, motherhood, and growing older in an unforgiving industry. She has earned my respect for her creative vision and determination, and the book is worth reading for those qualities alone.

As someone who loves to read, I always feel like I should dedicate more time to it. Sometimes I have a crushing realization that I won’t have time to read everything that I want in my lifetime. Does this happen to any of you? Leave me a comment and let me know what’s at the top of your “to read” list. Better yet, let me know if you’re on Goodreads, so I can follow you.

The Youth of Optimism

28 Wednesday Aug 2019

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Photo by Kim Siever

Most everyone has heard of “the optimism of youth”, but how many are aware that the young don’t have a monopoly on this healthy perspective? I’m not denying that, as we age, we accumulate more responsibilities and stress in our lives. These can easily drain our emotional and physical batteries, until we want to plunge down a rabbit hole of TV and ice cream. Everyone’s rabbit hole is different, but mine always involves ice cream. Deep in the darkness of those creamy, delicious warrens, a person can feel downright old and worn thin. Optimism can seem like that dim sunlight above, but it’s there, and it’s warm, and you can still take your spoon with you, in case there’s more ice cream out there.

I spent far too much time in my twenties mired in negativity. I was broke. I was lonely. I struggled to find a place where I fit in. My family was far away, and I had far too much pride to let them know how unhappy and exhausted I felt. After all, I had chosen to move hundreds of miles away from everything and everyone I had known, so I could try to make a living. But I wasn’t living. I was just surviving, barely. It never occurred to me that this struggle was a gift. This decade of my life was full of the freedom to learn and explore and take chances, something later years wouldn’t offer me nearly as easily. This should have been one of the most optimistic periods of my life.

It’s easy to look back twenty years and declare what you should have done differently. I should have given myself a little time for introspection and self-evaluation. Back then, I had plenty of time to do that, to figure out what little things I could do to make my life incrementally better and more positive. It does take time, something that seems to be far less available as we get older, but it doesn’t have to be an all-consuming quest. The little positive steps glom together into a snowball, and they can accumulate into something big enough to crush the urge to flee into that hole, maybe even enough to squash the ice cream cravings.

It might start with giving yourself something fun or relaxing to anticipate: a walk in the sun, a good book, a cup of coffee with a friend. Before you know it, you’re appreciating that little slice of optimism pie (a la mode), and your elevated mood may push you in a direction that will only increase your momentum: exercise, a salsa class, volunteer opportunities. As the optimism snowball rushes on, that rabbit hole starts to disappear in the background, the years seem to drop away like a heavy winter coat discarded in the spring. You’re in the sun, and there’s no reason not to bask in it.

Optimism is making you young.

Nicknames

14 Sunday Jul 2019

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When I was a kid, all the cool people at school had nicknames. Most were just shortened versions of their first names: Mike, Steve, Tom, Nick, Liz, etc. I was so jealous. Looking back, I can’t explain what made these humdrum nicknames appealing. Maybe it was the casual nature of a one-syllable name that said: “I’m too cool for my whole name.”

The nicknames I desperately envied hinted at a persona, usually one that oozed toughness or cool out of its hard consonants. I tried to think of one and settled for Spike, like Arthur “Fonzie” Fonzarelli’s teenage cousin. It didn’t occur to me that calling a scrawny, goody two-shoes by a nickname like that was the height of sarcasm. Worse, it was the name of Snoopy’s tumbleweed-riding cousin with the sad hat and droopy mustache. It didn’t matter because nobody agreed to call me Spike. Later I learned that the really cool nicknames, those with meaning and permanence, were those earned and given by others. Some are complementary, and others less desirable than the ordinary moniker.

When I was in college, it didn’t take long for me to earn a nickname: Woody. I was so proud, I would even introduce myself this way. Of course, it was a joke on me that I didn’t understand, and that made it all the more perfect and difficult to shake. Some older guys in my dorm, mostly transfer students mixed in with us freshmen for some reason, nicknamed me after the famous character from the TV show, Cheers, played by Woody Harrelson. My country kid gullibility and naivety made this an easy nickname for them to coin, I’m sure. I had never even seen the show; I just knew it was popular. Woody Harrelson would go on to star in roles as tough guys, but at the time he was famous for playing this ignorant, amiable hayseed. And that’s what I was, I confess.

Nicknames are common in military fiction, and this applies to some of my favorite scifi and fantasy series, too. They are like badges or medals, something coveted by the uninitiated. From a reader’s point of view, the nicknames instantly revealed that these characters had earned a place of respect and importance, even among some of the lowest ranking soldiers. I wanted them to live long enough to earn nicknames, and many of them didn’t. My first exposure to this was in Glen Cook’s Black Company. It was told from the point of view of a mercenary company’s chief medic, Croaker. The nicknames given by the company were replacements for names people left behind when fleeing their pasts. Real names held power, for those with magical abilities, so the nicknames provided security as well. Some included Goblin, Silent, Raven, and Darling. Later I would see the same in Steven Erikson’s Malazan Book of the Fallen, clearly influenced by the former, and many other works in the genre.

What was behind the appeal of nicknames in these favorite fictional worlds? I think they spoke of camaraderie and respect, of shared losses and victories, of belonging. Some were derogatory and darkly humorous. All were worn with pride.

Now I look back on that college nickname and wonder if there was something more than humor behind it. But, please, don’t call me Woody.

Have you earned a nickname you’re willing to share in a comment? I’d love to hear its story.

Heart in Inglenook

01 Monday Jul 2019

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Even though I’ve been gone longer than I ever lived there, the town where I grew up is part of me. Inglenook isn’t its real name, but it was the name of the property where I lived when it was originally inhabited. The house and its yard used to be part of a larger plot of land, long before I was born. If memory serves, the field across from the house of my youth comprised the other half. I only ever knew it as it alternated between feed corn and alfalfa. I haven’t lived there in 25 years, though I still visit the town to see my mother.

When my mom received some offers on her house, I only considered it for the wise, practical decision she embraced as she looked for something smaller and more manageable. My mind raced ahead to the stresses of house hunting and moving she would have to confront. The emotional response I would feel didn’t happen for a month or more. Even though I moved hundreds of miles away, it was still home. I pictured its fields, river, and rolling hills every time I thought the word. If I considered it for very long, I might shiver at the thought of the protracted and bitter winters. My first reaction always produced summer memories.

I wrote about it in more detail here. It’s a tiny town in the wilder, quieter, cleaner NY that nobody tends to consider when the state is mentioned on TV or in conversation. It’s the origin and setting of a dozen stories I’ve written. It will no doubt spawn a dozen more. Some come to mind even as I type this. In the long-forgotten railroad tracks, the shady hollows, the tapestry of wild grape vines, are tales of boyhood adventure and a few scares provided by isolation and quiet.

I’ll likely never have reason to visit it again, once my mother moves. The covered bridge is a piece of history. The old church, now with its wall full of honey bees, was the sight of Sunday school, chilly sunrise Easter services, pancake breakfasts, and strawberry festivals. I salvaged rusty railroad spikes from the muddy tracks that called to me and my bike, picked juicy blackberries, and hacked through wild grapevines like an intrepid jungle explorer. So many heart-tugging memories of my departed dad took place in a canoe, on that river, with our fishing poles. These places are all friends. Now they’ll be like people I never saw again after high school. Their memories will fade until one day I can’t quite picture the details.

There was a time when I couldn’t wait to leave that town for (slightly) bigger things. Now I relish the chance to leave the bigger town behind and head back to that hamlet. Even though its farms are mostly gone, along with many of the young people and those with means to move, even though I have just as many memories of shoveling snow and winter ills, I will miss it like I miss some of the people buried in its small cemetery. I will miss that feeling of being nearly home when I cross the rebuilt bridge and sight my mom’s house down the street.

Is there a place that will always be part of you? Leave me a comment, and tell me its story.

Zero Calorie Comfort Food

27 Monday May 2019

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To be honest, right from the start, this post isn’t about food. It’s not about some amazing alternative to delectable, reliable staples that warm our hearts as well as our bellies. It has nothing to do with fried chicken, or mashed potatoes with gravy, or meatloaf, or chicken and dumplings, or… I think I just gained a few pounds.

There are books I read over and over again that give me great comfort. I’ve spent time wondering why I return to them, besides the fact that they are outstanding works of fiction. Why will I turn to them instead of reading something brand new? Why spend hours on secrets that have already been discovered, characters who’ve already revealed their true natures, battles that have already been decided? I do it because I crave the taste of those books like a warm piece of pie.

If an author delivers me a plot with a pace that pulls me and keeps me guessing, characters that seem alive or trick me into sympathizing with them, and vivid scenery that surrounds them, I will gorge myself on it with utter abandon. I haven’t met many other people who do this, but I’m sure I’m not alone. There are books that contain passages so meaningful, humorous, or heart-wrenching that I will flip (or scroll) back to read them again. It’s no wonder it takes me so long to read them.

The First Law Trilogy, by Joe Abercrombie, has moved with me several times. I feel a weight lift from my mind once I unpack and place these books on my bookshelf. This isn’t the first dark fantasy series I’ve read, but it is influenced by others I love, like Glen Cook’s Black Company series. It combines all the elements I mentioned above, along with some dark humor. The protagonists and plot have a foot in the comforting familiar and another firmly in original territory. The first in the trilogy, The Blade Itself, is the first novel I’ve ever read through once and then immediately started over again. They are examples of fantasy that I try to achieve when I write.

Dune, by Frank Herbert, is a benchmark for science fiction I love. While the royal intrigue of the second novel never solidly appealed to me, there was enough of it in the first novel to lend a welcome complexity to the rest of the exciting adventure I love. Part of me just loves the planet that seems like another character, one that presents such a challenge to people who have conquered space and the limits of the human mind. Wicked villains and heroic youths give all the charms of a fairy tale with the alien nature of humanity in the far future, and I want to be there riding sand worms and ‘thopters with them.

The Silver Spike, by Glen Cook (see Black Company above) is part of a longer series that can stand alone. I’ve read it more than any other novel in the series, I think because it magnifies my favorite elements in the other books. The main characters are bad people, but they pale in comparison to the evil working to be reborn into the world. The world contains people who do what they must to survive and always want more after they find what they need. Greed, jealousy, fear, and lust motivate characters that move the plot at a steady pace from one disaster to another, and it’s fun every time I read it.

The novels I mentioned above are those I will talk about to whomever will stand still to listen or find themselves trapped in a car with me. As a writer who has yet to see a novel published, maybe I’m reaching a bit too far when I want to write someone’s comfort food. I would love it every time someone bought one of my novels, but I would LOVE my books to join the dog-eared, underlined, cracked-spined (or the digital equivalent) staples of their regular reading. If my books could compel readers to rant about them to complete strangers at parties, on the bus, or in the supermarket aisle, then I will have written something I believe is truly spectacular.

Do you have some favorite books that satisfy you like comfort food? Let me know about them in a comment below!

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