Energize Your Writing By Going Back In Time

I have been driving around my old haunts. It's hard to believe that it has been over 30 years since I have lived in San Marcos, Texas.

The home I celebrated my 5th birthday at is no longer standing. It was up a hill along the access road between Route 80 and Aquarena Springs.

The library where I sought refuge in during those hot Texas summers is now a church.

Goodnight Junior High (or middle school, I'm not sure what it was called then) is now an elementary school. San Marcos High, where I attended, is now Goodnight.

The lot on Love Street where I almost died in a house fire is still there. There's the curb cut where I sat waiting for the ambulance. I sat on it again - a 49-year-old man sitting on the exact spot I occupied as a teenager on a day I will never forget.

Still much more to look for as I work on my book. Being back here has brought back so many memories. If you want to energize your writing, I suggest re-visiting your old haunts.

Now, I have to dedicate a day to tubing (or is it toobing?) down the San Marcos River. Let's see what that does for my memory.

What Does It Look Like To Be A Writer?

I'm wondering if you're like me. Something inside me has always bugged me. That something has said, "You should write."

But... then there's the other voice, "You can't do that."

I'm 49 years old. I have wanted to write all my adult life. The amazing thing is that I'm finally giving myself the permission to do it.

And I'm ignoring people around me who say I can't or shouldn't.

Trying to live your dream isn't easy. It's tough. Every second of every day there's that voice inside your head telling you that you can't do it. You are inadequate. Maybe that voice is harsher and says, "Who do you think you are, you effing loser? What the heck have you done with your life to make you think you can do this?"

Maybe I won't make it. Maybe I'm not meant to write.

Or... maybe I am. maybe... just maybe. My voice should be heard. Your voice should be heard.

So... I am venturing forth... I will chase my dreams while I still have breath in my lungs. I must... After all, once that breath leaves my lungs... there's no going back. There's no do-over.

All we have is now to chase our dreams.

Picking A Story To Write

It was the second rainy day this week in San Marcos, Texas. The clouds broke for good around 6 p.m. But before they did, the grey blanket kept the temperature at a mild 80 or so with a slight breeze.

Sitting in my car with the windows down should be bearable, I thought.

I drove down Hopkins, I-35 in my rear view mirror. Red lights at the railroad crossing flashed ahead. The white and red striped arms swung down, blocking traffic. The train approached from the right.

Random thoughts:

I'm done with Philip Roth's "My Life as a Man." What should I read next?

My legs itch. I really hate mosquitos. God, why did you create mosquitos? Seriously.

Here's the train. Oh, please don't stop on the tracks again. San Marcos officials really need to build an overpass here. Seriously. Wait... I just mentally used seriously twice in a matter of seconds. OK. no more of that word.

Seriously, seriously, seriously, seriously, seriously, seriously... There. Out of my system.

It's 5:37 p.m. exactly. I should write that down. Where's my journal? Ah, there it is (on the passenger seat).

Why are rail cars so rusty? And what's with all the graffiti on them? Is that a thing? Graffiti artists going to rail yards to spray paint messages? There's one, "Doni." Is that the artist? "H2O." Wow, a scientific graffiti artist. "Seth is a pussy." Oh, that's not nice. Why'd they say that about Seth? And why spray paint it on the side of a rail car? I really doubt Seth will see it.

And so... that's how my mind wanders. I try my best to write it all down. Every detail. You never know what you may be able to use as a writer. My other thought as I sat there watching the train go by was, "What story will I write next?"

I still don't know. I have too many ideas at the moment. Too many is a good problem to have.

After the train passed, I motored on. I pulled into the parking lot near Summer Moon Coffee along Thorpe Lane. Then, I stared out into the ether and let my mind wander. Pen and journal in hand to capture it all.

Father's Day

Father's Day...

It's coming soon. Let's celebrate.
 Just a commercial date.
Who really wants a father these days?
Who? Not many. Maybe a daughter? A son?
Why not a father app?.
Tell it what you want... then you're done.
It won't judge or scold.
Maybe you can swipe left or right. and then you're done.
For this online father nothing's too bold.
"Can I lie about this or that?" Swipe right
"Maybe cheat, steal or is that too bold?" Swipe right.
Fret not, the father app says...Right. Right.Right.
After all, you're too old
to be told.... What is wrong or right?
It's too late. Goodbye to the light.
You don't get the old ways.
Such old days...a confusing maze
Your father's ways.

A Quill

I like to write with a quill.

It's been years since I've done it. Felt the instrument of my desires in my hand. No excuse. I have had a quill in my possession. Almost 20 years now.

But I buried it. I stored it away. Forgot it as I forgot my desire to use it. Oh... my lovely quill. I have her still. That is all.

All else has flown away.

Watching My Cat

I am watching my cat.

He is a Bengal breed. A hunter. I bedazzled him with a red sparkling collar and a bell. When he scratches his jaw the bell goes jingle, jingle, jingle.

Poor rescue cat. Poor Leppard. He's safe now.

Thinking of better times

It's 1 a.m. Most are sleeping. I'm awake wishing I was with my children.

I'm surrounded by their images... Items that they made for me in happier times.

Happy Father's Day! So many crafts ... yarn... clay... paint... crayon... The schools in some instances went the extra mile and laminated my children's work. A way to preserve. If only it could.

Writers Should Relive Their Past: I Begin A New Journey Into My Past

Tonight I find myself in a familiar setting that is at the same time alien to me. The present which was my past. It's a place writers should frequent.

I am now approximately four hours south of Grand Prairie, Texas. Grand Prairie, or GP, as some say, is between Dallas and Fort Worth for those unfamiliar with the area.

Hardships have pulled me south to San Marcos, Texas. This is where I was born some 49 years ago. Oh... how the landscape has changed. And... yet... some things haven't.

I'm still working on my book. I'm still driving for Uber as part of my research for that book: My satire - I hope - of these crazy times we live in. However, as a former journalist, it is hard to waste this opportunity that has allowed me to document my travels in my birthplace.

Every trip I take sends me to a place that jogs my memory about some event in my adolescent past. And it's time to take a journalist's approach to my daily travels and write about it. A journalist should have "New Eyes".

What's that mean? That means everything journalists see should be so amazingly new that they take notice of EVERYTHING (every detail others don't take notice of) as if it's the first time they've seen whatever it is they are seeing.

As a journalism professor at Syracuse University, that is exactly what I demanded of my students. I never would have become a professor at that far-off school in New York without the experiences I lived through here in San Marcos. When I was here as a child, I didn't even know Syracuse was a place.

I was a local... Then I left. I am here now... absorbing every detail...

So... with "New Eyes" I drive the streets. Here we go.

Teaser:
Tonight I drove to a place where I was almost killed. It was also the place I experienced my first New Year's kiss... and where I got drunk and puked Texas style for the first time.

More of all that later.