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.

Feeling Alone

I think as humans we have a longing to be with others.  Who really likes being alone?

I guess, when I'm writing, I don't want to be bothered. But... When the writing is done... Then what?

I stare at my four walls. They don't speak to me except to say, "You're alone."

There's my cat, Leppard. But all he does is go, "Meow."

I wish I knew what he was trying to say. I don't. So... My four walls seem like a prison- solitary confinement. I'm going on 4 years of my sentence.

When will it end?

Uber Stories: Nipples and Drugs

I didn't see the nipples, or the drugs...

But in my driver's seat I heard about them from the men and women sitting behind me in my Kia Forte. 

One of the incidents during my travels as an Uber driver was funny. The other was scary. More to come as I make sense of the two events. 

FYI... you can already imagine the nipples story is the funny one.

Talking To Yourself: Don't Stifle Your Inner Monologue

It's after 2 a.m. on a Saturday. Just spent 14 hours on the road for Uber and Lyft in the Dallas-Ft.Worth Metro area during an absolute deluge of rain. Had to work. Had to earn. I was not happy. Many of my thoughts were the kind many of us wouldn't admit to having. But... as a writer... we should not stifle any thoughts - even those polite company would consider bad. Even those that offend people in our lives.

Here is what I mean. To set the scene... Streets flooding. Visibility - even with windshield wipers at max - limited. But... I remained on the road out of sheer determination and anger.

Experience.... is one of the greatest resources for writers. Now... some of my thoughts during the last 14 hours...

Inner monologue:

"Every time I take a step forward, fate hits me with another obstacle that sends me two steps back!"

"Why keep trying! I can't win. God, help me... would death be better? I'm tired."

"No! Can't give up! I will fail tonight...but... I can't quit!"

"I miss my son. She won't let me see him. Calm down... Don't cry. Don't make a decision based only on emotions. Use your head! If she knows she made you cry, she wins!"

"I can't see the road. Keep driving. Keep working. Think of your son. He misses me."

"I'm sorry, dad. I wanted to come," my son texted me. "My hands are shaking. I'm sad. I'm angry. God! Help me!"

"I'm soaking wet. I'm tired. But... I have to keep going. I miss my son. I have to do whatever it takes to be heard, for him to be heard. I need to keep working. The poor don't have a voice."

"I need a lawyer! I need a drink!"

Today's Writing Prompt: Just Start

Sitting in my car not too far from my apartment. It's a quiet moment in between rides.

I pulled out one of my writing books and placed my clipboard and notebook on my lap.

I began to jot down two prompts. I also jotted down a few observations:

"It's overcast today, but still the temperature hovers around 90. A squirrel searches the grass near a tree. It steps. Pauses. Digs its nose in the grass. It lifts its head into the air - eyes scanning. A step. Anothe pause. A step. Head swiveling left and right. Pause. Nose in the grass again. A low-flying small prop plane buzzes overhead. The squirrel plants its four paws into the ground, lifts its head and freezes.
Will it bolt? I wonder. No. Once the plane passes, the squirrel goes back to foraging.
I sit in my car, foraging for rides. It's been 10 minutes. Maybe time to move just as the squirrel has abandoned the spot of grass next to the tree and has moved onto the landscaped flower beds nearby."

And so it goes everyday. Here's today's writing prompt. Over the next 10 hours as I drive all over the Dallas-Ft. Worth area, I will lean on the prompt to kick start my writing. Try it yourself. Just start writing. Start with whatever you have.

"Start with whatever you have: a scene, a snatch of dialogue, a character's mannerism. You can fill in and sort it out later."

As A Writer You Must Be Free To Think

I'm working on a social satire. So... I'm studying a lot of writers: Twain, Swift, Adams (as in Douglas Adams), and Orwell, of course.

I'm filtering my work through the eyes of a protagonist who sees a myriad of characters who call a modern metropolitan American city home. 

Here's a quote from Orwell that confronts my protagonist. 

"You are free to be a drunkard, an idler, a coward, a backbiter, a fornicator; but you are not free to think for yourself."

The great thing about literature is that the writer may bring his or her meaning to what is written, but readers complete the thought and contribute their reality to bring it to life.

What does that quote mean to you?