Zachariah Wahrer's Blog, page 14
February 4, 2016
Cough, Cough
I woke up in the middle of the night, a tight raspiness gripping my throat. I hurried towards the bathroom, suppressing the urge to cough. Hacking in your spouse’s ear at 1 A.M. is not a good way to promote marital bliss. I’m a restless sleeper, so I already feel bad for waking Kara up so often.
During breakfast, Kara told me about how she’d dreamed I was yelling. I often have nightmares and can make a lot of noise. “You know,” I replied, “I actually think I remember that dream. I had a spider in my throat. I just couldn’t quit coughing.”
February 3, 2016
The Riders
I've had a fascination with Riders ever since I began noticing them. That was around when I turned 13 or so. Riders are funny looking creatures, bearing a strong resemblance to the imps you see illustrated in those old fairy tale books. They have leathery skin, long faces, big eyes, and pointy ears. They don't have tails or wings though. That's where they differ from the drawings. I started calling them Riders because I was young and didn't have a more creative word. They hang on and ride around. Seemed cool at the time.
I grew up in the country, out in the Mid-West. There, most Riders are small, less than a foot tall. Until I got older, I actually didn't know they could be larger. Before then, I'd run into someone who had a big Rider and I would just stop and stare, wide eyed. I'm sure they wondered why some kid was gaping at them. They probably thought I was “special.”
Once I moved to the city though—Woah man!—the Riders here are huge! I catch glimpses of the biggest ones as they fly by, passing me in the right lane of the highway. I've noticed the largest ones are usually perched on some dude's shoulder, riding inside a jacked up, noisy truck. Sometimes a really fat one will be on the shoulder of a motorcyclist, whizzing between cars, hanging on for dear life at 120 miles per hour. It would be funny if I wasn't so worried about what happened to the Rider if their host eats the back of a car. The other day, I even saw a huge Rider on the shoulder of this girl who was stopped by a cop. (In case you were wondering, the Rider on that particular cop was an average size. Some cops have huge Riders though!)
The Riders never really pay attention to me, but I don't mind that. They always seem busy, whispering or screaming at their hosts. It's really strange they never talk in a normal volume, but maybe that's just not possible. Man, Riders can get so worked up sometimes. There was this lady at the post office, and the big Rider on her shoulder started going off, straight in her ear. It was loud, like a jet or something. (As a side note: I can't understand the language, so I can't tell you what it said.) Pretty soon, the woman started yelling at the person in front of her for talking on her cell phone in Spanish. “This is America. Speak American!” I feel like the Rider was connected somehow, because after she finished, it just sat back, looking really satisfied. I don't understand why it was so happy, but it didn't make another sound the whole time after. The Rider on the Spanish speaking person's shoulder was whispering furiously in her ear, but she never said anything.
Oh man, I almost forgot! The smallest Rider I've ever seen was in a picture of a bunch of monks in Tibet. It might have been the Dalai Lama or whatever his name is. Get this: The Rider on his shoulder looked so starved and emaciated it seemed like a tiny puff of wind might blow him away! I've never seen one looking that bad. Sure, some Riders are small, but this one looked like if he turned sideways he would straight up vanish.
Everyone else I've ever seen or met has a Rider on their shoulder, and I often wonder if I have one on mine. Sometimes, when I'm driving, my right shoulder feels heavier and I think I see a leathery face at the edge of my vision. It's probably just my imagination though. How could I see everyone else's Rider and not my own?
I grew up in the country, out in the Mid-West. There, most Riders are small, less than a foot tall. Until I got older, I actually didn't know they could be larger. Before then, I'd run into someone who had a big Rider and I would just stop and stare, wide eyed. I'm sure they wondered why some kid was gaping at them. They probably thought I was “special.”
Once I moved to the city though—Woah man!—the Riders here are huge! I catch glimpses of the biggest ones as they fly by, passing me in the right lane of the highway. I've noticed the largest ones are usually perched on some dude's shoulder, riding inside a jacked up, noisy truck. Sometimes a really fat one will be on the shoulder of a motorcyclist, whizzing between cars, hanging on for dear life at 120 miles per hour. It would be funny if I wasn't so worried about what happened to the Rider if their host eats the back of a car. The other day, I even saw a huge Rider on the shoulder of this girl who was stopped by a cop. (In case you were wondering, the Rider on that particular cop was an average size. Some cops have huge Riders though!)
The Riders never really pay attention to me, but I don't mind that. They always seem busy, whispering or screaming at their hosts. It's really strange they never talk in a normal volume, but maybe that's just not possible. Man, Riders can get so worked up sometimes. There was this lady at the post office, and the big Rider on her shoulder started going off, straight in her ear. It was loud, like a jet or something. (As a side note: I can't understand the language, so I can't tell you what it said.) Pretty soon, the woman started yelling at the person in front of her for talking on her cell phone in Spanish. “This is America. Speak American!” I feel like the Rider was connected somehow, because after she finished, it just sat back, looking really satisfied. I don't understand why it was so happy, but it didn't make another sound the whole time after. The Rider on the Spanish speaking person's shoulder was whispering furiously in her ear, but she never said anything.
Oh man, I almost forgot! The smallest Rider I've ever seen was in a picture of a bunch of monks in Tibet. It might have been the Dalai Lama or whatever his name is. Get this: The Rider on his shoulder looked so starved and emaciated it seemed like a tiny puff of wind might blow him away! I've never seen one looking that bad. Sure, some Riders are small, but this one looked like if he turned sideways he would straight up vanish.
Everyone else I've ever seen or met has a Rider on their shoulder, and I often wonder if I have one on mine. Sometimes, when I'm driving, my right shoulder feels heavier and I think I see a leathery face at the edge of my vision. It's probably just my imagination though. How could I see everyone else's Rider and not my own?
January 18, 2016
Bondage
This is a piece I created today called Bondage.
Bondage
This is a piece I created today called Bondage.
January 17, 2016
Can't Stop, Won't Stop
Today was the first day of my second week as a full-time author.
I have been a writer for the past 9 years. It started because the band I was in folded, and I was left with no creative outlet. I wrote short stories, I wrote poems. I came home from a full-time job, sat down on the computer, and typed until I fell asleep, trying to hit my word count goal for the week, for the month, for the year. I failed a lot. I finished the first draft of my novel. I had a dream.
I fell away from writing several times. The creative process is difficult, the rewards minimal. I came back. I did one revision of my novel, then two, then three. I let people read it and they were encouraging. I revised it yet again. I changed jobs, changed states, changed marriages, still writing was with me.
I mailed my manuscript off to publishers and got many rejection letters in return. I didn't take it personally. There are many people out there doing the same thing as me, and a lot of them are better. More submissions, more rejections. Publishers don't want to risk publishing the first novel of a four book series from an unknown author.
I kept at it, determined to make my way in a harsh creative field. I had failed to make it in the music industry. I would not fail with writing. I did lots of research and decided self-publishing was for me. I would make own way, find my own audience, be my own boss.
I published Breakers of the Dawn and started on the next book of the Dawn Saga. Can't stop, won't stop. I moved into a van with my wife and we traveled the U.S. and Canada. I wrote in different states, outside, in libraries, in National Parks, in friends houses, in campgrounds. Can't stop, won't stop.
A year and a half later, we run out of money and both start working. Sarah is a nurse. She is amazing at her job. She saves the smallest human beings you could think of. 24 weeks after conception doesn't give you long to grow.
Sarah believes in me, believes in my crazy sci-fi stories, believes in my dream. I love her more than anything. I couldn't have done this without her. I've dreamed of writing full-time for so long, and now it's a reality. It's not easy, but it is good.
So here I am, sitting in the middle of Las Vegas, having completed the first day of my second week as a full-time writer. I met and then exceeded my word count for the day, but I'm still here. Can't stop. Won't stop.
Cheers,
Zachariah
January 11, 2016
January 9, 2016
January 6, 2016
Where Are We Now?
Just published a new poem, titled Where Are We Now? at PoetsUnlimited on Medium. Check it out and let me know what you think.
