Darren R. Leo's Blog, page 3

Thirty days of writing prompt…part deux

So, we left off with our hero catching up on 30 days of writing prompts.  In the first installment he heroically tackled one through ten.  I think I like referring to myself in the third person.  Today, our hero is tired but will attempt to conquer a few more….

11)  You current relationship:  I’m engaged.  We’ve been engaged for about seven years.  Our wedding date, the arbitrary future Saturday we selected, was actually getting close so we picked another one in 2023, I think.  She is amazing, beautiful, brilliant, pragmatic, thoughtful, and kind.  I bring “crazy nutjob” to the relationship so it balances out.

12)  Two words or phrases that make you laugh:  Hmmmm,  well, “Republican wisdom” always makes me laugh.  As a veteran I find “military intelligence” to be hilarious.  However, my two favorite phrases are “How hard can it be?” and “Watch this!”  I know every time I utter them that things will probably end badly but funny…for others.

13) My commute to/from work:  It sucks.  I have to navigate some stairs and dogs jumping and…I’ll drive 200 miles, uphill, both ways, to teach an adjunct class if you happen to be in a hiring position.

14)  Your life in 7 years:  Seven years?  Have you met me?  I’m happy to live through tomorrow.  Seven years…what the fuck!?  I would like to sail around the world; however I don’t know how to sail.  The person I’d like to sail around the world with, an accomplished sailor and the perfect pragmatist for such a venture, gets seasick.  See how fucked up that is?

15)  Three pet peeves:  Three?  Really?  I could write every day for a decade on just my pet peeves.  High on my list are dick drivers.  See us all waiting in a line of traffic to exit?  I’m sure your life is so much more important that you feel you should drive all the way to the front and cut in front of me.  People who are rude to waiters….almost never is it the waiter’s fault.  You being a dick about it just says you’re a dick and never had to work for tips.  In a tie for number one are hypocrites and bullies.  Rage against gay marriage all you want and legislate against it.  I’ll disagree but respect your rights.  When you get caught paying a guy to blow you, I hope he bites your dick off and your wife takes everything in the divorce.  Bullies are probably number one.  Refer back to number two on this list as to why (previous post).  I despise those who insult, intimidate, or hurt just because they can.  Mix that with short man’s disease, suicidal ideation, pretty good training in physical combat, and general dislike of humans, and I am the friend to have if being bullied…and you don’t mind things escalating quickly.

16)  Bullet your entire day:   Hmmm, I get up, check the bat phone for messages, take a few calls from world leaders, check to see how high I am on the NY Times bestseller list, clean some shit, fix some shit, try to write a few words, contemplate existential angst, play with my dog, pretend I’m a salesperson and pimp my book, ponder what nice thing I can do for the BSW, somewhere back there I take a shit, and mostly I just try to get through the day, the pain, the disease, and plan to come out swinging tomorrow.

17)  A quote you try to live by:  “How hard can it be?”  This has certainly landed me in deep shit many times, but I think it has brought success just as often.  If nothing else, it brings education and experience.  “Do you know how to lay a subfloor?”  “No, but how hard can it be?”  “Can you climb a multi-pitch 5.12?”  “I don’t know, but how hard can it be?”  It gives permission to try, and trying and failing is always better than not trying.

18)  My favorite color and why:  I like navy blue…I think.  I am color blind.  I don’t see a lot of colors, and I confuse the ones I do see.  So, I think I like navy blue.  It may be fuchsia.

19)  Five fears that I have:  Donald Trump becomes president.  Marco Rubio becomes president.  Ben Carson becomes president.  Ted Cruz becomes president.   Jeb Bush becomes president.  Beyond that….there are 10 other republican candidates for president…and I hate snakes.  They thoroughly skeeve me out.  I also have a strong fear of anything being near my eyes…anything…eye drops, the corner of my pillow, anything.  And clowns.  I’m fucking terrified of clowns.  And rejection, or so my therapists say.  I apparently have a strike first, scorched earth fear and response to rejection.  I think that’s well more than five.

20)  ITunes on shuffle and what are the first three songs and my response to them:  First, it was so fucking hard to figure out how to shuffle that I almost scrapped the whole post.  So, number one is Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds.  It reminds me of Sundays in the army when we’d play whiffle ball in the quad.  Second is Counting Crows’ Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby.  This song always makes me think of Lori singing it.  I’m going to put that on repeat after I figure out how to turn the damn shuffle off.  Third is Zac Brown’s Toes in the Water.  That reminds me of our trip to the Dominican Republic.

So, there’s another few hundred words I could have devoted to my work in progress.  Don’t feel bad.  If I hadn’t written this I would have watched Gilligan’s Island (just discovered all episodes are available on TVLand online!)

 

30 day writing challenge

Many of my writer friends are gearing up for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month).  I am all for anything that gets writers to write.  NaNo isn’t for us diamond polishers.  It just makes us feel bad about our paltry word output.  So, I’ll cheer on everyone churning words.

However, I’ve also seen this meme floating across my feed in the past few days

I know it is meant to prompt one to write about a topic every day for the month, but I’m 21 days behind.  So, here’s 10 days of writing challenge in one blog post.  We’ll see how the next 9 days go.

 Five problems with social media:  Keyboard warriors who are only brave online and wouldn’t dare utter in person what they post on the web.  Invasiveness.  It seems as if things don’t actually exist if there isn’t a selfie posted.  It is destroying grammar, spelling, and communication.  OMG, HMU, SMH, HRU, and on and on.  It is insidious.  The social media sites are out to make money.  Watch what they’re pushing to you as content.  It isn’t just you and your friends catching up on life.  It is you, your friends, and a bzillion dollar corporation trying to make a buck off you.  It is addictive by design.  I know I’m guilty of rushing to FB to see if anything happened in the ten minutes I was away.
Your earliest memory:  I intend this post to be in jest and lighthearted.  This part won’t be.  I crawled out of bed in my footy pajamas because I heard my mother crying.  The light in the hall was on so I was brave enough to peek out.  My father was sitting on the hallway floor with his back against the closet door.  He was drinking from a bottle of clear liquor and talking on the phone.  My baby sister was crying in her room.  The sounds of my mother came from behind the closet door.  With all the indignation a four year old can muster, I hit my father.  He hit me back, with the phone, repeatedly.
Your first love and first kiss:  My first kiss was a girl at a 7th grade dance.  I was en fuego that night.  The first girl I said, “I love you” to was Carol, a girlfriend in college.  She wore rubber O ring bracelets and bows in her hair like Madonna (it was 1984), and she could dance like you’ve never seen.  She was also kind, funny, and smart.  She still is.
Ten interesting facts about yourself:  Ummmm, I’m actually 6’4″, but I slouch.  Let’s see…I’ve spent at least a week in 49 states, I was a state champion wrestler, I wrote and sold a novel, I’ve hiked the Appalachian Trail, I streaked through a Vegas casino, I am color blind and can’t carry a tune in a bucket, I suffer from severe depression but still think I’m the funniest person I know, I make the best chili in the world (seriously.  I won awards…from the voices in my head), and I can make a noise with my mouth that I’ve never met anyone else who can do it.
A place you would live but have never visited:   I have lived all over this country and moved sight unseen on more than one occasion.  I would live in New Zealand, Ireland, Norway, Spain, or Argentina, and I haven’t been to any of them.
Someone who fascinates you and why:  This is a long list.  Annie Dillard because she is, in my opinion, our best living writer.  Craig Childs because he is also a great writer, an adventurer, and my mancrush.  The Pope because he might change a 2,000 year narrative in his lifetime…and he got a late start.  The list goes on, but I will choose my BSW.  She is smarter than I, a jumbled seeming contradiction of views that all make sense when you listen to her, the kindest person I’ve known, my best friend, and the love of my life.
Tattoos you have and their meaning:  I have several.  The first was my ex-wife’s name above the Chinese symbol for love.  I need to get that one removed.  Until I do, I just tell people the symbol is “bitch.”  Two of my kids names wrap my ankle.  My family name, Leo, is Chinese.  (I know I don’t look it.)  I have our family name on my shoulder.  And I have the Appalachian Trail logo on my leg…because hiking it altered the course of my life.
A book you love and one you didn’t:  I love books.  They are spilling from shelves, nooks, and horizontal surfaces throughout my home.  If you put a gun to my head and told me to pick one….I’d smile and make you squeeze the trigger ( a little suicidal humor!  Lighten up!)  I’d probably pick the Monkey Wrench Gang by Edward Abbey.  It isn’t the best written, but it awakened in seventeen year old me an understanding of the fragility of the world and the need to do our part.  As for books I don’t like, there are many more of those.  I’m a writer with an MFA in fiction.  I’m particular and snobbish.  I can open any page of The DaVinci Code and use it as a lesson for how to write shitty.
Your feelings on ageism:  Old people suck!  Oh wait, I’m 50 now.  Old people rule and young people suck!  I’m opposed to most “isms.”
A fruit you dislike and why:  I may be wrong here, but I believe artichokes are a fruit.  In which case, I pick them.  There is an epic amount of work pulling off the leaves, scraping them on your teeth for a modicum of taste, and then you finally get to the delicious heart…and it is two bites at best.  Pomegranates piss me off in the same manner.  Way too much work to get the deliciousness.

Maybe we’ll keep going tomorrow.

It is apparently National Suicide Prevention week…

One would think I’d know that.  I’d really rather not.  I’d like to be just passively aware that people kill themselves and feel a detached sadness on their behalf.  I’m not.  I know 14,000 people try to kill themselves every day.  I know the anguish and despair they feel that leads them to conclude dead is better than living.  I know I’ve been among those 14,000 three times.  One would think I’d improve with practice.

On occasion I lend my voice and my words to this epidemic.  I’ve blogged about depression and suicide many times in this little puke of my mind page.  Mostly, I cringe and willfully look away.  I do so not because I disregard the plight of the mentally ill.  Ever been in a public restroom with harsh, glaring fluorescent lights after a rough night?  Nobody likes the image staring back from the mirror.  I don’t want to be reminded that I am one of the sick.  I keep my head down, have my daily battles with the demons in my head, and try to put on a good happy face for those around me.

I’m very lucky to be alive, and it is only due to quick action taken by those who care…and that I feel obligated to explain myself each time I try.  I’d have gotten away with it if not for those pesky goodbye letters!  (How often do you get a Scooby Doo reference in a blog about suicide?)  Many of those 14,000 don’t have someone who will grieve when they’re gone.  They don’t have someone to pull them back from the brink, usually against their will.  I can’t tell you how pissed off I was each time emergency personnel showed up to save me.

Here’s a harsh statement I believe to be true.  The mentally ill can not save themselves.  We can’t save ourselves.  In the absence of a real commitment to mental health in our society, many of us (we the mentally sullied) would be better off dead.  Consider the pain that would lead someone to want to end their life.  You want them to live with that?  That’s the definition of evil.

So, with good intentions, people post on social media this week (and ignore it almost all the rest of the time.)  I get it.  I posted too.   I don’t like looking in that mirror either.  We don’t want people to kill themselves, but we do little about it.  We feel good when we “save” someone from killing themselves.  We lock them up in a vile place (I wrote about one such place in “Ten Days at Butler.”) where we don’t have to look at them in our mirrors.

Until we make real strides in addressing mental illness, we will not decrease the number of psychopaths shooting people.  14,000 people will continue to attempt suicide every day.  For many, we are not being kind or beneficial in preventing them.  We’re being cruel and making their sentence longer.

 

 

Pearl Harbor, 9/11, and…gay marriage

“It’s some of the darkest twenty four hours in our nation’s history.” – Ted Cruz in response to the supreme court rulings on the affordable care act and gay marriage.

Really?  Among tragedies such as Pearl Harbor, 9/11, the Oklahoma City bombings, the civil war, our almost weekly mass murders, and the designated hitter in baseball, he thinks this is our darkest hour?

I really don’t understand the furor over gay marriage.  To avoid it, my home state of Utah is attempting to eliminate all marriages.  (I’ve never said we Utahns are particularly bright.)

There are many current issues where there can be a debate.  The aforementioned affordable care act, global warming, the confederate flag, drilling in the arctic, gun control, and so many others have ramifications.  I may think your desire to have an arsenal is unfounded and dangerous, but I understand that changes in gun policy do affect you.

If you aren’t gay, gay marriage has no effect on you.  Don’t like gay marriage?  Don’t marry someone of the same gender.  Politely decline the invitation to their wedding.  Carry on your merry way.  Those two guys getting married over there has absolutely zero impact on your life.

But it undermines the sanctity of my holy union…how?  If your religious belief is that marriage is only for a man and a woman, then your heterosexual marriage should be rock solid in the eyes of the big guy in the sky.  Isn’t that your ultimate concern?  You think god thinks less of your marriage because two women got married?  The Netherlands legalized gay marriage fifteen years ago.  As far as I know, they have not been smited (or smote?) yet.

Our darkest hour?  We just joined twenty two other nations in giving a substantial portion of our population equal rights, privileges, and protection under the law.

I’d say it is long overdue and one of our brighter moments.  If you disagree, the good news is it doesn’t affect you at all…except you’re going to miss out on some fabulous weddings.

Distance hiking gear list

I’m often asked what to pack on a long distance backpacking trip like the Appalachian Trail. My answer is “what you need and nothing else.” What you need is different for everyone. The ultralight zealots might argue against this, but I’m a firm believer in “hike your own hike.” If you need your teddy bear, and your hike will be more enjoyable if you have it, then take it. The trade off is that every single thing you decide you need adds weight to your load. Choose wisely. While it seems counter-intuitive, I carry far more on a weekend trip than I do on a week plus hike. On a short trip, I know there isn’t a lot of mileage so what I want (maybe a pillow, a block of cheese, bottle of wine, etc) outweighs need. On a long trip, where the primary objective is to cover substantial mileage day in and day out, the least amount of gear I can get away with is the goal.

Since that is rather vague advice, I’ll offer up my gear list as an example.

My pack is an Osprey Atmos 65. I could probably get away with a 50 liter pack, but the 65 accommodates almost any three season backpacking trip. I have the older model of the Atmos, and it weighs 3 lbs, 6 ounces after I removed unnecessary parts (sleeping bag divider, excess strap, etc).

I have an EMS Velocity 1 tent. I love this tent. I have spent a few hundred nights in it in every possible weather condition and stayed warm and dry. It is a true free standing tent so I don’t carry stakes. If needed, I guy it out or use sticks. It weighs 3 lbs 2 ounces. The negative is it is truly a one person tent. There is no extra space inside. I’ve been lustfully eyeballing a Big Agnes Fly Creek 2 which weighs in at just 2 lbs. You could save weight and space with a tarp or a bivy sack. I’ve decided I need a tent.

My sleeping pad is an REI Flash which weighs one pound. It has good insulation and is very comfortable. It is not self inflating, but the weigh savings is worth the breaths for me.

In warmer weather, I sleep in a Thermarest down quilt. It weighs 1 lb 4 oz. and packs to the size of a softball. In colder weather, I use a twenty degree down bag that weighs 2 lbs.

My water system is a Sawyer Squeeze, a spare squeeze bag, two liter Platypus reservoir, a two liter Platypus collapsible bottle, and a one liter Nalgene bottle. The Nalgene could be replaced with a Gatorade bottle and save weight, but I like how bomb proof it is. It is also nice to fill it with hot water on cold nights and put it in my sleeping bag. Total weight of the water system is 15 ounces. If water is readily available on the trail, I hike with one liter.

My cook system is an MSR pocket rocket, .7 liter pot, Sea to Summit fork and spoon, and a Bic lighter. With a fuel canister, the system weighs 13 ounces.

I have what I call the “Oh Shit” bag which contains Tenacious Tape (awesome stuff!), duct tape, needle and thread, waterproof matches, water purification tablets, 50 ft of paracord, and a Leatherman Skeletool. Total weight is 1 lb. A successful trip is when this bag is not opened.

Toiletries consist of…toothbrush, toothpaste, toilet paper, ibuprofen, bug spray, and sunscreen.

I know distance hikers who carry only the clothing they’re wearing and one extra pair of socks. In warm weather, I take two pairs of underwear, two pairs of socks, two shirts, one pair of hiking shorts, a pair of cycling leg warmers, a raincoat, a down vest, a pair of flipflops, and a kilt. The flips and kilt are for lounging in camp. The down vest weighs just a couple ounces and is handy to have. Everything is synthetic material except the socks which are wool. The only cotton I carry is a bandana. My boots are Asolo Fugitives. You can save weight by going with trail runners, but I like the support.

Everything in my pack is coordinated in stuff sacks. My sleeping bag goes in a waterproof sack. These stuff sacks add up to about five ounces, and they greatly help keep things organized.

So, without food or water, I’m at about 17 pounds.

I also carry a journal and pen, Gopro camera, paperback book, Black Diamond Storm headlamp, a Goal Zero Nomad solar panel, and Black Diamond trekking poles. That adds another two and a half pounds.

Add water and a week’s worth of food, and I’m right about thirty pounds. Not overly heavy, but not exceedingly light. It is a comfortable weight for me to carry, and I have everything I’ve decided I need for an enjoyable and safe trek.

What’s in your pack? Hike your own hike.

My Ten Rules of Writing

I do some freelance blog writing for companies, and everyone believes lists draw eyeballs. I’m not a social media marketing expert so I’ll take their word for that. Assuming it to be correct and hoping to add some eyeballs to my little thoughtvomit, since I have a book release on the horizon (in case you’re the one person in the world I haven’t told), here’s a list!

Writers get lots of advice, often unsolicited, from other writers, readers, people who don’t read, teachers, family, pets…maybe it is only my dog who gives me a disapproving look when I use the passive voice. I’m as qualified and unqualified as anyone so here’s my ten rules of writing:

1) You need an MFA…or you don’t. This is an ongoing debate about whether art can be taught or whether MFA programs homogenize fiction writing. I have an opinion on this that I’ve written about before, but my rule stands. You do need one, or you don’t. Only you can weigh the merits and detractions for you.

2) This is a corollary to rule uno. Art can not be taught. However, craft can be taught. I’m not Saul Bellow or Shakespeare. I don’t even pretend that I produce art. I am a reasonably good writer, and I strive to produce well crafted fiction. Always work to improve your craft.

3) Which leads to rule #3…Be serious about your writing. This does not mean you have to write about war and pestilence and the decay of society. Write about unicorns and shiny vampires and antics in high school or whatever story you want to tell, but you enter into a contract with the reader when you publish. Your obligation is to have made the best story you could for them.

4) Which leads to rule #4…Don’t publish just because you can. The publishing industry is in a sea change of business model revolution brought about by technology. Today, anyone can self publish anything. You may want to rebel against the system or feel you can reap more profit from going on your own. Good on ya’. If, however, you have never had anything accepted by a professional whose job it is to read, you may not be misunderstood. Your work may not be very good yet. Go back to rule #3 and pay an editor. Polish that thing.

5) Write every day…or don’t. There are many examples of advice on this. I don’t know the right answer. I would argue that the more you write, the better you become. That said, I often go weeks without writing anything more than facebook status updates then explode with 10K words in a day. Find the system that works for you and stick with it.

6) Revise, revise, revise, and then revise some more. Unless you’re a true artist and the words flow from the universe to your keyboard, you’re a craftsman or craftswoman or craftsperson. Craft your writing finely with care and dedication.

7) You can break all the rules. There are countless rules. Don’t use flashbacks. Don’t use expository dialogue. Show, don’t tell. Avoid adverbs. Outline. Don’t outline. Don’t use exclamation points. They go on and on. You’re the writer. Do whatever you want. If it works, you win. If it doesn’t, you should have followed the rules. All these rules exist because they’re generally good advice. So, when choosing to break one, consider what you’re trying to achieve and if you can.

8) You don’t need inspiration to write. One of my very best teachers, the inimitable Merle Drown, said, “Put ass in chair and fingers on keyboard.” Just write then go back to rule #6. Don’t wait around for the magical muse to infuse you.

9) Read. Read a lot. Read classics, contemporary works, plays, poems, essays, the crappy romance novels they sell in grocery stores. Read deliberately. Pay attention to what the writer is trying to do. How would you do it differently? What works? What doesn’t?

10) Make your own rules. Use mine…or don’t (except revision. I’ll fall on the sword for that one) James Joyce, Nabokov, Sartre, Hemingway, Faulkner, Milton, and countless others marched to the beat of their own drummer. It is your work and your effort. As part of your rules, you get to decide how much you care what others think of your writing. If you care a lot, or want to get paid, maybe stick to the rules…or don’t and maybe do something brilliant.

And a bonus rule from Elmore Leonard who wrote a much better list of rules, “Try to leave out the parts that readers tend to skip.”

Good advice

My facebook feed is often filled with memes meant to inspire or guide. I appreciate these well meant efforts to help me improve my life. I try to take these platitudes to heart, but I have mixed results. In my own effort at assisting my fellow humans, here are some of my observations.

Never chase love, affection, or attention. If it isn’t given freely by another person, it isn’t worth having. – I think this underestimates the value of a really good prostitute.

If you don’t learn to control your thoughts, you’ll never learn to control your behavior. – This is solid advice, but it doesn’t go far enough. I’ve found that world domination requires controlling other people’s thoughts.

You mood should not dictate your manners. – Fuck you.

When someone does something wrong, don’t forget all the things they did right. – I know, right! I mean one homicide and people get all judgmental.

Don’t complain about things you’re not willing to change. – I’m willing to change the weather. I just don’t know how.

Don’t be afraid to fail. Be afraid not to try. – Not good advice for the suicidal.

Never stop showing someone how you feel about them. – Sure, some may call it stalking, but don’t let that restraining order stop you!

It is not necessary to react to everything you notice. – Don’t believe this one! It is the zombies trying to influence you!

Don’t wish you were someone else. Be proud of who you are. – Unless you’re the unibomber or a Kardashian. Then, wish you were someone else.

Lead from the back and let others believe they are in front. – Especially useful in combat and street fights.

If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop digging. – Unless you’re a miner because you’ll get fired.

Don’t count the days. Make the days count. – I tried this, but my days are dumb as hell. They have to take off their shoes once they get to ten.

You attitude determines your direction. – Apparently my true north is the liquor store.

Do what is right; not what is easy. – Unless nobody is looking. Then, totally do what is easy.

Happy to be of service.

I know Pam Houston!

A happy thing occurred because of the world wide interwebs.  I know Pam Houston!  Okay, I don’t really know Pam Houston, but I did take a class from her.

Last week, a friend mentioned that Houston’s “Cowboys are My Weakness” is her go to book when her own narrative voice just ain’t working.  Now stay with me here….

In my last semester of undergrad at the University of Utah many, many years ago (I still had hair and a cassette player), I needed to add one more class.  There was a class called “Great Books” that fit my schedule.  I assumed it would be “Moby Dick,” “A Tale of Two Cities,” and other books I’d already read, and I wouldn’t have to work very hard.

Instead, that class, taught by an earnest grad student, introduced me to a bunch of authors I’d never heard of, including Ruth Prawer Jhabwala and Barbara Kingsolver, and explored the heroic journey in seemingly unheroic circumstances.  She taught me the words “liminal” and “anagnorisis.”  The class had such an influence on me that many, many years later (long after hair and cassettes), I wrote a critical essay on Kingsolver’s works, and my grad school thesis was a book length exploration of the heroic journey of an ordinary man.

That thesis became my novel.  Since it has been a day or two, have I mentioned my novel is being released in June?

Any way, a few years after that class, I read a wonderful collection called “Cowboys are My Weakness” by a U of U alumni named Pam Houston.  The author’s picture reminded me of that grad student, and I spent twenty years occasionally wondering if I had taken a class taught by Pam Houston.

So, after my friend’s comment last week, I messaged Ms. Houston on the book of face.  She replied, and yes I did take a class taught by Pam Houston!  Some may be wondering what the big deal is and/or if I am a stalker.  Craig Childs and Jessica Anthony will attest to yes on the latter, and I’ll quote another of my teachers on the former, “writers are not famous in America,” said the brilliant Katie Towler.  The average American can name more Kardashians than writers.

However, writers are famous to writers.  Pam (I’m assuming we’re on a first name basis now) has won the O. Henry award and the Pushcart prize.  Remember how frickin’ excited I was when I was shortlisted for a Pushcart nomination?  She won one.

This is the best part.  In her response she sent me one of those emoji things that FB has.  She mentioned it was an accident, had never sent one, and would probably never do so again.  So, I possess Pam Houston’s one and only emoji!  I will put it next to the pair of socks I stole from Craig and the napkin Matt Bondurant wiped his face with.  I’m kidding!  Craig’s restraining order is almost up for review.

Sadly, I missed out on twenty years of saying I studied with Pam Houston.  “Studied with” sounds so much better than “took a class she adjuncted.”  In all seriousness, in the long list of amazing classes and writing teachers I have had, it is pretty cool to learn Pam Houston was one of the most influential.

I’m going to go gaze at my emoji.  Did I mention my book is coming out in June?

Pimpin’ ain’t easy…

So, my novel The Trees Beneath Us will be published in June by Stark House Press. They are a small but respected publisher of primarily crime and noir novels. I’m proud they selected my book as a first foray into literary fiction publishing. I am wicked excited about my book. The book industry has changed substantially over the past few years; affected by technology, consolidation, and shifting consumer trends. It now operates on a much leaner business model, and the burden of marketing and promoting a book has largely shifted to the author. Sure, if you’re a bestselling star with one of the remaining big houses, they’ll advertise and set up appearances. I’m not one of those.

The success of my novel will rely on hard work and a lot of help. Here’s where I start asking for help.

*Please share this blog. I’m normally not concerned about the readership of my little thought vomit. I’d like this post to get out into the world.

*If you are in, or know of, a book club, please send me the contact info. I’ll do readings or discussions via Skype for any group anywhere, and I’ll consider travel to any location.

*Send me names of favorite local bookstores.

*My novel deals closely with living in the wilderness, the Appalachian Trail, and mental illness. If you know of any organizations related to those topics (hiking clubs, support groups, outfitters, etc) please let me know. Again, I’ll consider any location to spread the word about my little collection of words. If you know of any organization that may be interested, please let me know. I am a very experienced public speaker, and I have done presentations for groups as large as five thousand people. These do not have to be readings or book discussions. I can do entertaining presentations on backpacking, depression (yes, I can make depression funny), accomplishing goals, or what to do when a porcupine eats your underwear.

*www.bootson.co – that is my website. Please share it ad nauseum.

*Darren R. Leo FB page – that’s my author page on the book of face. Share it like it is a funny cat meme.

I thank you in advance for any and all support. I apologize in advance for the bombardment you will be getting from me.

Pimpin’ ain’t easy!

Ten Days at Butler

So, I recently spent ten days at Butler. For those of you outside Rhode Island, Butler is a mental hospital. Going to Butler is local slang for crazy. Yes, I was locked up in the nuthouse…again. The third time was not the charm for me. I attempted to kill myself for the third time. Who knew it was so frickin’ hard to do?

That event earned me a no expenses paid, ten day incarceration in the loony bin. I’ve written before about how we treat the mentally ill in our society. Sadly, I am becoming something of an expert on “secure mental health facilities.” Maybe I should sell t-shirts…Darren’s Nuthouse World Tour! I will say Butler was the best of my experiences with nuthouses. I’ll follow by saying it is atrocious and appalling. Imagine what that suggests about the other two facilities I’ve visited.

I made the mistake of failing to kill myself on the Friday night of a holiday weekend. As the substitute shrink informed me on Saturday, he didn’t really do anything except monitor. Yes, he really earned a doctorate to tell customers he didn’t do anything. So, I was locked up for four days before the real shrink even came to work. Here’s an essential problem with mental health care: I used the word “customer.” The industry doesn’t. They operate with a sense of self important entitlement. It is actually a pretty effective business model. They can force their customers to utilize their services. I recently received the bill for my forced stay. I didn’t get a discount for the reduced services of their holiday weekend.

All nuthouses are carefully designed to remove anything with which the inmates might harm themselves. All the doors are locked. That is half of the “treatment.” They then load the inmates up with drugs. That is the treatment: chemicals and a cage. Everything else is distraction and lowest common denominator, one size fits all “therapy.” In my experience, the lowest common denominator is a double digit IQ crack whore. While she certainly needs and deserves help, I’m not going to get the same therapeutic benefit from finger painting that she is.

Yes, finger painting is what passes for therapy in such places. My “therapy” in Butler included making an “emotion collage,” making bowls with hodge podge, coloring, baking cookies, and foot soaks. My favorite was making a picture with shaving cream and food coloring. This was facilitated by the occupational therapist. She seemed taken aback when I didn’t want to make a second one. She was downright offended when I threw away the first. One day we had animal therapy. They brought in a wheezy, runny eyed Pug that did nothing except try to hump the inmate’s legs. They take attendance at these “therapy” sessions. When asked why, one of the jailors had the audacity to say they want to see how much the inmates are contributing to their own treatment. They provide chemicals, a cage, and finger painting and imply the patients don’t do enough to help themselves.

I used the word “inmate.” They frown upon that. I was admonished more than once for using the term. Each time I was corrected I asked if they’d open the front door for me. I found it pretty funny. The staff…not so much. In fairness, except for the psychiatrists, the staff at Butler were all earnest and seemed sincere in wanting to help the inmates. I wondered how much kool aid a highly educated person needed to drink to actually believe that coloring pictures would help even the toothless, tweaking meth head.

Occasionally we would have rudimentary but actual therapy sessions. I enjoyed when three people got pissed off and stormed out of the Anger Management class. A couple times we had group therapy. It was more like group misery with each inmate attempting to one up the last in how shitty their lives were. One inmate mentioned sadness about her mother dying. That began a series of people lamenting the loss of loved ones. It culminated with a fifty something guy saying, “Well, my college girlfriend died!” Perhaps that was a traumatic event that had haunted him his whole life. Since it was his third trip to Butler, I would offer him as exhibit A in the failure of their methods.

My daily meeting with my shrink generally consisted of this conversation:

“How are you today, Darren?”

“Do I get to leave today?

“No.”

“Then, I’m shitty.”

Each day she told me I needed to get better before I could leave. I asked her to define “better.” She said more of a will to live. I asked how she would measure that. She said it would take a breakthrough that would come with a lot of hard work. I’ve never understood what shrinks mean by “hard work.” I wasn’t allowed to go outside and/or have power tools so I couldn’t go dig a ditch or lay a brick wall. She said I would know it, and she would certainly know it, when I reached my “breakthrough.” My fate was in the hands of a psychic armed with crayons. About five days in she asked me if I was getting any benefit from being there. I said no. Armed with that information, she kept me another five days. It would seem the extended stay was merely punitive or revenue driven. Once she said she was concerned about me harming myself if I left. In the absence of an observable “breakthrough” what we had to go on was my assurance that I would not and my family’s assurance that I wouldn’t even be given the opportunity and that I would be brought right back if there was any hint of risk. The shrink didn’t find that adequate. Breakthrough or nothing! I pointed out that the recidivism rate was about 80% which would indicate the “treatment” wasn’t really helping anyone. She denied it was that high, and I offered to survey the inmates. My offer was not appreciated.

In actuality, their treatment is highly effective at its intended purpose. That purpose is to remove the nut jobs from society’s view and keep them from killing themselves until their insurance runs out. In fairness to my shrink, it was my third attempt at suicide. My own recidivism rate is high. However, short of locking me up forever, did the extra five days really help me? I would argue that I left Butler in worse mental health than when I arrived. Further, the ten day length of stay was entirely arbitrary. I did not have a breakthrough. I did not exhibit any change in demeanor or mood that led to my release.

I don’t like being contained. I don’t like being indoors. I don’t like being around a lot of people. I especially don’t like being around crazy people. Incidentally, I have used the terms “nut jobs” and “crazy” freely. This is not meant to be disparaging. I know I am one of the nut jobs. The term helps me confront my mental illness. Anyway, locking me away there was arguably the worst possible thing that could have been done for me, but I don’t have a doctorate in head shrinking and a revenue budget to make.

Inmates came and went, but this is a representative sample of whom I was locked away with. There was Anger Management guy. He never went more than an hour without bursting into rage and yelling and threatening people. There were the Crack Whores. There were always a few of them. They were drug addicts with serious chips on their shoulders who would threaten to kill you for almost any perceived sleight…or for changing the channel away from Jerry Springer. There was Jabba the Hut; an immensely obese schizophrenic, diabetic, religious nut job. There were the Walking Dead. These were the patients so doped up on meds that they walked around with glazed eyes and drooling out of their open mouths. There were the Desperate Housewives. They checked themselves in because life in Barrington had become just soooo overwhelming. There was the Deranged Smurf. He made laps around and around the unit talking into an AM radio as if it were a cell phone and occasionally cackling like a muppet on meth. There were the Suicide Jockeys of which I was one. We were sullen, morose, and tried to avoid everyone.

My most favorite was my roommate, Captain Crazy. Remember the old cartoon Captain Caveman? He kind of looked like him. Captain Crazy collected things. One morning he had every horizontal surface in our room covered with cups of juice. He always had several books from the bookshelf. He didn’t read them. He just stacked them then every few hours exchanged them for different ones. Captain Crazy stayed up all night, with the lights on, listening to heavy metal music while staring at the wall and mumbling. He went ape shit if I turned off the light. I think the staff were just resigned to him so I listened to Motley Crue all night long. The only way I could sleep is if I asked to be drugged up.

One morning, around 4:00 a.m. Black Sabbath’s “Crazy Train” came on Captain Crazy’s radio. I watched as he swayed back and forth and sang along in his mumble….Ma moin moff ma mails on mah mazy main. Witnessing that was almost worth being locked up. I laughed so hard the staff came to investigate.

Other than perhaps the Desperate Housewives, all of those people have serious illness. How many are being helped by shaving cream art? Some should probably be locked up for their own and society’s wellbeing. For most, the incarceration is just avoiding addressing their issues. At some arbitrary point, all of them will be released. Are they any better when they depart? Are they any better equipped to deal with their illness, their grief, and the pressures of life? Will they cling to their emotion collage as a map to success in the real world? Did the wheezing Pug that humped their leg provide enough calm to overcome the next offer to get high? Is the accomplishment of making a bowl out of glue and paper enough to propel them into employment? Since most will end up back in Butler, it would seem the answers are obvious.

Butler’s Delmonico 4 (that’s the nuthouse) did not help me. I doubt it helps anyone except whomever deposits the two grand per day they charge the inmates.