Josh Hilden's Blog, page 2
September 29, 2024
This Is The End
I was raised by four people. My mother, my father, my maternal grandmother, and my maternal stepgrandfather.
I lost my grandmother a year and a half ago, and it looks like I’ll lose my grandfather this week.
As some of you may know, my grandfather has suffered from dementia for several years. Following the death of my grandmother a year and a half ago, his slide increased exponentially.
My mother was his primary (i.e., sole) caregiver during that period.
He was moved to a care facility over two hundred and fifty miles away. This was in the middle (second half) of August. I won’t rehash the chaos and drama around this but suffice to say I’m not really happy about how it was handled.
My grandfather declined faster in the home, as most dementia patients do. I received a call from the aunt about an hour ago informing me that he only had a few days left.
I’m saddened by the news, but I’m not surprised by it. Even when he was living in his own home sixish weeks ago, he wasn’t doing too good.
I’m not going to make the trip to see him while he’s comatose, and I haven’t decided if I’ll make the trip for the funeral for personal reasons.
I feel like I’ve lost another piece of my youth, never to be seen again.
This all hurts really bad.
My grandpa always wanted to make it to his eightieth birthday before he passed, which he did on September 18th. So, at least he hit that milestone.
He also wanted to be buried next to his wife, who was laid to rest last April, here in Dayton. They have side-by-side plots that have already been paid for.
So my question is, will they bring him back home, or will they bury him up there?
- Josh (09/29/2024)
I lost my grandmother a year and a half ago, and it looks like I’ll lose my grandfather this week.
As some of you may know, my grandfather has suffered from dementia for several years. Following the death of my grandmother a year and a half ago, his slide increased exponentially.
My mother was his primary (i.e., sole) caregiver during that period.
He was moved to a care facility over two hundred and fifty miles away. This was in the middle (second half) of August. I won’t rehash the chaos and drama around this but suffice to say I’m not really happy about how it was handled.
My grandfather declined faster in the home, as most dementia patients do. I received a call from the aunt about an hour ago informing me that he only had a few days left.
I’m saddened by the news, but I’m not surprised by it. Even when he was living in his own home sixish weeks ago, he wasn’t doing too good.
I’m not going to make the trip to see him while he’s comatose, and I haven’t decided if I’ll make the trip for the funeral for personal reasons.
I feel like I’ve lost another piece of my youth, never to be seen again.
This all hurts really bad.
My grandpa always wanted to make it to his eightieth birthday before he passed, which he did on September 18th. So, at least he hit that milestone.
He also wanted to be buried next to his wife, who was laid to rest last April, here in Dayton. They have side-by-side plots that have already been paid for.
So my question is, will they bring him back home, or will they bury him up there?
- Josh (09/29/2024)
September 15, 2024
Looking Back
Every so often, I perform a bit of self-exploration and examine my errors. I don’t mean I engage in self-flagellation. At this point, that would be childish and reductive. I instead consider my actions and inactions and the consequences of those actions.
Why am I bringing this up?
I’ve been dancing around this subject for a month, and if I don’t get it out, it’s going to drive me bug fuck crazy. Several years ago, Jebus, more than a decade ago, I worked in the Role Playing Game (RPG) industry. It was a fascinating, if frustrating, experience. I give that period of my life the credit for starting my fiction writing career.
Yeah, LOL, I make so much money as a writer. Can I call it a career?
At any rate, what I want to talk about is bittersweet. When I was thirty-two years old, I got my dream job, and I completely shit the bed.
I won’t go into detail about the incident. If you know me, you already know the story. If you don’t know the story, you don‘t need to know the details.
Before we get to the bullshit, let’s talk about the good things that happened during my stint with the company. The man who owns and runs the company became a genuine friend and was there for me during some of the early drug problems we had with Stephen. I expanded my abilities as a writer with skills I still use to this day. Finally, I made friends that I still have to this day.
Those were good days.
Now for the bad.
I turned in a project I’d been working on (with my then-writing partner), and the publisher/editor shredded it. I was hurt, and I was mad. I still think those feelings were, to a degree, justified. The fact is he’s an old-school professional publisher/editor and that’s how they did things back in the day. It wasn’t malicious, as I thought at the time. It wasn’t to steal my ideas, which I shamefully thought at that time. It was just look. All he wanted was the best I could produce. Nothing more and nothing less.
He wanted only the best I could produce, nothing more and nothing less. He was a professional, and I was not.
And if I'm going to be honest, the book needed A LOT of work. It was my first major work, and like all brand-new authors, I thought it was great, but in reality, it was really bad.
What was not professional were my actions.
I freaked out. I quit my job. I went into a depression that lasted months. I vented my anger online, but, like the fucking coward I was, I never had the balls to talk to him directly. I was a thirty-two-year-old unprofessional brat, and I showed my ass to anyone who’d work.
What caused my reaction? Was it my lack of maturity? Was it the fragile ego of a nascent author? Was my it completely untreated bipolar disorder? Maybe it’s one of those things, but tell the truth and shame the devil. It was all of them combined.
So, the truth is I was a fucking mess, and in the end, I lost my dream job and my friend.
And that’s the story.
Thank you for listening (i.e., reading) to my story, and I hope you don’t judge me too harshly.
- Josh (09/15/2024)
Why am I bringing this up?
I’ve been dancing around this subject for a month, and if I don’t get it out, it’s going to drive me bug fuck crazy. Several years ago, Jebus, more than a decade ago, I worked in the Role Playing Game (RPG) industry. It was a fascinating, if frustrating, experience. I give that period of my life the credit for starting my fiction writing career.
Yeah, LOL, I make so much money as a writer. Can I call it a career?
At any rate, what I want to talk about is bittersweet. When I was thirty-two years old, I got my dream job, and I completely shit the bed.
I won’t go into detail about the incident. If you know me, you already know the story. If you don’t know the story, you don‘t need to know the details.
Before we get to the bullshit, let’s talk about the good things that happened during my stint with the company. The man who owns and runs the company became a genuine friend and was there for me during some of the early drug problems we had with Stephen. I expanded my abilities as a writer with skills I still use to this day. Finally, I made friends that I still have to this day.
Those were good days.
Now for the bad.
I turned in a project I’d been working on (with my then-writing partner), and the publisher/editor shredded it. I was hurt, and I was mad. I still think those feelings were, to a degree, justified. The fact is he’s an old-school professional publisher/editor and that’s how they did things back in the day. It wasn’t malicious, as I thought at the time. It wasn’t to steal my ideas, which I shamefully thought at that time. It was just look. All he wanted was the best I could produce. Nothing more and nothing less.
He wanted only the best I could produce, nothing more and nothing less. He was a professional, and I was not.
And if I'm going to be honest, the book needed A LOT of work. It was my first major work, and like all brand-new authors, I thought it was great, but in reality, it was really bad.
What was not professional were my actions.
I freaked out. I quit my job. I went into a depression that lasted months. I vented my anger online, but, like the fucking coward I was, I never had the balls to talk to him directly. I was a thirty-two-year-old unprofessional brat, and I showed my ass to anyone who’d work.
What caused my reaction? Was it my lack of maturity? Was it the fragile ego of a nascent author? Was my it completely untreated bipolar disorder? Maybe it’s one of those things, but tell the truth and shame the devil. It was all of them combined.
So, the truth is I was a fucking mess, and in the end, I lost my dream job and my friend.
And that’s the story.
Thank you for listening (i.e., reading) to my story, and I hope you don’t judge me too harshly.
- Josh (09/15/2024)
August 13, 2024
The Book Life
I didn't choose the book life. The book life chose me!
Being a self-published author is harder now than it's ever been before.
Not only do we, as Self-Publishers, have to deal with the derision for being self-published.
Not only do we have to fight tooth and claw to get noticed by potential customers through maintaining a social media presence, blogs, websites, and newsletters.
Not only do we have to pay more and more for ads in order to make sales.
We now have to deal with extreme scrutiny at the back end of our process. And by the back end of the process, I mean editing, formatting, and cover design.
My editing, formatting, and cover creation stance has been the same for a few decades. To be fair, my stance might piss off a few people I like, so I'm going to say this upfront and loud enough for all of the people in the cheap seats to hear.
IF YOU CAN AFFORD TO HIRE OUT EDITING, FORMATTING, AND COVER DESIGN, THEN DO IT. YOUR BOOK AND YOUR READERS WILL THANK YOU.
Now, in a calm er voice. Yes, if you can afford to outsource those tasks, then by all means, do it. But if funds are super tight, there are ways to handle them on your own.
When it comes to formatting, admittedly, the easiest task you can tackle on your own, there are about ten bazillion tutorial guides and YouTube videos you can consult to learn the art. There are also templates offered by Amazon (KDP) where you can plug your work in and tweak it as needed. While a professional formatter is worth their money, it really is the easiest task Self-Publisher can handle on their own.
Let's spend a minute on cover creation. A lot of self-published authors run screaming at the idea of creating their own covers, which terrifies them. Trust me, I get it. If you already have a working knowledge of Photoshop, this should be easy for you. Just invest in a membership to a stock image site. I use iStock and then create away. But if you don't know Photoshop, don't worry. There are options. I use a photo editing program called Canva to create my covers (there are several other good programs available). It's not as good as Photoshop, but it does a pretty damn good job.
Now for the bone in the soup. If you can pay for only one service, make it a professional editor. An outside editor can make a decent book great. But if you can't afford a good editor, there's no shame in this. No matter what a bunch of online blowholes say, you can try to go it alone. When you've finished your first draft, I edit as I go, so it's really draft 1.5. When I'm done, set the manuscript aside for a month. Six weeks would be better, and work on something else. When you return to your work, run it through at least two grammar and spellchecking programs. I use the built-in MS Word program and Grammarly Pro. After you've torn the book apart and rebuilt it several times, I make at least three and often five passes, have it read to you, and take notes. I don't mean chain someone to the wall and force them to read you a story at knifepoint. Use a program designed to sound natural to read the book aloud. I use Natural Reader, but MS Word's program is pretty damn good too. Make any final changes and type, the end.
Be careful. Over-editing is a real thing.
And after all of that, your book is, more or less, ready to publish.
Will they be as good as one done professionally?
Probably not.
Will they pass reasonable muster?
Quite possibly, yes.
Regardless, I guarantee significantly more self-publishers handle their own editing and cover creation than they are willing to admit. And don't forget, as a Self-Publisher, you can always make changes and re-upload the book.
- Josh (08/13/2024)
Being a self-published author is harder now than it's ever been before.
Not only do we, as Self-Publishers, have to deal with the derision for being self-published.
Not only do we have to fight tooth and claw to get noticed by potential customers through maintaining a social media presence, blogs, websites, and newsletters.
Not only do we have to pay more and more for ads in order to make sales.
We now have to deal with extreme scrutiny at the back end of our process. And by the back end of the process, I mean editing, formatting, and cover design.
My editing, formatting, and cover creation stance has been the same for a few decades. To be fair, my stance might piss off a few people I like, so I'm going to say this upfront and loud enough for all of the people in the cheap seats to hear.
IF YOU CAN AFFORD TO HIRE OUT EDITING, FORMATTING, AND COVER DESIGN, THEN DO IT. YOUR BOOK AND YOUR READERS WILL THANK YOU.
Now, in a calm er voice. Yes, if you can afford to outsource those tasks, then by all means, do it. But if funds are super tight, there are ways to handle them on your own.
When it comes to formatting, admittedly, the easiest task you can tackle on your own, there are about ten bazillion tutorial guides and YouTube videos you can consult to learn the art. There are also templates offered by Amazon (KDP) where you can plug your work in and tweak it as needed. While a professional formatter is worth their money, it really is the easiest task Self-Publisher can handle on their own.
Let's spend a minute on cover creation. A lot of self-published authors run screaming at the idea of creating their own covers, which terrifies them. Trust me, I get it. If you already have a working knowledge of Photoshop, this should be easy for you. Just invest in a membership to a stock image site. I use iStock and then create away. But if you don't know Photoshop, don't worry. There are options. I use a photo editing program called Canva to create my covers (there are several other good programs available). It's not as good as Photoshop, but it does a pretty damn good job.
Now for the bone in the soup. If you can pay for only one service, make it a professional editor. An outside editor can make a decent book great. But if you can't afford a good editor, there's no shame in this. No matter what a bunch of online blowholes say, you can try to go it alone. When you've finished your first draft, I edit as I go, so it's really draft 1.5. When I'm done, set the manuscript aside for a month. Six weeks would be better, and work on something else. When you return to your work, run it through at least two grammar and spellchecking programs. I use the built-in MS Word program and Grammarly Pro. After you've torn the book apart and rebuilt it several times, I make at least three and often five passes, have it read to you, and take notes. I don't mean chain someone to the wall and force them to read you a story at knifepoint. Use a program designed to sound natural to read the book aloud. I use Natural Reader, but MS Word's program is pretty damn good too. Make any final changes and type, the end.
Be careful. Over-editing is a real thing.
And after all of that, your book is, more or less, ready to publish.
Will they be as good as one done professionally?
Probably not.
Will they pass reasonable muster?
Quite possibly, yes.
Regardless, I guarantee significantly more self-publishers handle their own editing and cover creation than they are willing to admit. And don't forget, as a Self-Publisher, you can always make changes and re-upload the book.
- Josh (08/13/2024)
July 21, 2024
Chaos On The Left
Well, Biden nis out, and Harris is in?
Sigh... we don't need a hand-picked candidate who has never won a primary state. What we need is an open convention.
But we won't get that.
So, I guess I'm voting for Harris. At least I don't feel as icky making that vote.
I've been watching the various news sites and channels, and, yep, it looks like we'll most likely get Harris as the next candidate. I liked Harris better than Biden in 2020, and I like her better than Trump by a factor of infinity, now. So I'll vote for her and cross my fingers, hoping she's as tough as she seems.
At least she seems to have her head straight, and she's considerably younger.
I know many people can't stand her, but I've never been one of those people. But let's be honest, she is a corporate Democrat. So, I'm only hoping for her to hold the line. I don't expect any substantive changes.
But I hope I'm wrong.
I do feel the need to add this. Thank you, Mr. President. Thank you for, in my opinion, the right thing for the Republic and its people.
- Josh (07/21/2024)
Sigh... we don't need a hand-picked candidate who has never won a primary state. What we need is an open convention.
But we won't get that.
So, I guess I'm voting for Harris. At least I don't feel as icky making that vote.
I've been watching the various news sites and channels, and, yep, it looks like we'll most likely get Harris as the next candidate. I liked Harris better than Biden in 2020, and I like her better than Trump by a factor of infinity, now. So I'll vote for her and cross my fingers, hoping she's as tough as she seems.
At least she seems to have her head straight, and she's considerably younger.
I know many people can't stand her, but I've never been one of those people. But let's be honest, she is a corporate Democrat. So, I'm only hoping for her to hold the line. I don't expect any substantive changes.
But I hope I'm wrong.
I do feel the need to add this. Thank you, Mr. President. Thank you for, in my opinion, the right thing for the Republic and its people.
- Josh (07/21/2024)
June 19, 2024
Pink Slipped
I am here today to report some bad news for Clan Hilden. You know, bad news right after we received so really good news, my winning my war with the Social Security Administration and receiving my official disability status. I won’t get much money, but every little bit helps.
Now for the bad news.
We received the awful news a couple of nights ago. The spoose learned her company is closing all of its stores in Ohio and Michigan. This means The Spoose will be out of work by September. She only gets to stay that long because they put her in charge of shutting down and cleaning out all of the local stores.
Boils and Ghouls, that is some real needle in the eye bullshit.
“Thank you, sir, may I have another…”
As of right now, we have no idea what will happen next. She qualifies for unemployment, thank the universe. Because we may need that money to make it to the end of the year. Hopefully, we won’t have to use it for a long stretch because it’s going to be a significant cut to our income.
Oh, one more thing, she’ll receive a whole 1.5 paychecks as severance.
That’s really fucking big of them. She’s worked for them for years. She is known as the manager sent to a store in freefall and brings it back from the dead, like a zombie but no skin-eating. She is exceptional at restoring the morale of employees and making stores profitable.
There is no point in running around screaming, “House on fire, house on fire!” and then waiting around for Jason Priestly to show up in his Formula One car and pee all over it.
He’s not the best firefighter but, damnit, he tries really hard.
Regardless, the new job hunt starts ASAP.
I swear, it feels like every time we jump a hurdle, a bigger one drops in front of us.
My anxiety is through the roof.
-Josh (06/19/2024)
Now for the bad news.
We received the awful news a couple of nights ago. The spoose learned her company is closing all of its stores in Ohio and Michigan. This means The Spoose will be out of work by September. She only gets to stay that long because they put her in charge of shutting down and cleaning out all of the local stores.
Boils and Ghouls, that is some real needle in the eye bullshit.
“Thank you, sir, may I have another…”
As of right now, we have no idea what will happen next. She qualifies for unemployment, thank the universe. Because we may need that money to make it to the end of the year. Hopefully, we won’t have to use it for a long stretch because it’s going to be a significant cut to our income.
Oh, one more thing, she’ll receive a whole 1.5 paychecks as severance.
That’s really fucking big of them. She’s worked for them for years. She is known as the manager sent to a store in freefall and brings it back from the dead, like a zombie but no skin-eating. She is exceptional at restoring the morale of employees and making stores profitable.
There is no point in running around screaming, “House on fire, house on fire!” and then waiting around for Jason Priestly to show up in his Formula One car and pee all over it.
He’s not the best firefighter but, damnit, he tries really hard.
Regardless, the new job hunt starts ASAP.
I swear, it feels like every time we jump a hurdle, a bigger one drops in front of us.
My anxiety is through the roof.
-Josh (06/19/2024)
May 11, 2024
Angry Josh!
I've been working on some serious things with my therapist, and I am still surprised she hasn't dropped me like a bad habit. Here's a little, or maybe not so little, tidbit about Josh, only some of you already know.
I used to be an extremely angry guy.
I don't mean that I had a hair trigger, but I was basically a normal person. I mean, anger was my natural state, and even the smallest thing would, not could, but would, make me erupt like a volcano. And woe to anyone who was in my field of fire when that occurred.
I can track my anger to two key events in my life. The first was my rape when I was seven. I won't go into details, but suffice it to say it happened many times over one summer. The second was when I was eight or nine, I'm not sure which, when I watched my maternal grandfather beat up my mom in the garage. Much like my assault, I was powerless to stop it.
I've hated that man ever since.
Over the years, I learned to build a wall around my anger. It was there, but it was contained. Unfortunately, my wall was less like the wall in Game of Thrones and more like the containment chamber in Ghostbusters.
It was destined to breach.
The explosion, or maybe it was an implosion, occurred when I was thirteen.
I'd lived with my grandparents (not the bastard) for three years, and I would be moving in with my father a few months after the incident.
Two guys lived in the neighborhood who'd been bullying me for the entire time I'd lived there. We'd just got home from school when I saw them beating up one of the neighbor kids. I didn't think before I opened my mouth and told them to get the fuck away from him.
I may have called them a few foul names while I was at it.
They did stop beating on the kid, a kid I couldn't even stand, and my a bee-line for my house. I was terrified. There was no way I could take on even one of them. I was so pissed at myself for getting involved and at them... for being them.
That's when the containment chamber erupted.
I ran to my grandfather's dresser, searched his sock drawer, and retrieved the twenty-five-caliber pistol he used to carry when he was on the road.
He was a long-haul trucker for many years.
Needless to say, when those two asshole bullies reached my back patio, they were greeted, not by me but by the muzzle of a pistol. The two of them nearly shit their pants before taking off like racehorses.
Of course, I didn't get away with this.
After a visit from the police and the threat of jail, a severe tongue-lashing by my grandparents, and a lengthy grounding, I'd learned my lesson. Firearms are NOT toys, and they should never be treated as such.
And my rage?
It didn't go away all at once. After moving to my dad's, I embarked upon three years of therapy, a summer in a psychiatric institution after an attempted suicide, and finding my people. The best friends a dipshit from Detroit Metro could hope for, I'd shed a lot.
My anger remained a problem and source of strife in my family for many years. It's only been since I started therapy more than two years ago that I've truly started dealing with it.
I don't hate people anymore.
I don't wish people dead anymore.
I don't want people to be hurt anymore.
I want to live the rest of my life free of my extreme rage.
I'm happier and healthier this way.
.
-Josh (05/11/2024)
I used to be an extremely angry guy.
I don't mean that I had a hair trigger, but I was basically a normal person. I mean, anger was my natural state, and even the smallest thing would, not could, but would, make me erupt like a volcano. And woe to anyone who was in my field of fire when that occurred.
I can track my anger to two key events in my life. The first was my rape when I was seven. I won't go into details, but suffice it to say it happened many times over one summer. The second was when I was eight or nine, I'm not sure which, when I watched my maternal grandfather beat up my mom in the garage. Much like my assault, I was powerless to stop it.
I've hated that man ever since.
Over the years, I learned to build a wall around my anger. It was there, but it was contained. Unfortunately, my wall was less like the wall in Game of Thrones and more like the containment chamber in Ghostbusters.
It was destined to breach.
The explosion, or maybe it was an implosion, occurred when I was thirteen.
I'd lived with my grandparents (not the bastard) for three years, and I would be moving in with my father a few months after the incident.
Two guys lived in the neighborhood who'd been bullying me for the entire time I'd lived there. We'd just got home from school when I saw them beating up one of the neighbor kids. I didn't think before I opened my mouth and told them to get the fuck away from him.
I may have called them a few foul names while I was at it.
They did stop beating on the kid, a kid I couldn't even stand, and my a bee-line for my house. I was terrified. There was no way I could take on even one of them. I was so pissed at myself for getting involved and at them... for being them.
That's when the containment chamber erupted.
I ran to my grandfather's dresser, searched his sock drawer, and retrieved the twenty-five-caliber pistol he used to carry when he was on the road.
He was a long-haul trucker for many years.
Needless to say, when those two asshole bullies reached my back patio, they were greeted, not by me but by the muzzle of a pistol. The two of them nearly shit their pants before taking off like racehorses.
Of course, I didn't get away with this.
After a visit from the police and the threat of jail, a severe tongue-lashing by my grandparents, and a lengthy grounding, I'd learned my lesson. Firearms are NOT toys, and they should never be treated as such.
And my rage?
It didn't go away all at once. After moving to my dad's, I embarked upon three years of therapy, a summer in a psychiatric institution after an attempted suicide, and finding my people. The best friends a dipshit from Detroit Metro could hope for, I'd shed a lot.
My anger remained a problem and source of strife in my family for many years. It's only been since I started therapy more than two years ago that I've truly started dealing with it.
I don't hate people anymore.
I don't wish people dead anymore.
I don't want people to be hurt anymore.
I want to live the rest of my life free of my extreme rage.
I'm happier and healthier this way.
.
-Josh (05/11/2024)
May 8, 2024
Chaos on the Monkey Bars
I've been taking my granddaughter Sasha (Grandpa's Little Supernova of Joy) to the park to play. The weather had been nice, and it seemed like the best option for the day. She loves playing in the play area Castle Fortress, which the adult world called playground equipment when the older kids didn’t dominate it.
The other families are, more often than not, very nice.
There are also clean, covered places to eat and multiple benches on which to sit.
All in all, it is a great place to take a four-year-old little girl with enough energy to power a small Midwest city.
It's also a scene of a rebirth of feudalism and class structure worthy of Chaucer.
This past Thursday, I took Sahato to the park and watched the dance unfold.
I felt like Jane Goodall watching the chimps.
When we arrived at the park, it was 2:30, and there was already a handful of older children, about ages six to ten, playing and enjoying general kid nonsense.
All the things you hear and read about children being more spoiled with screens and whatnot is, in my opinion, bullshit. They’re no more spoiled than we were with television.
But I digress.
There was one girl whose family had snacks they were willing to share with the rest of the children, who were the undisputable Queen of the Castle Fortress. She had the power to provide food and drink, and thus, she was beloved and had all of the power.
There was also a knot of boys. One of them had a scooter, and two had gloves and a baseball. They dominated the areas around the Castle Fortress.
Most of the larger, more athletic boys glommed onto them.
In terms of medieval hierarchy, these were the knights standing around and waiting for an enemy to fight.
When the invaders arrived, they were in the form of three tween boys.
These kids had that look, and we all know it from elementary school. They were looking to make some kids cry and prove how big and bad they were.
They entered the play area and proceeded to attempt a takeover of the Castle Fortress.
They took the baseball and the scooter from the knights and attempted to evict the Queen from her Throne. If not for the arrival of the giants, two of the kid's parents, there may have been an overthrow of the Playground Monarchy.
In the end, violence, in the form of yelling, screaming, and crying, was avoided, and all was well in the Playground Queendom. Snacks were shared with the invaders, turning them into allies. The scooter and baseball were peaceably shared, and a good time was had by all.
But where was Sasha, you ask?
Outside of the mishigas, a small clot of younger kids congregated. These were the ones Sasha gravitated to. They ignored the entirety of the potential war for the Throne around them. Instead, they played a lively game of tag and passed around the kickball Sasha had brought. To these blissfully unaware kids, there was no power structure. There were no cliques. And there was no conflict.
I dread the day Sasha learns the way the world really works.
I want her to enjoy kickballs, tag, and snacks for the rest of her days.
- Josh (05/08/2024)
The other families are, more often than not, very nice.
There are also clean, covered places to eat and multiple benches on which to sit.
All in all, it is a great place to take a four-year-old little girl with enough energy to power a small Midwest city.
It's also a scene of a rebirth of feudalism and class structure worthy of Chaucer.
This past Thursday, I took Sahato to the park and watched the dance unfold.
I felt like Jane Goodall watching the chimps.
When we arrived at the park, it was 2:30, and there was already a handful of older children, about ages six to ten, playing and enjoying general kid nonsense.
All the things you hear and read about children being more spoiled with screens and whatnot is, in my opinion, bullshit. They’re no more spoiled than we were with television.
But I digress.
There was one girl whose family had snacks they were willing to share with the rest of the children, who were the undisputable Queen of the Castle Fortress. She had the power to provide food and drink, and thus, she was beloved and had all of the power.
There was also a knot of boys. One of them had a scooter, and two had gloves and a baseball. They dominated the areas around the Castle Fortress.
Most of the larger, more athletic boys glommed onto them.
In terms of medieval hierarchy, these were the knights standing around and waiting for an enemy to fight.
When the invaders arrived, they were in the form of three tween boys.
These kids had that look, and we all know it from elementary school. They were looking to make some kids cry and prove how big and bad they were.
They entered the play area and proceeded to attempt a takeover of the Castle Fortress.
They took the baseball and the scooter from the knights and attempted to evict the Queen from her Throne. If not for the arrival of the giants, two of the kid's parents, there may have been an overthrow of the Playground Monarchy.
In the end, violence, in the form of yelling, screaming, and crying, was avoided, and all was well in the Playground Queendom. Snacks were shared with the invaders, turning them into allies. The scooter and baseball were peaceably shared, and a good time was had by all.
But where was Sasha, you ask?
Outside of the mishigas, a small clot of younger kids congregated. These were the ones Sasha gravitated to. They ignored the entirety of the potential war for the Throne around them. Instead, they played a lively game of tag and passed around the kickball Sasha had brought. To these blissfully unaware kids, there was no power structure. There were no cliques. And there was no conflict.
I dread the day Sasha learns the way the world really works.
I want her to enjoy kickballs, tag, and snacks for the rest of her days.
- Josh (05/08/2024)
April 29, 2024
Yo Joe!
When I was a child, I was obsessed with GI Joe.
It began with my father buying me the first issue of the comic book and reading it to me. That comic, more than anything else, made me want to be a writer. I wrote endless, at least a dozen, fan fiction stories based around that comic.
I wish I still had those horrible pieces of work. I would treasure them like gold.
I remember waiting for the first episode to debut. It was shown in primetime on my local station, I think it was channel 50, and it blew my damn mind. The animation, the voice acting, and the subject matter were all things I’d never seen before on a children's television show.
It wasn’t long after the show premiered that my mom bought me my first action figure. It was Short Fuse, and he was the figure almost immediately stolen from me by a giant asshole named Dale. That figure, for the brief time I had him, bit the collecting bug in me harder than Star Wars ever did.
That all leads to this one little thing. And really, in the scheme of things, it is such a little thing. This is my convoluted way of saying that I'm doing something that's either very cool (in a nerdy way) or completely pointless.
I’m writing G.I. Joe.
Quite a few years ago, I want to say five, but it might be longer than that. I was working on a GI JOE book that was released in sections when Amazon Kindle Words was up and running. Two were published, but parts 3, 4, and 5 were still on the drawing board, so to speak, when Amazon pulled the plug without really giving the program a chance to thrive.
Big surprise, right?
A few weeks ago, I reread the finished sections of the book and reviewed the notes for the other three, and I liked what I saw. I was still a young writer when I started this project. But the bones are good, and I really like what I’ve done so far.
That was all a lead-in to say I have decided to finish the book and make it free to read on my website or via a free downloadable PDF. I know it won't make me any money, but maybe I'll send it out and see if I can work on the comic books by using it as an example of my writing and my grasp of the property.
Hey, a guy can dream, can't he?
- Josh (04/28/2024)
It began with my father buying me the first issue of the comic book and reading it to me. That comic, more than anything else, made me want to be a writer. I wrote endless, at least a dozen, fan fiction stories based around that comic.
I wish I still had those horrible pieces of work. I would treasure them like gold.
I remember waiting for the first episode to debut. It was shown in primetime on my local station, I think it was channel 50, and it blew my damn mind. The animation, the voice acting, and the subject matter were all things I’d never seen before on a children's television show.
It wasn’t long after the show premiered that my mom bought me my first action figure. It was Short Fuse, and he was the figure almost immediately stolen from me by a giant asshole named Dale. That figure, for the brief time I had him, bit the collecting bug in me harder than Star Wars ever did.
That all leads to this one little thing. And really, in the scheme of things, it is such a little thing. This is my convoluted way of saying that I'm doing something that's either very cool (in a nerdy way) or completely pointless.
I’m writing G.I. Joe.
Quite a few years ago, I want to say five, but it might be longer than that. I was working on a GI JOE book that was released in sections when Amazon Kindle Words was up and running. Two were published, but parts 3, 4, and 5 were still on the drawing board, so to speak, when Amazon pulled the plug without really giving the program a chance to thrive.
Big surprise, right?
A few weeks ago, I reread the finished sections of the book and reviewed the notes for the other three, and I liked what I saw. I was still a young writer when I started this project. But the bones are good, and I really like what I’ve done so far.
That was all a lead-in to say I have decided to finish the book and make it free to read on my website or via a free downloadable PDF. I know it won't make me any money, but maybe I'll send it out and see if I can work on the comic books by using it as an example of my writing and my grasp of the property.
Hey, a guy can dream, can't he?
- Josh (04/28/2024)
February 19, 2024
Downward Slide
Before I tear into this, I need to preface it with a bit of information. I’m sick, physically sick. I mean, I am seriously physically sick, and it’s all my fault.
To be clear, I don’t blame anyone but myself for what comes next, which is this, hopefully, short essay. I’ve been warned almost my entire life that my lifestyle would lead to this, and I set those warnings aside. I always figured there would be time to correct the course.
Jokes on me.
I’m out of time.
I have debated for the last couple of days If I should reveal this new information or not. Normally, I just jump on the grenade and accept the damage I take in the blast.
This time, I hesitated.
But finally, since I always try to keep my life on Front Street with everything, I decided I might as well go in whole hog. I went to the doctor’s on Friday for the first time. I gave a full, honest accounting of my aches, pains, and symptoms.
So, what’s ailing Old Josh?
First, I messed up my back when I fell down the stairs last year, and she’s sending me for X-rays this week. I’m honestly worried that I did some real damage.
My breathing has been horribly short as of late, and I don’t mean the normal strained breathing of a middle-aged, morbidly obese man either. This is something different. That said, she’s hoping taking off weight will fix the issue.
I hope she’s right.
I’ve been having intermittent chest pains, so they performed an EKG on me then and there. She said there were no issues. I’m going to see a Cardiologist next week, and we will schedule the first available appointment for a stress test.
My feet and hands are, at the same time, mostly numb and burning from the inside out. I’m going for a procedure, I don’t remember what it’s called, next week. Basically, they’re going to put acupuncture needles in my hands and feet, add electricity, and map the nerve sensitivity.
Sounds like fun.
And then there’s the big chuck of gods awful news.
Deep breath... calm down... steady my nerves... I am 326ibs.
This is the heaviest I’ve ever been. My doctor is putting me on Ozempic. I’m not one of those people who see it as a miracle drug, but I am hoping that it will help me get started with the real work of getting healthier.
Did I have to share any of this information?
No.
But I’m Josh Hilden, and I believe in the old adage, “To name it is to claim it.”
We’ll see where I go from here?
I suppose I finally get serious about my weight and fight for my health.
Or I choose a slow death.
- Josh (02/18/2024)
To be clear, I don’t blame anyone but myself for what comes next, which is this, hopefully, short essay. I’ve been warned almost my entire life that my lifestyle would lead to this, and I set those warnings aside. I always figured there would be time to correct the course.
Jokes on me.
I’m out of time.
I have debated for the last couple of days If I should reveal this new information or not. Normally, I just jump on the grenade and accept the damage I take in the blast.
This time, I hesitated.
But finally, since I always try to keep my life on Front Street with everything, I decided I might as well go in whole hog. I went to the doctor’s on Friday for the first time. I gave a full, honest accounting of my aches, pains, and symptoms.
So, what’s ailing Old Josh?
First, I messed up my back when I fell down the stairs last year, and she’s sending me for X-rays this week. I’m honestly worried that I did some real damage.
My breathing has been horribly short as of late, and I don’t mean the normal strained breathing of a middle-aged, morbidly obese man either. This is something different. That said, she’s hoping taking off weight will fix the issue.
I hope she’s right.
I’ve been having intermittent chest pains, so they performed an EKG on me then and there. She said there were no issues. I’m going to see a Cardiologist next week, and we will schedule the first available appointment for a stress test.
My feet and hands are, at the same time, mostly numb and burning from the inside out. I’m going for a procedure, I don’t remember what it’s called, next week. Basically, they’re going to put acupuncture needles in my hands and feet, add electricity, and map the nerve sensitivity.
Sounds like fun.
And then there’s the big chuck of gods awful news.
Deep breath... calm down... steady my nerves... I am 326ibs.
This is the heaviest I’ve ever been. My doctor is putting me on Ozempic. I’m not one of those people who see it as a miracle drug, but I am hoping that it will help me get started with the real work of getting healthier.
Did I have to share any of this information?
No.
But I’m Josh Hilden, and I believe in the old adage, “To name it is to claim it.”
We’ll see where I go from here?
I suppose I finally get serious about my weight and fight for my health.
Or I choose a slow death.
- Josh (02/18/2024)
February 8, 2024
Wil Wheaton And PTSD
The recent essay by Wil Wh8eaton discussing his PTSD got me thinking. Have I ever talked about my own PTSD?
Not the underlying trauma. I've been pretty open about being hit until I was 13 and being raped when I was 7. I feel no need to get into the details of these traumas, but allow me to assure you that I've been working intensely on them in therapy for the last 2+ years.
My PTSD has had a long and twisted effect on my life.
My fear of the dark has its roots buried deep in my rape. The first time it happened was late at night, and the darkness pushing against the windows is one of my clearest memories.
Following that night, I developed a deep and irrational fear of the dark that plagues me to this very day. And we’re not talking about a child's natural fear of the dark and unknown. No, I did, and I continue to experience intense panic attacks. If I have to go out in the dark. I cry and am flooded with that ice-cold terror that too many of us are all too familiar with. Thankfully, they don’t happen as much as they used to.
But they still happen.
Also following that night were questions and shame of my sexuality. I already knew I was different but didn’t yet have the vocabulary to order it. That man who assaulted me kept referring to me as a “little faggot” during the experience. Didn’t help. It wouldn’t be until I was 33 that I started to not hate that aspect of myself.
It's still a work in progress.
PTSD is no joke, people. Ask any soldier, Sailor, Marine, or Airman who’ve served in the war zones. It doesn’t matter which. There are so many to choose from. It’s the invisible trauma, and it claims more lives than people realize.
I know.
I’ve been there.
The only advice I can give to people who don’t suffer from PTSD is just believe them. I guarantee the person who confides in you with their pain and trauma needs to be heard. If they tell you about it, they trust you and are only asking for your understanding and patience.
They’re always looking for a person they can let their defenses down around. They want friends and loved ones who can look past their quirks and see who they are inside. They want to not be judged as someone who suffers from emotional, sexual, physical, or psychological issues or any combination of these traumas.
You don’t know how much that can help.
You’ll never realize what a kind word and compassionate ear can accomplish.
- Josh (02/08/2023)
Not the underlying trauma. I've been pretty open about being hit until I was 13 and being raped when I was 7. I feel no need to get into the details of these traumas, but allow me to assure you that I've been working intensely on them in therapy for the last 2+ years.
My PTSD has had a long and twisted effect on my life.
My fear of the dark has its roots buried deep in my rape. The first time it happened was late at night, and the darkness pushing against the windows is one of my clearest memories.
Following that night, I developed a deep and irrational fear of the dark that plagues me to this very day. And we’re not talking about a child's natural fear of the dark and unknown. No, I did, and I continue to experience intense panic attacks. If I have to go out in the dark. I cry and am flooded with that ice-cold terror that too many of us are all too familiar with. Thankfully, they don’t happen as much as they used to.
But they still happen.
Also following that night were questions and shame of my sexuality. I already knew I was different but didn’t yet have the vocabulary to order it. That man who assaulted me kept referring to me as a “little faggot” during the experience. Didn’t help. It wouldn’t be until I was 33 that I started to not hate that aspect of myself.
It's still a work in progress.
PTSD is no joke, people. Ask any soldier, Sailor, Marine, or Airman who’ve served in the war zones. It doesn’t matter which. There are so many to choose from. It’s the invisible trauma, and it claims more lives than people realize.
I know.
I’ve been there.
The only advice I can give to people who don’t suffer from PTSD is just believe them. I guarantee the person who confides in you with their pain and trauma needs to be heard. If they tell you about it, they trust you and are only asking for your understanding and patience.
They’re always looking for a person they can let their defenses down around. They want friends and loved ones who can look past their quirks and see who they are inside. They want to not be judged as someone who suffers from emotional, sexual, physical, or psychological issues or any combination of these traumas.
You don’t know how much that can help.
You’ll never realize what a kind word and compassionate ear can accomplish.
- Josh (02/08/2023)
