Kyle Garret's Blog, page 18

Free Stories for All Tastes (by me)

It's been a while since I posted to the free stories I have up online.  Since traffic to my blog seems to be growing lately, I figured it would be a good idea to let people know where they can find actual stories from me -- and for free, no less!

A few years ago, I self-published a collection of short stories.  I later published the first story in that collection, "Unrequited," as it's own ebook.  "Unrequited" is probably one of the best things I've ever written, and is easily the story I've gotten the most positive feedback on.  It's also a bit on the long side, which automatically disqualified it from publication in most literary journals.

"Unrequited" is about internet dating and the end of the world.  It's a love story...with zombies.

In that collection, I matched "Unrequited" up with two other short stories that literary journals had deemed unpublishable.  The first is Mercurial, which is non-linear and cyclical and about relationships.  Honest to god, it got rejected an awful lot because it's too weird, and I submitted it to a lot of weird places.

Author Francois Camoin referred to "Mercurial" as "the story that reads like it was written on drugs."

The third and final story in that collection is "Grimm."  It was also far too long for publication in any literarly journal and, as such, I never bothered submitting it anywhere.  Perhaps I could have cut it down to a more digestible form, and would instead be pointing you towards a well known literary magazine to read it, but for some reason that never occurred to me.

"Grimm" is connected to my first book, "I Pray Hardest When I'm Being Shot At."

The first story I ever had published by someone other than myself was "Weight."  This story was something of a turning point for me, as it represented the last short story I would ever write with my bizarre need to use only one word in the title.  It was published by the Ginosko Literary Journal.

All of my short stories are connected, and "Weight" features the back story of a character who plays a prominent role in every thing I've written.

You can find "Gateway Drug" in a literary journal called Children, Churches, and Daddies, which is a mouthful.  They have mastered the art of repackaging, though, so there are currently three different anthologies that feature this story.  It is probably the only flat out humorous story I've ever written.

Most of what happens in "Gateway Drug" actually happened to me.

I recently had a short story, "Young Zombies in Love," accept by Best New Writing, for what I'm assuming is their 2014 edition (as it's an annual publication).  I don't want to step on any toes by just giving it away for free -- not yet, anyway.

It occurred to me lately that my portfolio of short stories has gotten lean.  There's the six that I mentioned above, half of which are stuck in self-publishing purgatory.  I have probably a dozen more (at least), but none of them are where they need to be.

Then again, I don't know if I thought "Weight" or "Gateway Drug" were where they needed to be, either, but apparently other people liked them well enough.

Short stories are a funny business.

You can, of course, find my first, full length book anywhere they sell books, thanks to the fine folks at Hellgate Press.  It's called "I Pray Hardest When I'm Being Shot At," and if you like anything I've ever written, you'll like it, and vice versa.

Oh, I'm also really nerdy and contributed an essay for "Joss Whedon" the Complete Companion."

In the near future, I'll share some of my YA book, "Master of the House."

I think it's actually getting pretty good.

Oral Groove

"How would you like to be closer to Eddie Vedder?"

Honestly, I thought Jeremy was going to tell me he had tickets for a Pearl Jam concert and backstage passes.  Credit where it's due, he chose the exact right thing to say to pique my interest.

Twenty years ago today, when high school let out for the weekend, my friend Brett and I went to a house on the other side of town, walked down into the basement, and met Jeremy and the three other members of a then unnamed band.  Brett had brought his guitar because he wanted to jam with them.  I was there to audition as the lead singer.

Jeremy was the drummer.  He was a junior like I was and I would have considered him a friend even then.  I recognized the other three -- they'd all gone to the same elementary school as me.  Tony was the bass player.  Matt played one guitar.  Rob, whose dad's basement we were in, played the other guitar.

I was tall, skinny, socially awkward soccer player who was obsessed with grunge and alternative music.  They were of various sizes, engaged in various activities at school, were obsessed with Ned's Atomic Dustbin, and were, I think they'll agree, nearly as socially awkward.

My audition consisted of singing "Somebody to Shove" by Soul Asylum.  It had to have been awful, but I'm going to guess that the PA system we were using wasn't good enough for them to notice.  And so, Rob stuck his hand out and asked me if I wanted to be in the band.  And we shook on it.

Up until that point, high school was not particularly fun or easy for me.  It would not have been a stretch to say that Brett was the only constant friend I had.  I played soccer and I was pretty good, but I was too weird to really be a part of that social group.  I was smart, but I was far too lazy and unfocused to be in any academic groups or cliques.  I spent most of my time in my room reading and writing fantasy fiction.

To say that I was unsure of my place in the world would have been an understatement.

In no time at all, the band, Oral Groove (usually written in all lower case letters ala e.e. cummings), became almost everything to me.  It set me on a path that I'm still on, one that I never would have started along if it weren't for that band.

It wasn't just the band, either -- it was the friends that suffered through every show.  We jokingly referred to them as the Oral Groupies (Anne and J-Sully, in particular, deserve a special shout-out here), but they weren't really there for the music so much as there to support us.

We were in the trenches of adolescence and we did everything you would imagine high school kids would do, but I think we did it a little bit differently.  In a strange way, we formed our own clique.  I had a few other friends and I did a few other things, but everything revolved around the band.

A lot has changed over the last twenty years.  The band members themselves are scattered across four separate states.  Our large, extended family have created families of their own, expanding the strange family tree.  Some of us kept playing music for a while, but eventually each of us set on to our individual paths.  That didn't involve being rock stars, but that was never really the point.

I would be a very different person today if I hadn't joined Oral Groove.  I don't know, exactly, who that person would have been, but I can guarantee that I would not have liked him as much.

And I guarantee you he wouldn't have been as happy.

Abusing Nostalgia: Letter to a College Roommate

Oh, this is classic.

I don't know the date on this, but it would have been sometime during the summer of '94.  This is the letter I wrote to the guy who would be my roommate my freshman year.  It appears to be in response to a letter he sent me.

There are a few cringe worthy moments in here, but a lot of it is still true.

I only ended up living with this guy for the first semester; he transferred to another dorm after that.  He said the dorm we lived in was too loud, which was so very true.  That dorm was insane.  My RA was nice enough to not write down that my roommate had left, so for the remainder of the year I had the room to myself.  It was pretty sweet.



Marty,

Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you, but I’m kind of busy and sometimes I can be lazy. There doesn’t seem to be enough hours in the day.
Anyway, I guess I’ll list off some things about me in the same way you did. Here goes:
My family consists of my mom, dad, and older brother, who is twenty-four and will be a middle school science teacher in the fall. My father’s name is David, he works at a place called Kevin Coleman. He gets jobs for the mentally and physically handicapped. My mom’s name is Sherry. She works at Tallmadge (a city two cities over from Kent) High School as a teacher for students with learning disabilities. Oh, yeah, my brother’s name is Chris.
As for myself, my full name is Kyle Gerrit Vanderneut. My middle name comes from a second cousin of mine who lives in Holland. That should give you a clue that I’m Dutch. I’ve never been to the Netherlands, but I really want to go eventually. At the moment, I’m debating over whether or not to bring my wooden shoes with me to college. Yes, I’m that into my heritage. Although the only person who could speak the language fluently, my dad’s aunt, died recently, so that kind of sets my interest back a bit.
I’ve played soccer since I was five and it’s one of the few things I’m very passionate about. The other is writing. Unfortunately, I want to go on to get my Master’s in English, which means I have to get really good grades, which means I don’t have time for soccer. Otherwise, I would have played. I played varsity for three years in high school. It’s a great game and the World Cup being held here drove me absolutely nuts with joy. Blasted Brazilians, knocked out the U.S. and the Netherlands!
Probably my third passion (soccer and writing being the first two) would be music. A friend of mine once told me that I get more out of music than anyone she knows. I’m currently in a band called Oral Groove. It’s a five man band with two guitars, a bass, drums, and me, the lead singer. Three of our members are underclassmen, so we’re breaking up with the end of the summer. I’m going to look for a band to join at Ashland. From what I was told at orientation, it shouldn’t be to hard to find one.
My five favorite bands, at the moment, are Pearl Jam, Ned’s Atomic Dustbin, R.E.M., Weezer, and the Beastie Boys. Yes, the Beastie Boys can be considered rap, but they aren’t your usual kind of rap. They can’t be — they’re the only rap band that I like.
I’m currently learning how to play guitar, but I don’t own one. I might have one by the time I leave, so maybe you could teach me? I played the sax for about two years, but I really don’t remember all that much.
In high school I had the soccer team in the fall, and the Drama Guild in the Winter and Spring. I was also on the school newspaper and the literary magazine. I’m in two international organizations — Quill and Scroll and the Thespians.
I only watch three programs on TV - Batman the Animated Series, Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman, and the X-Men. If you can’t tell, I’m into comic books. I’ve got somewhere around two thousand. It’s expensive, immature, and insane, but I like it.
Oh, yes, you and I are definitely having a James Bond marathon. Bond movies are awesome! I can’t wait for the new ones - Pearce Bronson is going to be perfect!
I’m going to bring a CD player and portable dual cassette tape recorder which is CD compatible. I’d bring my stereo, but it’s kind of big and the only thing it can do that my portable can’t is play records. I do own a few records, however, so if you have a great deal of them and want me to bring my stereo, that’s not a problem.
I could probably get a small fridge around here for a cheaper price than at Ashland. This is a college town, after all. So just tell me if you want me to get one, and we can split the price or whatever. Oh, and I think bunk beds are the way to go. If I tried to make a loft I’d end up nailing my hand to the bed.
Well, I’ve rambled on long enough. Write me back with a list of stuff that you’re going to take down and I’ll see what we need. If I don’t hear from you soon, I’ll see you in a couple of weeks!

The Return of Californication

If I had to guess, I would say that 90% of all the male writers in America wish that they could be more like Hank Moody -- or at least have lives like him.

Before I get ahead of myself, I should address the fact that Californication is a television show, albeit one that airs on a premium cable network.

There's a general belief out there that television and writing are mortal enemies.  Stephen King says as much in his book "On Writing."  He straight up tells you to stop watching television, as it's no good for you or for your work.

It's not an unreasonable stance.  I don't think anyone can deny that the rise of television led to the decline of reading, and the decline of reading has a pretty serious impact on those of us who write.  Hell, if television didn't exist, it would probably be much easier to get a book deal.  Television put a cap on the demand for books.

And let's face facts: television is a time suck.  The average network television series is 22 episodes a year.  For an hour long show, minus commercials, that 880 minutes, or 14.666 hours.  If you watch two, hour long shows, you're ultimately giving up over a day of your life.  Imagine how much writing you could get done in a day.

But all the negative beliefs about television overlook a very clear positive: stories are stories.  Sure, you can debate the quality of the storytelling on the average network television show, but in a world of ebooks self-publishing, I don't know that we can claim the average written work is that much better anymore.

As with anything, the key to television is moderation.  It is very, very easy to get pulled into television and waste hours and hours of your life in other people's stories.  But such a trap is easily avoidable in this time of DVRs and on-demand video.  I could theoretically watch 3 episodes of hour long shows and 3 episodes of half shows in 3 hours on a Sunday afternoon.  That's 3 hours spent digesting a variety of storytelling techniques, 3 hours enjoying a different medium than the one I work in.  It's 3 hours relaxing on a Sunday afternoon and if there's something wrong with that, then I don't want to be right.

And so we come back to "Californication," a show I can, in fact, watch whenever I want because it's available on-demand.  It's a half an hour long and it features a writer, so it kind of does double duty.

"Californication" is male fantasy.  Hank Moody is a drunken, partying writer who has success without trying and has lots of sex in much the same way.  And, as the male fantasy holds, the one true love of Hank's life remains relatively chaste as he sleeps his way through a certain demographic of Los Angeles.

Hank is brutally honest in a way that almost none of us could ever be.  His only notable family is his father, who he indirectly wrote horrible things about, and who dies a few seasons in.  He has a daughter that you can't actually imagine him ever taking care of when she was a little girl, but we come in when she's on the verge of being a teenager.  His daughter's mother, the aforementioned one true love of his life, always manages to be nearby, but just out of reach, mostly through Hank's own doing.

So true.Which, of course, is why the show is so appealing -- Hank continually fucks up, yet his savior, the most important thing in the entire world to him, is always near.  He can be that kind of Salinger influenced Easton Ellis/Palahniuk/McKinerney type of writer who just takes that hard line, crotchety stance on any given thing, surrounds it with shock value, and throws in this feint glimmer of hope, as if the shitstorm he's created won't actually drown everyone and everything.  It is how he writes and how he lives.

And what red blooded, heterosexual, American male writer doesn't, at some point, wish they could have that life?  Who could deny the appeal of partying like a rock star and yet still being able to come home to the loving and beautiful muse and the amazing fruit of that union in physical form?

It's a character that I don't think really exists anymore or, rather, a character that we don't really care about anymore, at least when he's real.  We enjoy Hank Moody, but I doubt we'd tolerate him were he real, and I can't imagine the publishing world would have any time for him.  He's written one novel that was turned into a shitty movie and another novel that was stolen by the underage girl he slept with.  He's not a guy that publishing companies are lining up to give a book deal.

Yes, that's his fictional book.Maybe we can blame that on the 80's beating that dead horse to a pulp, or maybe we can blame it on the new reality of book publishing that says companies are looking for reliable revenue generators and you can't generate revenue from the floor of some bar or in the back seat of a car, covered in your own vomit, having unprotected sex with a woman who was about to go home with the guy standing next to you until he had to run to the bathroom real quick.

"Californication" is the fantasy.  It's the romanticism of writing.  It's hilarious and occasionally heartbreaking and it's often inspirational.  As the writer who is more highly regarded than Hank says to him, you have to sit in that chair until your ass bleeds.  You have to put the work in until putting the work in seems like punishment for some crime you've yet to commit.

And perhaps that's what writing really is.  Perhaps we're all just doing penance for the sins down the line. And perhaps that's why "Californication" is so appealing, because Hank Moody is getting away with the sin...for now.

Grad School Part II: Pretending

My second year of grad school was glorious.

Most of the graduate students in the English department were TAs, which stands for Teaching Assistant.  But at OU, that was something of a misnomer.  We didn't assist professors, we actually taught classes.  For the most part, that was English 101: Freshman Composition, although in our second years we were able to branch out a bit more into things like Intro to Short Stories or Intro to Poetry.

After my first year, I was able to convince my teaching adviser that I wanted to do a study of the difference between teaching composition in a traditional classroom and teaching composition in a computer classroom (Ohio University had installed computers in a few, select classrooms n the English building).  I suggested that I could even write a paper about the differences.  That did not happen.  Basically, I just wanted the extra money that came with teaching a second class so that I could quit my job at the gas station (to be described in detail in another blog post, I'm sure).

I worked at one of these.I was no longer in a band during my second year of grad school.  The Local Arm (as we were known) had broken up at the end of the previous year with the graduation of our drummer.  And as much as I missed being in a band, all the ridiculous amounts of time that I'd spent on that was suddenly appropriated actual grad school related things.  I spent more time with my fellow grad students.  I worked on the literary journal.  I went to the big writers conference.  I acclimated.

And I wrote.

I won't say that it was particularly good writing, but it was necessary writing.  It was the next step in my evolution of a writer, an evolution that ultimately never ends.  But all those vaguely profound, emotional things that I'd been (poorly) singing about the year before were now coming through on the page.  I think I'm a decent songwriter.  I'm a much better writer.

I had plenty of fodder.  The on again, off again relationship of the previous year ended for good, although it was not without its after shocks.  I found myself embracing sadness over anger, because anger doesn't translate well to the written page.  I had plenty of sadness, and in many ways sadness gave me perspective.

My name is inside this.I partied.  I partied with a flagrant disregard for my own well being.  I partied with the reckless abandon of someone who wanted to experience new things, who started each night genuinely excited about where it might take him.  There was sex and there were drugs and there was rock n' roll and it was all material.

When I finally committed to grad school and submerged myself in the culture, I realized just how insane it was, particularly for those engaged in "creative" majors.  At no other point in your life are you given such a perfect balance of structure and freedom.  We had to produce to pass our classes, but we also had nothing else to do but produce.  We had 20 hours out of a 24 hour day to write and that writing would then fulfill the only real responsibilities we had.

That second year of grad school was surreal in all the right ways.

I'll admit to some regrets.  I regret that I wasn't more focused, which has been a problem for pretty much entire life.  I may have been writing to fulfill my school obligations, but I had no vision beyond that.  It never occurred to me that I should be preparing these short stories for submission to literary magazines, or that I should be read said literary magazines to get an idea about what was out there.  For all my submersion in the English department, I was still operating in a bubble.

I suppose that's to be expected.  It was a bubble.  It was about writing without consequence, writing without pretense of something more.  It was writing for the sake of writing, writing because that's what we were there for, no more and no less.  There was no greater goal beyond producing stories that we felt were important, even if perhaps they weren't.

I hadn't realized it until just this moment, but I wish I could get back to that place.  I don't wish I was back in grad school (not really), but I do wish I could go back to the frame of mind, when nothing mattered about the words on the page other than the fact that they were there.

It makes me appreciate exactly why so many writers stay in academia; it's a safe place.  Teaching is your bread and butter in academia.  Writing is gravy.  Writing out here among the regular folk is harder.  You don't have the luxury to write for writing's sake.

Or maybe you do.  Maybe I just need to figure that out.

Abusing Nostalgia: 23

I have a strange feeling that these posts are going to be really entertaining for only a select group of people.

Anyway, since I just wrote a review of Jimmy Eat World's "Clarity," I figured I'd choose something from when it came out, which was February of 1999.  Funny enough, I was 23 in February of 1999, and Jimmy Eat World have a song called "23."  It's a good song.

This particular journal entry is hilarious for many, many reasons.  I would normally avoid posting anything that involves girls by name, but I don't keep in touch with either of the girls in this post.  Oh, wait, there are appearances by two girls that I do still periodically talk to on Facebook, but I would bet fat sacks of cash that they're totally fine with this.

It's also one of the rare journal updates where I'm actually kind of full of myself and those are always fun to read.



Sunday, February 21, 1999
1:37:37 PM


                Christ, what a weekend.  To say that I’m exhausted today would be an understatement.  I have stuff to do and I don't even know where to begin, let alone want to begin.  Maybe I should replay my weekend a bit.


                Friday afternoon we practiced, then I went to a graduate reading at four o'clock.  It was good and then I got some people together to go to the Pub uptown.  See, Elizabeth works at the Pub.  She's a fellow first year grad student, as well as a fellow OU undergrad.  I had seen her around campus before - she's pretty stunning, so it's kind of hard not to notice her.  But she works with Vito's girlfriend at the Pub and Vito's girlfriend had mentioned to me that Elizabeth had said some nice things about me and would probably go out with me if I asked her.  SO, this leads us to Friday evening, since Elizabeth had asked me earlier in the day if I was going to stop by and see her at her second job.


                Well, we get to the Pub and she sets us up with lots of free drinks.  We got there a little after five and she got off around seven, so I was good and loaded by that point.  I had to come back here for a show, so I got up and put my arm around her (she was sitting) and told her I needed to leave.  She stood up and said good-bye to me and then I said that I needed to get my jacket and asked her to come with me.  So I get my jacket and put it on and I tell her that I'm pretty drunk, but I wanted to ask her -


                Yes.  She said yes before I had even asked a question.  She was smiling.  Then she asked me if I was only asking because I was drunk, to which I told her that I had been talking about asking her out all day and that she could ask our friends.  We both realized how busy we were this weekend, so she wrote down her number for me on a napkin, thus assuring that our next song will be called "Number On A Napkin" (that was Bob's idea).  So I have her phone number and I need to call her, but of course, I'm a little bit of a social idiot, so we'll see how that goes.


                But it was kind of nice to ask a girl out who seemed genuinely interested in going out with me.  Then I came home, greeted by lots of people I didn't know who were here for a show.  Of course, Asia showed up, although she was with her brother, who is a really nice guy.  The weird thing was, I was totally hung up on her.  I mean, I was a bit wasted, but she's just so damn good looking.  We hung out a bit and we were getting along well.  Here's where things get odd.


                At one point I was sitting on the couch between Judy and Asia and Lisa was sitting in the chair across from us.  I put my arm around Judy and Lisa yelled at me to stop hitting on Judy (jokingly, of course).  So I put my arm around Asia and Lisa yelled at me to stop hitting on Asia.  Well, Zack (Asia's brother) whispered over to Lisa for her to let me hit on his sister, as if he had some sort of information that I was unaware of.  It just seemed odd that he would want me to hit on his sister.  So I took this as meaning either the kid liked me a lot, or he knew his sister did.


                Now, this is where things get weird.  Because later on, Asia and I were talking and she gave me this whole thing about how she thinks I'm the kind of guy that could really fall for her (too true) and how she doesn't want that and all of that.  I mean, she was definitely putting the guard up.  But I can't help but wonder if that's because of me or because of her - I feel like maybe she does have some like for me and doesn't want to go through that.  I dunno.


                So I'm to the point where I don't really care.  I don't think I ever had a true, vested interest in it.  I mean, it was fun and will probably continue to be so, but we'll see.  After all, I have a number on a napkin.

Grad School Part I: Resistance

Glorious Ellis Hall (home of the English Dept. @Ohio U)At some point during my senior year of college, I realized that I had no idea what I was going to do with my life.

I knew what I wanted to do with my life -- I wanted to be in a band.  I can remember being at a party and talking two these two guys I knew who were two years younger than me and in a band of their own about how we'd all be happy working at gas stations as long as we could be in a band.  At that point, I'd already been accepted into the graduate program at Ohio University, so I told them I'd have to be the manager of the gas station, what with my Master's degree in Creative Writing and all.

I applied to graduate school because I didn't know what else to do.  I would imagine a lot of people do that.  I only applied to a hand full of schools.  I was willing to go to grad school for pretty much anything in the realm of English, which meant I applied to literature programs which, if you know me, is insane.

Part of my problem was that I had no where to go.  I've more or less just gone wherever the wind blows me, but there was no wind to speak of.  I couldn't stay in Athens, Ohio, because there was no real reason to.  I didn't want to go back to my home town of Kent, Ohio, because that felt not unlike failure.  I wanted to strike out on my own, but I had no idea how.

I was going to OU when they adopted the "Attack Cat"I will admit that there was a part of me that was sad that my college career was coming to an end, and I mean that from an educational standpoint, believe it or not.  I felt that I'd finally hit my the sweet spot of learning.  I felt like I was a part of the English department community, which is something I couldn't have said in the years previous.  I knew all the professors.  I was friends with other English majors.  I spent time at Ellis hall recreationally.  I had become part of something and it was ending just as it was beginning.

I don't know why Ohio University decided to accepted me into the graduate program.  I know that they generally frown upon accepting students from their own undergrad program.  I know that the only reason I was given a teaching position, stipend, and tuition waiver was because someone on the list ahead of me had turned them down.  I'm sure the recommendation letter from Dan Chaon didn't hurt, either (my one claim to fame).

While much of my desire to become a successful writer is selfish, there is a percentage that wants to do well by Ohio University.  I feel like they invested in me and I've yet to pay off.

My first year of graduate school was everything it shouldn't have been.  While I enjoyed being in The Local Arm (the band I was in at the time), it distracted me from all things graduate school.  The fact that I lived in a house with five undergrads didn't help, either.  That had nothing to do with them, it's just that I literally didn't have to leave the house to be social.  We had parties nearly every weekend, and some of those parties involved bands playing in our basement.  I only wrote sparingly, I was taking required classes, and I never went to any department functions.  The few times I tried to get involved, I bailed.

For a guy who was so desperate to get into grad school, I held on to my undergraduate life as if I would die without it.

Ellis Hall without snow, which was how I liked it.An extension of that was a rather ridiculous long distance relationship with the girl I'd been with since my sophomore year.  We spent more than a year unable to completely move on mostly because we were afraid to.  We had completely separate lives on nearly every conceivable level, yet we kept going back and forth, even when we would officially break up.

I remember, at the end of my first quarter of grad school (we were on quarters back then), I actually decided to be social with the rest of my class.  We all met up at a bar and realized that all of us had begun the year with long distance significant others, and were now broken up with all of them.  I do believe I was the only one who refused to cut the cord completely.

That first year of grad school wasn't a good one, at least not for the right reasons.  I can't even claim that I got the full, graduate school experience that year.  I was just so far removed from it.

At the end of the first quarter, I was on academic probation.  My tuition waiver demanded a B average and I'd gotten a B and a B- in the two classes I had taken.  They were required classes that had little to do with creative writing and, as usual, I was obstinate; I was there to write, not take classes about literature.  But that's what I got for getting an MA and not an MFA, not that I knew the difference back then.

While I don't regret being in The Local Arm, I regret pretty much everything else about my first year of grad school.

Thankfully, there was a second year and a second chance to do it right.

The Sequel

I'm sporadically working on a sequel to "I Pray Hardest When I'm Being Shot At."

For those of you who don't know (and, if you don't, why the hell not?  It's the only book I've ever had published by an actual publishing company, so throw me a bone and buy it, won't you?), "Pray" was the story of my grandfather, a three war veteran and retired Major, although much of the book was about his wife, my grandmother, and even more of the book was about the relationship between my then-girlfriend-now-wife Nicole and I as I wrote the thing.

Given how "Pray" ended, there was really only one thread available for me to follow-up -- that of our new marriage.  And, honestly, if that's all I had, I doubt that I would really try writing it. After all, people get married all the time, and a large number of those people are writers, and I'd be willing to bet a decent number of them are better writers than me.

Four months before "Pray" was released, Nicole's father died.  Her mother had died two and a half years earlier.

Nicole's dad knew about "Pray."  He knew about it when I was writing it, when I finished it, and when Hellgate Press decided to publish it.  I had shared an awful lot about my family history with him while I was writing the book.

According to two different people (one being the woman who cleaned his house every other week or so, the other being one of his cousins), Nicole's dad had taken my book to heart, so much so that he was in the process of collecting information about his family for the purpose of asking me to write a book about them.

That's a pretty big deal.  Nicole's dad was all about family and the fact that he wanted me to write a book about them said a lot.

I don't know how far I would have taken this idea if it had stopped there.  I am nothing if not bursting with book ideas, so getting me to write about something that wasn't my idea would be difficult.

But at this very moment I am sitting in my home office in the house that Nicole grew up in, the house that we inherited from her parents.  We bought out Nicole's brother, meaning that this house cost us half price.  It's in a great neighborhood in a great school district and it is going to be great for the children we will have one day.  Its' a big house with a pool and our cats have a lot of space to run around.

It's a life changing gift.

To say that I feel like I owe Nicole's dad a lot would be an understatement.  Inheritance aside, he was responsible for bringing Nicole into this world, for which he already had my eternal gratitude.

And, again, I could write an entire book about this, but that doesn't make any of it particularly unique.

The bound, transcribed copy of "An Authentic Wagon Train Journal of 1853" sitting on my desk changed that.

Nicole's great great grandfather led an expedition from Indiana to California in 1853.  He kept a journal about it.  Nicole's great aunt transcribed it and made copies for the family.  It's about a man from the Midwest taking a roundabout journey across country to his eventual home in California.  And when he got here, he ended up starting a family that would grow and grow and would remember him 150 years later.

This story got a whole lot more interesting.

The journal is, as you'd imagine, pretty amazing.  Historical documentation from a personal perspective usually is.  There's a great deal of material in the journal, not to mention a great deal of research that will be necessary in fully explaining it.  But I like that part of it; I like doing research for all the things I write, be they non-fiction or not.

I had a title for "I Pray Hardest When I'm Being Shot At" before I ever wrote a single word of it.  It's a direct quote from my grandfather that was just too perfect not to use.  Strangely enough, Nicole's great great grandfather, William Richard Brown, did much the same thing.  There are very few instances in his journal where he emphasizes one statement above any others.  But on May 4, 1853, he underlined three words: whiskey nearly out.

It's like he knew I'd end up reading his journal.

I've been writing "Whiskey Nearly Out" in fits and starts.  Writing non-fiction is generally easier for me than writing fiction simply because it requires less thought with regards to plot.  My big problem with writing non-fiction, and I would have to guess that this is the same for most non-fiction writers, is that you have to answer one very big question: what's the point?

I have found myself with several threads that will, I'm fairly certain, at some point work together.  But right now I'm still feeling it out.  I'm still trying to cover all the things that have happened to Nicole and I since we were married.  I'm still trying to make sense of this house, such an amazing gift, yet so loaded with expectations.  And I'm trying to retrace the steps that William Richard Brown took from Indiana to California.

It's going to be interesting to see where it ends up.  I have a sneaky suspicion that it will end up involving children.

Abusing Nostalgia: 17

Inspired by the Twitter account that Alison Haislip created that is a daily update of the journal she kept 20 years ago (it's called AliMinus20), I went digging into the journal that I managed to keep for a good 15 years on a semi-regular basis.

Funny enough, the oldest one I could find is from 20 years ago.  I considered posting the entire thing, but to be perfectly honest it's kind of sad.  Most of it is about girls and it's so terrifyingly emo that I'm surprised managed to date anyone, let alone marry the amazing woman that I'm married to.

It is interesting to note how the first part of this passage is still relevant.



January 2, 1993



At the moment I feel... in between. Writing is my life, but deciding what to write is hard. And that whole thought of being a creative writing major scares me. I’m in one of those stages where all I want to do is write, but everything I write seems pointless. I feel almost physically ill because of it. I’ve been walking around in a daze. The only thing that seems to have any value or meaning appears to be these journal entries, though what purpose they serve is beyond me. Maybe I just need to stay sane.

Anyway, Oral Groove plays an Amnesty Benefit on the 15th, which should be fairly cool. I think it’ll be a blast. We’ll be playing stuff that no one has heard, and if people have only heard us since Battle of the Bands (which is everyone), than they should be surprised. We’re playing a ten song set featuring one cover and only three songs that we played last year at Battle. One of those three songs is nothing like it was. Six all new songs that we think are pretty darn good. Hopefully, so will the people listening. But, if they don’t, who cares? We’re not trying to impress anyone, we’re just trying to have fun. It would just be nice to do both. Kind of like writing. 
Ah, to be 17 again...actually, no, that would suck.

Album Review: "Clarity" by Jimmy Eat World

In December of 1998, I was a semester into my first year of graduate school.  I'd chosen to go to grad school at the same place I'd gone to undergrad, although saying that I made a decision is a bit of a stretch.  I honestly had no idea what I was going to do with myself after I graduated, but I knew that, during my senior year, I felt like I was actually starting to learn something.

I applied to a few different school, but Ohio University not only took me, they offered me an opportunity to teach for money, not to mention a tuition waiver.  Plus, I didn't have to move very far and I actually had some friends there already.  Done and done.

My first year of grad school was something of a disaster, perhaps one of the darker years of my life if I really look at it objectively.  I half assed both my studies and my teaching responsibilities because I still wanted to live life like an undergrad.  I spent my time focusing on a half way decent band made up of people who had, a year earlier, been in other bands, so in my head we were a super band (in my head I can also sing).

I was also stuck -- by my own choosing -- in a chasm of a relationship, with one side being an actual real relationship that was ultimately impossible for any number of reasons, and the other side being a clean break and moving on with my life.  I thrived on things that made me feel bad about myself, particularly things I was almost solely responsible for.

I'm guessing that I bought the Jimmy Eat World EP released by Fueled by Ramen sometime after the band I was in returned from a disastrous tour in which we ultimately only managed to play four shows.  I was in the right frame of mind for something "emo," as the kids had started calling it a few years earlier.

The first two tracks or, to be more specific, the only two songs on side 1 (I think I actually still have the record around here somewhere, even though I've gone mostly digital these days) were from JEW's upcoming third album, Clarity.  They were nice enough and had me interested in what to expect from the full length.

It was the B side that got the most time under the needle.  All three songs have since been released, I believe, in compilation form or as addition to re-mastered albums or some such.  But for years after the release of this record, you could only get three songs here.

The first was "Your New Aesthetic (Demo Version)" which, when I eventually heard the final version of this song, is absolutely insane.  The song is haunting and simple and delicate and nothing at all like the song of the same name that made it on to Clarity.

The next song was my favorite.  I liked it so much that I more or less ripped it off for the aforementioned band I was in.  "Softer" had a nice rhythm, but with dark undertones and angular guitars, the kind that don't really come through on CDs.

The last song, "Roller Queen," was atmospheric and lovely and, I think, pretty clearly created by one person, not an entire band, which was fantastic fodder for my overactive imagination (as if I had the chops to ever record a song by myself).

The EP was enough to whet my appetite, and while I don't remember it, I'm willing to bet that I bought Clarity when it was released in February of 1999.

Jimmy Eat World has been considered an "emo" band for most of their career, although they started off with a pretty straightforward pop punk sound.  Appropriately enough, that was the direction that "emo" had moved toward as the decade was coming to an end.  While initially made of of musicians baring their souls on stage, contemporary "emo" had become pop songs about girls.  By the time Clarity was released, "emo" was probably on its fourth generation, when it probably should have ended after its second (when Sunny Day Real Estate broke up the first time).

You won't hear any argument from me if people consider Clarity to be an "emo" record.  It's not an unreasonable label.  At the time, I was more than happy to call it that, because there was a darkness to it that you couldn't find on the latest Promise Ring or Get-up Kids release.

The music charts in 1999 were dominated by boy bands and divas, happy, shallow party music that seemed to be influencing even the independent label bands.

Clarity opens with "Table For Glasses," a song filled with enough vocal harmonies that it could, in fact, have been performed by a boy band.  It was far more dynamic than anything that could be found on the radio, though.  It was also something of a rallying cry for the album; as pretty as it is, there's definite sadness to "Table For Glasses," not to mention a wide variety of instruments.  When the chorus kicks in that final time, we're treated to the giant, orchestrated sound that would show up elsewhere on the album.

Sad was good; I could do sad.

I could go through the album track by track, but that would probably be boring for anyone but me.  There were a few songs that stood out to me almost immediately.

"Your New Aesthetic" took me by surprise.  I'd heard the demo version on the JEW EP, but this was nothing like it.  The guitars were so heavy that this song actually sounded kind of angry, which was definitely something I could get behind.  I also immediately latched on to how this song built, and how it did it in such a simple way.

"Crush" was the kind of pop punk "emo" that I could never write and generally didn't enjoy, but this one had some rock behind it.  This track was something that could have fit on Jimmy Eat World's previous album, which I enjoyed.  This song works even better when paired with the song after it, "12.23.95," yet another version of a previously released song ("Christmas Card").

There is a stretch through song 8-10 of what I call middle of the road Jimmy Eat World songs.  This is the style that would ultimately come to define the band -- clean guitars, medium tempos, earnest lyrics, angsty vocals, some distortion and harmonies for the chorus.  Individually, these songs are fine, but stretched out in a row like this they kind of make me glaze over.

If that stretch of songs was kind of boring for me, the album is rescued by the last two songs, "Clarity" and "Goodbye Sky Harbor," two of my favorite Jimmy Eat World songs ever.  "Clarity" is something of a blueprint song for Jimmy Eat World.  Their heaviest songs on later albums would have the same basic guitar pattern (see: "Bleed American" and "Nothingwrong").

Sure, the really long, a little obnoxious, ending to "Goodbye Sky Harbor" made it hard to put on mix CDs without hunting down an MP3 splitter, but the song is just so damn good.  It has that primal guitar rhythm that follows a pretty rocking riff and the chorus is quietly great the way the verse is loudly great.  They're not inventing the wheel here or anything, but they're producing a really great one.

From what I understand, Clarity didn't do very well when it was released, and its poor sale performance led to Jimmy Eat World being dropped by Capitol Records.  Clarity eventually became something of a cult hit.  I would imagine it became something of a deciding factor in whether or not people were "true" Jimmy Eat World fans once the band got big.  If you bought Clarity when it came out, then you weren't a bandwagon fan; you were old school.

I haven't really paid attention to any of that.  I'm a fan of the band, but not so much that I'm reading every article about them or following every trend.  And as much as I enjoyed Bleed American and more or less enjoyed the albums after that, Clarity remains, in my mind, the best album Jimmy Eat World has ever produced.