Travis Thrasher's Blog, page 15
July 28, 2014
This Beautiful Space (Masterpiece 2014)
This beautiful space
Shaded by palms of grace
The world can’t quite come in here
This amazing breath
Subdued and soft and something else
Wrecking through my hard, brittle broken pieces
Melding and molding and making me someone else
The hills that move and shift my soul
The melodies I hear in my sleep
I wonder and wander in the same way
Grateful and good
Content in kindness
Keeping with the road
Staying on the path
Trying for the good
To even see a glimpse
To even know its place
To even have any clue
I take away tonight
I treasure and take away
Filled.
July 16, 2014
Songs Save Me
The past sounds a little like that. The driving off the expelled campus sort of sound. The first kiss sort of sound. The abandoned Chicago alley sort of sound. These aren’t just melodies, you know. They are stars and stripes. They are rainbows to a colorblind soul. They are an index file, a map, a hidden thesaurus. Maybe it’s not this way with others. But it’s this way with me. The older I get, the more I hunger for memories of my father’s father, the one I've heard some say I remind them of. And even in searching my memory vaults, music comes up. A man who served under General Patton’s army, driving to a mall and getting out so we could go to the music store to buy a Depeche Mode album. What was Papa thinking? Of course, he was simply going He’s my grandson so yeah let’s go. There’s the disco I danced at while in third grade. Pink Floyd and Bee Gees were featured. Jessica Lawson was there, too. She foreshadowed my love of the British. I think she had dimples, too. Ah. Third grade love. There’s the ninth grade trip to Williamsburg that was so memorable. The two tapes that were brought were “Some Great Reward” by Depeche Mode and “The Swing” by INXS. And this whole experience changed me in a way. The musical memories continued. And so many years later—so many blinks that they still seem like yesterday—I have this playlist of recollections fueled by so many wonderful songs. Maybe it’s not like this with everybody. Maybe I’m unusual in this way. But music fills my soul. It always has and it always will. There’s something about my messy, broken, discombulated childhood that seems perfectly molded by music. Yes, I should say God. But no. God wasn’t there, not that I could see and hear and feel. But God spoke to me all the time through songs. He still does. I love musical memories. I still can hear Gerry Rafferty and picture the summer camp I went to in first grade. We lived in Florida (not Tennessee or Australia or Illinois or Germany or New York or North Carolina). I remember “Baker Street” on the radio moving me. How could I understand what this singer was actually talking about? But man, it spoke to my soul. It seeped into my bones and still, to this day, I hear that saxophone playing and I’m taken back. Back to a place where I wasn’t grown, I hadn’t failed anybody, I didn’t know anything except how awesome Capture The Flag could be. Sometimes the songs end up being ironic when you listen to them again. Yeah. God put this stirring love of song deep in my soul. I know He did. This longing for beauty and for passion and for freedom. This desire to hear songs and be content and know they’re good. Yeah. I have a hundred songs associated with a thousand memories. That’s why music means so much to me. I didn’t have traditions. The annual July Fourth parade and barbeque and fireworks thing I went to every year? Ha. Every year or two it was a different experience for me. Seriously. Traditions? Yeah, right. But music? Yeah. I could finally cling on to something because it wouldn’t leave. I wouldn’t have to say goodbye to my songs. They could come with me wherever I’d go. And go I went. Sometimes I think I’ll forever be that teenager stuck wondering what’s going on. I’m forty-three. Man, that sounds old. It is old in many ways. But sixteen. Yeah. All I have to do is find that song and then I’m headed back there. I love Chris Buckley. And Brandon Jeffrey. And if you don’t know them, well, it’s your loss, really. You’re reading this but don’t know them? Seriously. They’re far more interesting than me. The songs come alongside my shore in the silence of the night. They remind me. They restore me. Why does music mean so much to me? Well, there you go. To the four people interested. Songs have saved me in so many ways. And sometimes, they still surprise someone like me. Someone who should be past the age of being moved by songs. I’ll always be moved by music. Always.
July 9, 2014
10 Signs You're A Fulltime Writer
10. Running out of ink in your pen or batteries in your cordless keyboard makes you happy. It shows progress.
9. You tend to talk to yourself. No I don’t. Yes you do. Like all the time. Says who? You do and so just shut it. Listen, big hair, get a life. Don’t tell me what to do. I’m your inner voice and I follow you everywhere. I swear I’m gonna mute you. You can’t ‘cause I’ll forever italicize your life . . .
8. You have absolutely no idea when your check is coming.
7. You have lots and lots of friends. Unfortunately, they’re all characters in your stories. They follow you everywhere even when you tell them to stay back at the office.
6. A strange undecipherable thing shows up every six months in your mailbox. It's called a royalty report.
5. You’ll never worry about wearing the same thing two days in a row. ‘Cause you know—the four walls just don’t care.
4. Adult conversation suddenly seems riveting. You find yourself refusing to leave the checkout line at a Trader Joe’s because you’re actually talking to another adult. And this one actually happens to be a male. It’s absolutely unreal. (Maybe that’s a sign you’re a fulltime writer with three young daughters at home . . . )
3. Everybody you know has a book idea. But none of them actually want to write it. I mean, come on—who seriously has anytime to write these days? That just takes so much time and effort . . .
2. Sometimes you let yourself go to get into character. And sometimes that means trying to grow long hair and a big beard. Sometimes your wife stops looking at you and begins to make promises about taking the children and leaving if you don’t shave. Sometimes you finally have to get the razor out and shave before you’re left on the curb. This is all completely hypothetical, of course.
1. Every now and then, your fingers work magic onto the screen. They keep going and going and going and then when they’re done you stop and read what you just wrote. Then you smile and go Man I’m good. Doesn’t happen often but can on any given day. ‘Cause that’s what you do. You write. Every day of the week. And you’re fortunate to do so.
June 25, 2014
Out of the Woods
There’s strength in numbersAnd wisdom in colleaguesThe whispering winds that blow around all day suddenly settle downLong enough for you blow some hot air aroundThe hovering sun seeks you out but you find some cooler shadows for a momentYou sit and settle down and breathe instead of sighThe city skyscape just outsideIt’s familiar but you’ve never seen it in this way beforeThe colors are brighter and the streets are more invitingThe passing faces are more friendly and more comfortingEverybody is an opportunity Every street another way to get thereIt doesn’t matter if you get lost ‘cause you get lost every journey you takeBut you always get thereSometimes more sweaty sometimes more out of breathBut oh the sightsOh the soundsYour friends stand around and seek you out and remind youFor a moment you’re remindedTeased and tormented you realize is just time ticking and people having funOne life and to spread a little joy is kinda coolRemember this as you goRemember these timesRemember coming out of the woodsFeeling goodDance for the moment and drive downhill and don’t look backSpread some love and some joyDaylight still feels greatAnd the city night lights still warm your soulStill settling in to this sort of placeSo go on and keep at a steady pace
June 2, 2014
Before They Turn The Lights Out
This world is wicked and wearisome. The time and the toil take their little ticks off you. Bit by bit they can fade away a shadow into something paper thin. But I keep going. Fighting and fearless but really just completely foolhearty, I keep going. I wade the deep waters as if I’m an Olympic swimmer. I give punches like I’m some kind of professional fighter. But this is the only fight I know in a profession I love. I don’t understand the technology anymore. I don’t know whose side to stand on in publishing battles. I see the sides of traditional verses Indie and understand the whole eBook verses actual book thing. Yet all I know are the stories I want to tell. Imagined and real. Unbelievable and unseen. I want to sew and stitch till I somehow get them right. Right in the only way I know how to get right. The weary, worrisome right. I want to battle this world and this time and tell some kind of truly original story. 30 plus but I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t given up. I haven’t stopped seeing. I still imagine that. Yes I do. I still believe that. Yes I do. I still am the only champion in this arena. And I yell out day after day to myself. And day after day I ask the world “Are you not entertained?” But the world gives me a big, fat shrug. So I keep on. Hoping to find it. Hoping to tell it. Hoping to figure it out. So many ways to tell a story. So many ways to reach people. So many opportunities. So many of so many things. So I have to simply keep going. Few really know and fewer even care. But that’s okay. I want to hear that sweet song singing to me at night. I want to try as hard as I can before the lights go out. I’m half blind and half confused and half delirious. But I’m trying my hardest. And I’m trying a little harder than that. We live in an indifferent, individualistic time. Everybody knows everything. Yet I’m still searching the crowd to find and to figure it out. So I’m going to love and keep listening. And I’m going to keep going. That’s all I can stay. Until tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next century. Until the lights go out.
May 7, 2014
Holding Your Hand To Sleep
So stubborn and strong-willed, yet still slightly scared, you call out for Daddy to hold your hand. So in the darkness next to your bed, I feel your tight clutch. Tiny fingers curl around mine. It’s that stressful toddler bedtime again, and we’re having to do double duty with our twins tonight. Normally I’d be cursing and anxious to get back down to my computer to do some work. But something about that hand holding mine makes me reconsider. I don’t think of the obligation. I suddenly think of the amazing gift I have. I am the first guy to hold your hand. The fingers twitch to make sure I’m still there. I am the first man in your life. I hear the faint breathing beside me. I am the first boy to fall for you. I can picture your slightly curly hair that you take after me. Those big, breath-taking eyes you take after mommy. Your sensitive soul. Your obstinate disposition. You are amazing in every single way. Like your older sister before you, and your twin sister who came out seconds after you did, you will always have my hand and my heart. I don’t have the patience that I wish I had. I don’t have the strength I always wanted to carry. I don’t have the wisdom so many other fathers seem to relish in. But I’m the only father you have. Flawed, fiery, so often frustrated. Yet always there. Willing to give you my hand whenever you need it. I hope one day, a stronger and wiser and more patient man holds that precious hand of yours. I hope he realizes how privileged he is to do so. I hope he sees your heart and your soul in that embrace. I hope he knows how brilliant and beautiful you are. Just like your sisters and your mother. I hope for the best as I hold your hand to sleep. I pray that God will watch over you like He’s watched over me. Ever patient. Ever knowing. Ever loving. The kind of father a man like me can only dream of being. But I’ll never let that hand of yours go. Know that. Know that every time you go to sleep. Know that every time I take a breath.
May 2, 2014
Happy Birthday, Disintegration!
Goodbye ‘80’s. Goodbye high school. In one magnificent, epic album of a crumbling crescendo, my childhood is gone. We share the same birthday, Mr. Robert Smith. Who could have guessed you and Martin Gore and Bernard Sumner and the almighty Morrissey would mean so much to me during those messy, melancholy days where I’d changed schools not once or twice but three times. They say three times is the charm, but I sure didn’t feel like some kind of charming man. Not then. In the midst of change and insecurities and moves and mood swings I clung to the music. The Cure was one of my four bands. And on this date twenty-five years ago, they released their masterpiece. Disintegration. I actually didn’t love it as much as their previous album. Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me was the album that made me fall in love with The Cure. They weren’t instantly likable. Not to me. Robert Smith sounded like he was wailing, not singing. I couldn’t get it. They sounded sour and sad and overall miserable. But just like The Smiths, something eventually clicked. Something major. Something inside of me that opened like some kind of lock. And then I was not only sold but I was softened. My soul felt a little better. I understood and was moved and the music meant something. I got it. I’m an ‘80’s teen and I got it. And I embraced it. And so then Disintegration arrived. Epic. Grand. Sweeping. Romantic. Radiant. You can really look at the album as both a glorious goth album or as this beautiful love letter to the ’80’s. The music scene was about to change. Grunge was going to shake up everything. Music would never be so sweet and naieve again. Even gloomy rock like The Cure was sweet compared to Nirvana and Soundgarden. Oh, to hear Disintegration again. The glorious synths covering everything. The slow, steady build-up. Seven and eight minute-long songs with few lyrics. The sliding and sashaying guitars and drums. Strumming along. Like some kind of slow, steady marathon. They won’t ever make albums like this because this is the pinnacle of them. This was alternative in the ‘80’s. And yet. Yet. Suddenly, amidst the darkness and the dour mood, you have this sweet, uplifting, unlikely song. So simply called “Lovesong.” Years later, it still moves. It still means something. It’s real because it was created out of a real love. It’s not trying to be a love song. No. It really is a love song. Pure and simple. Done by The Cure, it’s magnificent. “Young again.” Ah. “Fun again.” Twenty-five years later, those words have even more meaning. What does love mean, anyway? What does always mean? “I will always love you.” Every song swells and soars. And each song has Robert Smith’s slightly shaky and unsure voice. The one we love, the one that sounds like none other. Dylan-esque. Gabriel-esque. Unique. Flawed and unforgettable. There’s such an abundance of songs here. The quirky one. The doom-and-gloom song. The love song (literally). The funky groove song. Things were building but like all artists who hit it big, Robert Smith and gang found their groove. And it was remarkable. The funny thing is he and the record label felt like he was committing career suicide at the time. The first song that sold me, that really, truly caught my attention was probably the darkest. A song that begins with the sound of a rainstorm. “The Same Deep Water As You.” Typical Travis Thrasher, I gravitated toward the darkest and most melancholy of the bunch. The song means as much to me now as it did twenty-five years ago. The guitars sound sorry. The synths sound sad. It’s all this beautiful, bewitching symphony of doom and gloom. But it’s also hopeful. Because it’s the sound I’ve heard in my head and my heart too many times. Echoes of loneliness and isolation. Shadows in the dark. Clenched and careful. Sighs of morning. And mourning. Kisses. Being together. Finally together. Finally. This sort of album can do wonders to some melancholy, romantic soul. Especially if they’re eighteen years old. And so it did. So it still does twenty-five years later. Is is any surprise I named a record store in a new YA series after the song “Fascination Street”? Of course not. The album builds and builds and then comes to the song it’s named after. Back then, I thought it was a bit too long, too much. Now the song “Disintegration” is just perfection. Breaking glass, breaking hearts, breaking soul. The back and forth. And back and forth. And back and forth. The music works now ‘cause I get it. It’s the relentlessness of life. Life that’s compressed with love and loss and longing. Life with its broken pieces scattered and shaken and spoken. “I miss the kiss of treachery,” Robert Smith sings. Poetry. Bewildering and brilliant. And oh so brutal. Cutting. Cryptic. The kisses. And aching. The stench. The sound. The bended knees. The letting go. Swirls and sounds and sweet darkness softly knocking on your psyche. “How the ending would be.” It’s an ending to a decade. And to a high school. And to a youth. This will always be the sound of my youth ending. My growing up. My teenage years shattered. My innocence blistered. “How the end always is.” And you wonder and think and believe that this is really truly how the end always is. So young and stupid and so utterly clueless about life so you cling onto these words. There are other words—better words—more hopeful words—more blessed words--but these are the ones you lean toward. A teenage boy. Lost a bit in a life. Whose to blame. “How the end always is.” This is the exclamation point to your teenage high school melancholy in-the-basement-beneath-your-parents years. Soon it’ll just be pieces of memory while you’re coasting in college. A piece. Just this album of songs. Just someone’s rantings and ravings. Turned into the rush of an adult. Where those songs mean something. Where he can turn toward in the night. Where he can cast out and see the ripples of memory on the surface of the sea. Where the faces of yesterday blend in with the fires of today. When the worries of the world stretching onto the skin and shoulders and the soul no longer seize you and no longer break you down. Where they’re held at bay by another’s begging and pleading in song. When the suffering of another stifles the suffering of today. These songs aren’t just songs. They are memories with sound. They are pictures with words. They are films with four-minute-deadlines. They are infinite. The violins hum. The ending is near. The piano continues to pound. A heart played out on the minor keys. So majestic. So epic with so few words. So inspiring. The ending always comes as this simple, straight-forward sort of song. But endings are often like that, aren’t they? Endings usually play it safe. They usually go light and easy. They usually don’t bother to begin to tell of the angst and the drama that’s come before it. It’s simple enough to simply say goodbye. To smile and wave and nod and go your own way. “Never quite said what I wanted to say to you.” Yes. Another time undone. You’re leaving and it’s okay. The journey is everything. Right on. Happy birthday, Disintegration. Thank you, Robert Smith, for sharing your uncertainty with the rest of the world. This teen boy understood. This teen adult still understands. Life isn’t a box. It’s not an age. It’s not a mood. It’s not a season. It’s a box full of colors that you continually paint. It’s a disc full of sounds you constantly play. It’s the pictures and the poems of yesterday. And little by little, they make more sense the older they get. Like wine, they only get better with time.
April 30, 2014
Patches of Godlight
(My last post was some late night ramblings about my writing and some thoughts on success and all that stuff. It prompted some very encouraging comments from my parents. It also prompted this email I received from my mother. Since she’s the best writer in our family, I thought I’d share this. Hopefully it can offer others out there some encouragement!—Travis)
Most people grasp for the success of life, not knowing that true success comes only from fulfillment of heart and soul. Lofty, but what does that mean? C. S. Lewis once wrote, "We, or at least I, shall not be able to adore God on the highest occasions if we have learned no habit of doing so on the lowest . . . Any patch of sunlight in a wood will show you something about the sun which you could never get from reading books on astronomy. These pure and spontaneous pleasures are "patches of Godlight" in the woods of our experience." There are people who want to write and there are people who write but don't know how to write. There are others who think they are writers but only know how to correctly put sentences together, not a real story. On the other hand, there are the real writers whose hearts are the ink on every page, whose dreams are for every reader to experience that "patch of sunlight" in the book. Success is defined not by the hard work and imagination, though that is important; it comes from what has been a lifelong vision of the gift that God has given you--a hungering drive that never stops. Now, your fingers don't ache from chipping cement, but from the pounding of the keyboard (which is better). Arthritis may come later, but for now the fingers click along the keys at a rapid pace, each page bringing satisfaction. This is what God molded you for, what a third grade teacher encouraged you to do when she read your story of the pirates. And to think about it, perhaps your first "patch of Godlight" was that cement truck. God does have a sense of humor (especially when it's for our good). The road gets rough and sometimes rougher as the journey continues. But it's worth it - there is a goal line to reach and one day we will cross it for the prize - the Super Prize that Christ will reward to all His servants. God is pleased with perseverance and hard work; it's a wonderful gift from Him. Are you good enough? In the world's eyes, maybe not. But are you giving it all you've got? Of course. Then let no one question you since this is all God asks of any of us. And devoted to Him, that perfect gift He has given you becomes a consecrated gift of love returned to Him. Run the race with joy and thankfulness. Much love, Your favorite fan—Mom!
April 14, 2014
Color Blind
They’re words wrapped around some story. That’s all. They are wonderful. And they are work. Those are the two opposite ends of the spectrum. Those of the two sides of the field. Sometimes the wonder wins. Sometimes the work sucks the fun out of it all. But at the end of the day, and week, and month, and at the end of time, they are just sentences comprising some tale. That’s all. The faith that pinpoints everything. The fact of being a husband and a father and a friend. The familiar grounds of falling and picking myself up again. This fine line that I never quite master—these are the things that mean something. Today and at judgment day. Not whether a story works and if it lands on a bestseller list and whether it’s highly-regarded. I was a cynical soul once. But God rooted that out of me. I was a dreamer but the business tends to rip those dreams away day after day. Yet I try. I try and I keep trying and I keep trying. God is this really what you want ‘cause I’ll chip away at concrete all day? I’ve really said this. God you know I need more and deserve more and surely I’ve worked hard enough to get one big fat break right God? I’ve uttered this with anger and frustration. God I know I’m a sinner and need to shut my mouth and need to know I wasn’t there at the beginning when you created the Heavens and the earth. Humbly, I have to pray this, time and time again. It’s so easy to be so wrapped up in yourself. Especially when your business and your brand (ahem) is all about YOU. I see the literary grandeur and long for it. Yet I live the daily tick-tock of the machine. The life of a writer who pays the bills and supports a family and tries to make it doing this very thing I’m doing now. Typing. And typing more. And typing more. It’s tiring but still it’s amazing. Sometimes I know—I JUST KNOW—it’s the right thing I’m doing. I get these emails from strangers. I get these feelings from the words and the scenes. I try ‘cause I’m building some bigger and bolder than anything I could have ever imagined. But life cuts you down to size. Day after day. I’m not a good enough writer. I don’t sell enough books. I’m writing way too much. My name’s not big enough. Is that my real name to begin with? I don’t have a platform and my books don’t preach enough. My books are too preachy. Sometimes the thought of that concrete, the same kind I worked with right out of college, seems nice. I remember I could never quite get it off my fingertips and out of my hair for six months. The grime and the dust and the utter endlessness. That was the job before getting into publishing. It seems like a universe ago. Going on seven years of living the dream, sometimes I just want to say leave me alone. Sometimes I want to just say go away. But these stories that fill my head and my heart and soul—they mean so much to me. They mean something. I wish I could do them justice. I really do. I wish I could paint the colors in as bold and brilliant a manner as possible. But I’m slightly color blind and can only show them the way I see them. I’m running while limping on one leg. That’s how I often feel. I don’t need validation ‘cause I get it every day. But still—I look and feel like I still haven’t gotten that far. I have so far to go. I don’t want to complain and often just keep these thoughts to myself. Then I think of the faces looking up to me. Looking at me. The bridges built. The families who have adopted me. The loves and the likes I’ve been given. They are what matter. They are what will sustain me. The stories are a part of me. Like wrinkles and a high forehead. Like a mischievous smile. Like a comical spirit. I feel like I’m still just learning and feel I have so far—so far—to go. Whatever door opens, whatever the day brings, I will come back to the words and the stories. Like breathing, they are me. I try. I fail and I falter, but I’m one stubborn soul. So I get back up and I keep trying. Publishing won’t break me but my spirit might. Thankfully, God knows and He loves me like a father. So He keeps teaching me. I’m learning. Sometimes on certain days like today, I don’t love the lessons. But I hear them and try to learn from them. I’m trying. Lord knows I’m trying.
March 24, 2014
EBOOK FOR HOME RUN FREE!
The novelization of HOME RUN is free today and tomorrow (Monday & Tuesday, March 24th & 25th) in all eBook formats! Go and grab it for your Kindle or Nook!
