Daryn Guarino's Blog: Just what we need, another blog
February 17, 2016
Down In A Hole
This is where it started:
I hid my pain for as long as I could,
Until I couldn't do it any more,
Until it hurt too much to go on,
So I gathered my courage,
Because taking this next step was going to be painful.
I wanted things to get better,
I didn't want them to end,
I wanted to work on things, to fix them,
But before I could do or explain anything,
You got sick.
Could I explain it now?
That I was hurting?
That I needed something to change?
Could I say it with you in a hospital bed?
Surrounded by beeping machines and flashing lights?
No, of course not,
You needed me, so I would be there for you,
And I was there for you,
Even though I ached inside.
So I shut my mouth,
And walled off the pain,
And sat in a hard plastic chair,
Hoping the person who was hurting me so badly,
That I wanted to die,
Would live.
Stolen from the internet with regrets that I don't know the author:
“Though we think of grief as something that happens after a death, it often begins long before death arrives. It can start as soon as we become aware that death is a likelihood. Once death is on the horizon, even just as a possibility, it is natural that we begin to grieve. Though this is different than the grief that follows a death, anticipatory grief can carry many of the symptoms of regular grief – sadness, anger, isolation, forgetfulness, and depression. These complicated emotions are often coupled with the exhaustion that comes with being a caregiver (or the stress of being left alone when someone goes to war or is battling addiction). We are aware of the looming death and accepting it will come, which can bring an overwhelming anxiety and dread. More than that, in advance of a death we grieve the loss of person’s abilities and independence, their loss of cognition, a loss of hope, loss of future dreams, loss of stability and security, loss of their identity and our own, and countless other losses. This grief is not just about accepting the future death, but of the many losses already occurring as an illness progresses.
When we know a death is imminent our bodies are often in a state of hyper-alertness – we panic whenever the phone rings, an ambulance must be called, or when our loved one deteriorates further. This can become mentally and physically exhausting. The same is true of watching a loved one suffer, which is almost always part of a prolonged illness. Caring for them as they suffer takes an emotional toll on us.”
My feelings would have to wait,
I had to be there for you,
If this was your end,
I wanted you to leave surrounded by love.
Even if the love was strained through my pain.
Care-giving is hard,
But it was the right thing to do,
And you would do the same for me,
At least, I thought you would.
Your failing health often sent us to the hospital,
Sometimes daily.
Would this be it?
Is your time now?
I spent so much time at the hospital,
Sometimes riding the ambulance,
Sometimes driving myself,
You were dancing with death,
But I just stared at monitors,
Waiting to see if death was taking you home after,
Or if I was.
And every time you almost died, I felt like I did.
Your life was going to be fine, why worry?
If you died, you would be fine. You wouldn't know and you wouldn't suffer.
If you lived, you would be fine. You wouldn't know and you wouldn't suffer.
No worries for you,
But I was sitting out here,
And my needs were so raw and I was suffering,
But quietly I sat.
I became very intimate with your pending death,
I had to be rational while my world burned.
While you rested, I calmly researched your condition,
I calmly wrote your will,
Crying the whole time,
These duties were...I needed time for me, just to breathe,
But duty is duty and is relentless, I pushed my needs to the back of the closet,
I calmly explained your possible death to the kids,
They didn't really understand, so I had to do it often.
Days of pending death at the hospital,
Nights of painful living hell that had to be hidden at home,
It never got easier.
I calmly agreed as you asked me to pull the plug,
Should it come to that,
No vegetative state for you.
And you rested easy, knowing I would do whatever I said I would do,
So I calmly prepared for a physical fight in the ICU with the police and staff,
I wouldn't waste time in a courtroom asking them to honor your wishes, but you knew that,
I would make your wishes a reality and then fight them off until it was done,
My warrior side relished a good fight, the wolf howled to be released,
I was sick of medical combat where I waited helplessly.
I would fight the rest of the world for you,
After I unplugged you,
So you could die in peace,
Should it come to that,
Come what may to me.
I had to be the rock,
I had to have it under control,
I had to suppress my emotions,
So I could handle everyone else's,
And tell them things would be fine,
Everyone was depending on me,
And I was unraveling,
And couldn't let anyone see.
I needed to break down,
I needed someone to hold me,
Some kind of warm contact with someone who would not judge me,
For my tears or my anger.
Someone to tell me things would be all right,
Someone who would understand.
I couldn't bring this to you, you were ignoring my pain before this all started.
I couldn't bring this to you, you had enough problems of your own just surviving.
I couldn't bring this to you because you were my everything and you were leaving,
I howled from my bedroom cell,
Speaking to no one but the dark.
I didn't eat well,
I didn't sleep well,
I tried to not complain,
I tried to pretend I was fine,
I faked smiles,
But I wallowed in the excruciating details of your death,
Anticipatory grief,
Knowing it had a name helped a little,
But I was in deep,
And I was alone.
The day of judgment came,
It would be today or it would not,
You would be fine either way regardless of outcome,
Whether you survived or whether you died, you would feel fine,
But, me, I was waiting to see if my world was about to shatter.
Luckily, your trauma didn't kill you,
Medical skill prevailed,
You would live.
My duty was complete, now I could rest...
Can't I?
You felt better than ever,
I was still recovering from trauma.
You wanted to go, go, go,
But I needed to fall down, down, down.
You didn't seem to understand that I had been through a greater trauma than you,
That I was exhausted, totally spent.
You didn't understand that I had been through a trauma at all,
You were the sick one, why would I have problems?
It felt like you didn't seem to care.
You didn't let me have my time,
I tried to keep up with you and your new speedy happy demeanor,
But I needed to recover and you wouldn't listen.
Selfish is the only word I have for it,
It reminded me that I was unhappy before all of this started anyway.
You were healing, but my wounds had yet to be addressed,
I needed time to heal, to be alone, to rest, to recover,
But you would not give it to me.
“What is wrong with you?” you yelled.
“Get over it!” you shouted.
“You are responsible for the thoughts that stay in your head!”
I'm in this condition because of loyalty,
Loyalty to you,
And all you offer is, “Get over it”?
I would love to be responsible for the thoughts that stay in my head,
I don't want some of them in there,
But that isn't how the mind, my mind, any mind, works.
You cannot forget pain simply because you want to,
You cannot will your mind back to normal, to health.
I can get everyone through a crisis,
If I'm with you, you will be safe,
No matter what happens: storm, snow, marauders, zombie apocalypse, whatever...I got you,
But when the crisis passes, I'll need room and time for me to heal,
Because suppressing all that emotion has a real cost and I feel every penny of it.
I didn't mean to break down, I don't want my brain to work this way either,
But I needed time, only time, alone time, time for quiet reflection, just give me some TIME!
All you had to do...was nothing...
Nothing at all.
But we were back to things being all about you again,
And, thinking only of yourself, you decided that,
If you were feeling better, I shouldn't, couldn't, be damaged at all.
It had taken months to get me to this unstable state,
It wasn't going to suddenly go away because you had a good day in surgery,
But you didn't care, I don't know why I thought you would,
I guess I figured that I did my best to help you recover,
That you would do the same for me,
But that isn't how it went.
I hurt before your surgery and wanted changes in our relationship,
I hurt after your surgery and wanted changes in our relationship,
You were oblivious or didn't care.
I don't think you are stupid, so I guess you simply didn't care.
I didn't have the mental strength left to fight you,
I didn't have the will to continue,
It was too much for me.
So I said we were done
I killed our future,
Because I had to, not because I wanted to.
I wanted things to be better for all of us, not just you,
I don't know what you wanted other than servants, slaves, and yes-men.
But I was done being the whipping boy.
It wasn't the best plan,
It wasn't a plan at all,
It wasn't well-considered,
But it had to be done.
Imagine how bad I must hurt to do such a stupid thing.
I can't just escape, I have other people to consider,
I have to find a job, but I haven't worked in twenty years,
It can't be just any job, I have two kids to support.
I have a degree in Computer Science, but there was no email or internet when I got it,
So my skills are a bit out of date.
I split from the woman that I love,
At the age of 50,
But I cannot leave the building.
Even assuming I find that great job where my old skills can apply,
It could take months to establish myself,
To save money for a down payment and an apartment,
And furniture, I have none, I would need beds at the very least.
And she can demand that I and the boys leave at any moment,
Not a stress-free environment,
Not yet.
So all that bubbling emotion,
Is still bubbling.
I know I'm a time-bomb now.
I have PTSD, a formal diagnosis for whatever that's worth,
I am a borderline sociopath,
I have many antisocial traits, but haven't crossed the line.
I know what I am,
I know a simple confrontation could push me to an excessive response,
On a good day...
And these were not good days.
So I hide from the light,
It keeps everyone else safe.
I'm in a horrible emotional and physical limbo,
Haven't slept in a bed in weeks,
I haven't slept more than five hours in a row in months.
Depression, uncertainty, pain, anger, and doubt fill my head.
Depression is like having a wet mattress strapped to your back,
You're heavy and slow and everything is harder to do.
But I force myself,
To apply for jobs that I really really need with my dusty skills,
To interview with a fake smile on my face speaking to yet another,
Taleo-based HR moron not qualified to pick out a houseplant,
To desperately complete night classes that will take months to complete.
I'm trapped in a prison of my own making,
I cannot help myself.
I have asked for help, but have been rebuffed.
When someone asks you for help, you should, at least, listen.
You might be the only person they said something to.
I sit here and talk to myself,
I argue with people who aren't there,
My mind goes off on adventures from time to time,
Sometimes I know about it, sometimes I don't,
I attack my heavy bag to blow off stress,
But sometimes I “wake up” already hitting my heavy bag,
Sometimes I “wake up” and I am shouting,
Sometimes I “wake up” at a store with people staring at me,
When it happens driving, I “wake up” in other states.
I lost 13 days once, no one knows where I went and neither do I.
It's getting worse and I can't do anything about it,
Until I find that great job and move out.
I have to pretend I am fine...
I am not.
And I'm starting to lose sight of the whole point of any of this.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick...
I hid my pain for as long as I could,
Until I couldn't do it any more,
Until it hurt too much to go on,
So I gathered my courage,
Because taking this next step was going to be painful.
I wanted things to get better,
I didn't want them to end,
I wanted to work on things, to fix them,
But before I could do or explain anything,
You got sick.
Could I explain it now?
That I was hurting?
That I needed something to change?
Could I say it with you in a hospital bed?
Surrounded by beeping machines and flashing lights?
No, of course not,
You needed me, so I would be there for you,
And I was there for you,
Even though I ached inside.
So I shut my mouth,
And walled off the pain,
And sat in a hard plastic chair,
Hoping the person who was hurting me so badly,
That I wanted to die,
Would live.
Stolen from the internet with regrets that I don't know the author:
“Though we think of grief as something that happens after a death, it often begins long before death arrives. It can start as soon as we become aware that death is a likelihood. Once death is on the horizon, even just as a possibility, it is natural that we begin to grieve. Though this is different than the grief that follows a death, anticipatory grief can carry many of the symptoms of regular grief – sadness, anger, isolation, forgetfulness, and depression. These complicated emotions are often coupled with the exhaustion that comes with being a caregiver (or the stress of being left alone when someone goes to war or is battling addiction). We are aware of the looming death and accepting it will come, which can bring an overwhelming anxiety and dread. More than that, in advance of a death we grieve the loss of person’s abilities and independence, their loss of cognition, a loss of hope, loss of future dreams, loss of stability and security, loss of their identity and our own, and countless other losses. This grief is not just about accepting the future death, but of the many losses already occurring as an illness progresses.
When we know a death is imminent our bodies are often in a state of hyper-alertness – we panic whenever the phone rings, an ambulance must be called, or when our loved one deteriorates further. This can become mentally and physically exhausting. The same is true of watching a loved one suffer, which is almost always part of a prolonged illness. Caring for them as they suffer takes an emotional toll on us.”
My feelings would have to wait,
I had to be there for you,
If this was your end,
I wanted you to leave surrounded by love.
Even if the love was strained through my pain.
Care-giving is hard,
But it was the right thing to do,
And you would do the same for me,
At least, I thought you would.
Your failing health often sent us to the hospital,
Sometimes daily.
Would this be it?
Is your time now?
I spent so much time at the hospital,
Sometimes riding the ambulance,
Sometimes driving myself,
You were dancing with death,
But I just stared at monitors,
Waiting to see if death was taking you home after,
Or if I was.
And every time you almost died, I felt like I did.
Your life was going to be fine, why worry?
If you died, you would be fine. You wouldn't know and you wouldn't suffer.
If you lived, you would be fine. You wouldn't know and you wouldn't suffer.
No worries for you,
But I was sitting out here,
And my needs were so raw and I was suffering,
But quietly I sat.
I became very intimate with your pending death,
I had to be rational while my world burned.
While you rested, I calmly researched your condition,
I calmly wrote your will,
Crying the whole time,
These duties were...I needed time for me, just to breathe,
But duty is duty and is relentless, I pushed my needs to the back of the closet,
I calmly explained your possible death to the kids,
They didn't really understand, so I had to do it often.
Days of pending death at the hospital,
Nights of painful living hell that had to be hidden at home,
It never got easier.
I calmly agreed as you asked me to pull the plug,
Should it come to that,
No vegetative state for you.
And you rested easy, knowing I would do whatever I said I would do,
So I calmly prepared for a physical fight in the ICU with the police and staff,
I wouldn't waste time in a courtroom asking them to honor your wishes, but you knew that,
I would make your wishes a reality and then fight them off until it was done,
My warrior side relished a good fight, the wolf howled to be released,
I was sick of medical combat where I waited helplessly.
I would fight the rest of the world for you,
After I unplugged you,
So you could die in peace,
Should it come to that,
Come what may to me.
I had to be the rock,
I had to have it under control,
I had to suppress my emotions,
So I could handle everyone else's,
And tell them things would be fine,
Everyone was depending on me,
And I was unraveling,
And couldn't let anyone see.
I needed to break down,
I needed someone to hold me,
Some kind of warm contact with someone who would not judge me,
For my tears or my anger.
Someone to tell me things would be all right,
Someone who would understand.
I couldn't bring this to you, you were ignoring my pain before this all started.
I couldn't bring this to you, you had enough problems of your own just surviving.
I couldn't bring this to you because you were my everything and you were leaving,
I howled from my bedroom cell,
Speaking to no one but the dark.
I didn't eat well,
I didn't sleep well,
I tried to not complain,
I tried to pretend I was fine,
I faked smiles,
But I wallowed in the excruciating details of your death,
Anticipatory grief,
Knowing it had a name helped a little,
But I was in deep,
And I was alone.
The day of judgment came,
It would be today or it would not,
You would be fine either way regardless of outcome,
Whether you survived or whether you died, you would feel fine,
But, me, I was waiting to see if my world was about to shatter.
Luckily, your trauma didn't kill you,
Medical skill prevailed,
You would live.
My duty was complete, now I could rest...
Can't I?
You felt better than ever,
I was still recovering from trauma.
You wanted to go, go, go,
But I needed to fall down, down, down.
You didn't seem to understand that I had been through a greater trauma than you,
That I was exhausted, totally spent.
You didn't understand that I had been through a trauma at all,
You were the sick one, why would I have problems?
It felt like you didn't seem to care.
You didn't let me have my time,
I tried to keep up with you and your new speedy happy demeanor,
But I needed to recover and you wouldn't listen.
Selfish is the only word I have for it,
It reminded me that I was unhappy before all of this started anyway.
You were healing, but my wounds had yet to be addressed,
I needed time to heal, to be alone, to rest, to recover,
But you would not give it to me.
“What is wrong with you?” you yelled.
“Get over it!” you shouted.
“You are responsible for the thoughts that stay in your head!”
I'm in this condition because of loyalty,
Loyalty to you,
And all you offer is, “Get over it”?
I would love to be responsible for the thoughts that stay in my head,
I don't want some of them in there,
But that isn't how the mind, my mind, any mind, works.
You cannot forget pain simply because you want to,
You cannot will your mind back to normal, to health.
I can get everyone through a crisis,
If I'm with you, you will be safe,
No matter what happens: storm, snow, marauders, zombie apocalypse, whatever...I got you,
But when the crisis passes, I'll need room and time for me to heal,
Because suppressing all that emotion has a real cost and I feel every penny of it.
I didn't mean to break down, I don't want my brain to work this way either,
But I needed time, only time, alone time, time for quiet reflection, just give me some TIME!
All you had to do...was nothing...
Nothing at all.
But we were back to things being all about you again,
And, thinking only of yourself, you decided that,
If you were feeling better, I shouldn't, couldn't, be damaged at all.
It had taken months to get me to this unstable state,
It wasn't going to suddenly go away because you had a good day in surgery,
But you didn't care, I don't know why I thought you would,
I guess I figured that I did my best to help you recover,
That you would do the same for me,
But that isn't how it went.
I hurt before your surgery and wanted changes in our relationship,
I hurt after your surgery and wanted changes in our relationship,
You were oblivious or didn't care.
I don't think you are stupid, so I guess you simply didn't care.
I didn't have the mental strength left to fight you,
I didn't have the will to continue,
It was too much for me.
So I said we were done
I killed our future,
Because I had to, not because I wanted to.
I wanted things to be better for all of us, not just you,
I don't know what you wanted other than servants, slaves, and yes-men.
But I was done being the whipping boy.
It wasn't the best plan,
It wasn't a plan at all,
It wasn't well-considered,
But it had to be done.
Imagine how bad I must hurt to do such a stupid thing.
I can't just escape, I have other people to consider,
I have to find a job, but I haven't worked in twenty years,
It can't be just any job, I have two kids to support.
I have a degree in Computer Science, but there was no email or internet when I got it,
So my skills are a bit out of date.
I split from the woman that I love,
At the age of 50,
But I cannot leave the building.
Even assuming I find that great job where my old skills can apply,
It could take months to establish myself,
To save money for a down payment and an apartment,
And furniture, I have none, I would need beds at the very least.
And she can demand that I and the boys leave at any moment,
Not a stress-free environment,
Not yet.
So all that bubbling emotion,
Is still bubbling.
I know I'm a time-bomb now.
I have PTSD, a formal diagnosis for whatever that's worth,
I am a borderline sociopath,
I have many antisocial traits, but haven't crossed the line.
I know what I am,
I know a simple confrontation could push me to an excessive response,
On a good day...
And these were not good days.
So I hide from the light,
It keeps everyone else safe.
I'm in a horrible emotional and physical limbo,
Haven't slept in a bed in weeks,
I haven't slept more than five hours in a row in months.
Depression, uncertainty, pain, anger, and doubt fill my head.
Depression is like having a wet mattress strapped to your back,
You're heavy and slow and everything is harder to do.
But I force myself,
To apply for jobs that I really really need with my dusty skills,
To interview with a fake smile on my face speaking to yet another,
Taleo-based HR moron not qualified to pick out a houseplant,
To desperately complete night classes that will take months to complete.
I'm trapped in a prison of my own making,
I cannot help myself.
I have asked for help, but have been rebuffed.
When someone asks you for help, you should, at least, listen.
You might be the only person they said something to.
I sit here and talk to myself,
I argue with people who aren't there,
My mind goes off on adventures from time to time,
Sometimes I know about it, sometimes I don't,
I attack my heavy bag to blow off stress,
But sometimes I “wake up” already hitting my heavy bag,
Sometimes I “wake up” and I am shouting,
Sometimes I “wake up” at a store with people staring at me,
When it happens driving, I “wake up” in other states.
I lost 13 days once, no one knows where I went and neither do I.
It's getting worse and I can't do anything about it,
Until I find that great job and move out.
I have to pretend I am fine...
I am not.
And I'm starting to lose sight of the whole point of any of this.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick...
September 11, 2013
My 9/11
Many people ask "Where were you when it happened?" I remember specifically because, as a writer, I wrote it all down just about as fast as I could think it. I keep meaning to edit it and correct the spelling and grammar errors, but I think leaving it like this is too authentic to adjust. 9/11 as I experienced it:
By Daryn Robert Guarino in the days following September 11, 2001
Me – Daryn Robert Guarino
Gib – Gibson Omer Bickel, VP and Operations Manager at Ogre, my best friend since 1984
Connor – Connor Daryn Guarino born July 20, 1998 (he was 3 years old)
Morgan - Morgan Bal Guarino born May 30, 2001 (he was 3 months old)
Ogre – The Laughing Ogre (a comic book shoppe) owned by Daryn, Gib, and Rod
Unedited so please forgive the spelling and grammar.
September 11, 2001 began abruptly with the phones ringing off the hook. I woke after the phone rang and then managed to determine that the phone woke me up. It was Gib calling from the Ogre. “It’s gone”, he said. “What is?” I said. I thought that maybe we had been robbed or something terrible had happened to the Ogre. “One of the twin towers”, he said, “turn on the TV, it’s gone, I gotta go.” He hung up.
I turned on CNN to see them filming a burning tower. It had a terrible outline of an airplane smashed into it with fire and thick smoke. They were saying that a plane had crashed into one of the towers. Suddenly the camera angle changed and we flicked to an approaching airplane. People were screaming as the plane passed behind the building. Black smoke and flame suddenly billowed. The plane had not passed behind the building, it had hit it. The plane had hit the second tower. I sat, jaw agape, unable to move. Could this be real? Can this happen? Are they allowed to do that? Rubble crashed to the street and I sat watching in silent horror as the flashing lights on top of police cars and fire trucks, responding to the first crash, were snuffed by billowing smoke and debris. People were leaping from the burning buildings and their flailing arms displayed raw terror as they knowingly fell to their death in street below. The scene was beyond terrible. Two huge towers, smoke and flame billowing from the huge holes in their hulls. Wordless horror and shock
I remember thinking that the towers have got to have like fifty thousand people in them. Holy shit, this can’t be real. Hey, you’re not allowed to do that! So many people, the horror turned to shock and I tried to shamble around the house. Connor came in the room and asked me what was wrong and I told him that bad men had crashed airplanes into good people’s buildings.
“We got to go get them bad men.”, he said.
“We will, my son, you can count on that.”, I said (I feel very angry at someone unspecified).
We saw the crushed remains of a fire truck in the debris field.
“Did firefighters (yes, he said firefighters) get hurt and get killed?”
“Yes, Connor, they did, a lot of them did, more than ten” and I wept for a moment.
More than ten was the highest number in the world to Connor at this point.
“Those bad guys killed my Pakka and killed firefighters and we will destroy them” said Connor and then he began wheeling about throwing kicks and karate chops while shouting the appropriate sound effect. He knew something bad had happened, but didn’t seem to understand death. He ran down the hall to his room to destory the bad guys and sporadic laser fire was heard as he got to his room and then they all started chanting about food or something and it got too silly even for the daddy to follwo\\
Pakka was his maternal grandfather, a great old guy and former fire chief of Cincinnati. He had died back in May 2001 about four months ago. He was respected by damn near everyone and, at age 86, knew damn near everyone. Connor couldn’t quite pronounce Gramma and Grampa, so it got baby-talked into Grunga and Pakka. Connor was still calling him Pakka when he died. At the funeral, Connor did not really recognize Pakka embalmed and in his firechief uniform, so an understanding of death was still a bit beyond him. He knew Pakka was gone and that he would never see him again and that caused him to cry. Pakka was always really fun for Connor. He couldn’t move all that well, but Connor loved playing with/on him. Pakka was fading at this time, so he and Connor were almost on the same level. Bert may have been slightly addled, but he was happy and he knew he was surrounded by people who loved him. I only knew him a little while but I loved him too.
At this time, Connor is three. He loves the Power Rangers and playing with me. We have a mighty morphin power rangers video tape (VCR) that features a burning tower and the rangers then rescue the people inside. Watching the same building be destroyed over and over again was something that we did quite often. For Connor to see the burning towers on tv and then see them fall over and over again as the news people replayed it over and over, I’m betting that it being a real event was absolutely lost on him. My other son Morgan was about four months old at this point and his fat, smiley face and happy, wiggly demeanor were unchanged.
We watched the smoke from several channels and then the news people started interviewing one another and that meant that it was time to watch something else. I made breakfast and listened to Howard Stern on the radio. Say what you want about Howard, he provided the most comprehensive and level-headed coverage of the whole horrible thing. He stayed on the air, commercial free, until his satellite time simply ran out (hours later). Reports of a third plane hitting the Pentagon and a fourth plane crashing in PA came in. How many more were coming? Then I started thinking about the reality of the situation. My sister Dayna takes her daughter Elizabeth on auditions in New York and she has mentioned visiting the mall in the towers at times. I called home and she answered. Whew. Everyone was safe and sound, even our New York friends. I called Jay Hosler, my business partner, because he lives in PA. The plane that crashed in PA fell a hundred miles or so away from him. That’s close enough for him to hug his wife and kid extra hard. Okay, I had lost no one, good, but many had. The towers collapsed as rescue workers did their best and so many brave men and women were lost. Their line of work is heroic and death in the line of duty is as honorable as it gets in my book. I am sad for the families that have lost a loved one, but I am proud of those that had the courage to do what needed to be done to help their fellow man no matter what. It wasn’t a paycheck that drove those heroes into that smoking abbatoir that day, it was duty and honor and responsibility. Heroes all!
News reports came in and were denyed later so often that only news that was at last three days old could be considered credible. The main phony stories that I remember:
A man on the 82nd floor survived the collapse by riding the collapse.
A policeman on the 82nd floor survived the collapse.
Some firefighters were found alive in the basement of the towers.
Some firefighters that had been buried by the collapsing building had been found alive in the SUV.
The PA men had overpowered the terrorists, but crashed the plane when they tried to land it.
The PA plane men summoned their courage and made a stand. They fought the hijackers and the plane crashed in the scuffle, yes they died, but how many were saved? Where was the plane headed? More heroes have emerged.
I had a dream of being in one of the towers when it happened. In my dream, it was me with Connor and Morgan and a baby carriage. Something had happened upstairs and smoke was filling the area. Everyone fled into the stairwell. I could see that we weren’t going to be able to move the stroller, so I grabbed my boys up in my arms and shoved my way into the stairwell. It was desperate and other people with kids were slowly moving through the gloom. A horrible squeal of tearing metal and the staircase dropped away beneath us. There was no way out from here. I woke up at that moment. I hugged my sleeping family close to me and wept quietly in the dark. We were all safe, but it occurred to me then that:
There might have been a father with two kids and a stroller somewhere in one of those buildings.
Someone was probably having a great second interview.
Someone was probably working at the towers for the very first day.
Someone might have had their kid at work with them.
Someone might have been standing at the window, helplessly watching the plane approach them.
Someone might have been hit by the actual plane itself.
I hugged my family again and then got up to do some work. I didn’t shake the nightmare’s gloom for many days.
To all the first responders, then and now, here and everywhere: Thank you.
By Daryn Robert Guarino in the days following September 11, 2001
Me – Daryn Robert Guarino
Gib – Gibson Omer Bickel, VP and Operations Manager at Ogre, my best friend since 1984
Connor – Connor Daryn Guarino born July 20, 1998 (he was 3 years old)
Morgan - Morgan Bal Guarino born May 30, 2001 (he was 3 months old)
Ogre – The Laughing Ogre (a comic book shoppe) owned by Daryn, Gib, and Rod
Unedited so please forgive the spelling and grammar.
September 11, 2001 began abruptly with the phones ringing off the hook. I woke after the phone rang and then managed to determine that the phone woke me up. It was Gib calling from the Ogre. “It’s gone”, he said. “What is?” I said. I thought that maybe we had been robbed or something terrible had happened to the Ogre. “One of the twin towers”, he said, “turn on the TV, it’s gone, I gotta go.” He hung up.
I turned on CNN to see them filming a burning tower. It had a terrible outline of an airplane smashed into it with fire and thick smoke. They were saying that a plane had crashed into one of the towers. Suddenly the camera angle changed and we flicked to an approaching airplane. People were screaming as the plane passed behind the building. Black smoke and flame suddenly billowed. The plane had not passed behind the building, it had hit it. The plane had hit the second tower. I sat, jaw agape, unable to move. Could this be real? Can this happen? Are they allowed to do that? Rubble crashed to the street and I sat watching in silent horror as the flashing lights on top of police cars and fire trucks, responding to the first crash, were snuffed by billowing smoke and debris. People were leaping from the burning buildings and their flailing arms displayed raw terror as they knowingly fell to their death in street below. The scene was beyond terrible. Two huge towers, smoke and flame billowing from the huge holes in their hulls. Wordless horror and shock
I remember thinking that the towers have got to have like fifty thousand people in them. Holy shit, this can’t be real. Hey, you’re not allowed to do that! So many people, the horror turned to shock and I tried to shamble around the house. Connor came in the room and asked me what was wrong and I told him that bad men had crashed airplanes into good people’s buildings.
“We got to go get them bad men.”, he said.
“We will, my son, you can count on that.”, I said (I feel very angry at someone unspecified).
We saw the crushed remains of a fire truck in the debris field.
“Did firefighters (yes, he said firefighters) get hurt and get killed?”
“Yes, Connor, they did, a lot of them did, more than ten” and I wept for a moment.
More than ten was the highest number in the world to Connor at this point.
“Those bad guys killed my Pakka and killed firefighters and we will destroy them” said Connor and then he began wheeling about throwing kicks and karate chops while shouting the appropriate sound effect. He knew something bad had happened, but didn’t seem to understand death. He ran down the hall to his room to destory the bad guys and sporadic laser fire was heard as he got to his room and then they all started chanting about food or something and it got too silly even for the daddy to follwo\\
Pakka was his maternal grandfather, a great old guy and former fire chief of Cincinnati. He had died back in May 2001 about four months ago. He was respected by damn near everyone and, at age 86, knew damn near everyone. Connor couldn’t quite pronounce Gramma and Grampa, so it got baby-talked into Grunga and Pakka. Connor was still calling him Pakka when he died. At the funeral, Connor did not really recognize Pakka embalmed and in his firechief uniform, so an understanding of death was still a bit beyond him. He knew Pakka was gone and that he would never see him again and that caused him to cry. Pakka was always really fun for Connor. He couldn’t move all that well, but Connor loved playing with/on him. Pakka was fading at this time, so he and Connor were almost on the same level. Bert may have been slightly addled, but he was happy and he knew he was surrounded by people who loved him. I only knew him a little while but I loved him too.
At this time, Connor is three. He loves the Power Rangers and playing with me. We have a mighty morphin power rangers video tape (VCR) that features a burning tower and the rangers then rescue the people inside. Watching the same building be destroyed over and over again was something that we did quite often. For Connor to see the burning towers on tv and then see them fall over and over again as the news people replayed it over and over, I’m betting that it being a real event was absolutely lost on him. My other son Morgan was about four months old at this point and his fat, smiley face and happy, wiggly demeanor were unchanged.
We watched the smoke from several channels and then the news people started interviewing one another and that meant that it was time to watch something else. I made breakfast and listened to Howard Stern on the radio. Say what you want about Howard, he provided the most comprehensive and level-headed coverage of the whole horrible thing. He stayed on the air, commercial free, until his satellite time simply ran out (hours later). Reports of a third plane hitting the Pentagon and a fourth plane crashing in PA came in. How many more were coming? Then I started thinking about the reality of the situation. My sister Dayna takes her daughter Elizabeth on auditions in New York and she has mentioned visiting the mall in the towers at times. I called home and she answered. Whew. Everyone was safe and sound, even our New York friends. I called Jay Hosler, my business partner, because he lives in PA. The plane that crashed in PA fell a hundred miles or so away from him. That’s close enough for him to hug his wife and kid extra hard. Okay, I had lost no one, good, but many had. The towers collapsed as rescue workers did their best and so many brave men and women were lost. Their line of work is heroic and death in the line of duty is as honorable as it gets in my book. I am sad for the families that have lost a loved one, but I am proud of those that had the courage to do what needed to be done to help their fellow man no matter what. It wasn’t a paycheck that drove those heroes into that smoking abbatoir that day, it was duty and honor and responsibility. Heroes all!
News reports came in and were denyed later so often that only news that was at last three days old could be considered credible. The main phony stories that I remember:
A man on the 82nd floor survived the collapse by riding the collapse.
A policeman on the 82nd floor survived the collapse.
Some firefighters were found alive in the basement of the towers.
Some firefighters that had been buried by the collapsing building had been found alive in the SUV.
The PA men had overpowered the terrorists, but crashed the plane when they tried to land it.
The PA plane men summoned their courage and made a stand. They fought the hijackers and the plane crashed in the scuffle, yes they died, but how many were saved? Where was the plane headed? More heroes have emerged.
I had a dream of being in one of the towers when it happened. In my dream, it was me with Connor and Morgan and a baby carriage. Something had happened upstairs and smoke was filling the area. Everyone fled into the stairwell. I could see that we weren’t going to be able to move the stroller, so I grabbed my boys up in my arms and shoved my way into the stairwell. It was desperate and other people with kids were slowly moving through the gloom. A horrible squeal of tearing metal and the staircase dropped away beneath us. There was no way out from here. I woke up at that moment. I hugged my sleeping family close to me and wept quietly in the dark. We were all safe, but it occurred to me then that:
There might have been a father with two kids and a stroller somewhere in one of those buildings.
Someone was probably having a great second interview.
Someone was probably working at the towers for the very first day.
Someone might have had their kid at work with them.
Someone might have been standing at the window, helplessly watching the plane approach them.
Someone might have been hit by the actual plane itself.
I hugged my family again and then got up to do some work. I didn’t shake the nightmare’s gloom for many days.
To all the first responders, then and now, here and everywhere: Thank you.
August 19, 2013
Publishers and Release Dates: Threat or Menace?
I self-published a book last year, a horror book, Prey Until Dawn. But I am a writer, not a publicist, so I spent my time writing. I released the book when I deemed it done and that was that. I didn't have a budget for real advertising, so, I did what everyone does, I signed up for every form of social media and started promoting. My sales are steady, but considerably less than stellar. Since I pay in sweat not cash, it's all technically profit. While that's good, in the real world it works out to about thirty cents an hour for the entire effort. Not super profitable, but I enjoyed the time spent writing and stress was at a minimum. I kept writing and writing remained a hobby.
And then I got picked up by a publisher! Hitter, my brutal real crime book, will be released by December House on August 23. Details here: http://www.decemberhouse.net/viewblog...
I am discovering that fewer things are more nerve-wracking than having a release date (Hitter – August 23). I want to go get one of those medically induced comas I always read about and wake up on the 24th. Each day brings the release date closer and each day my gut draws into a tighter and tighter ball. If I ate a charcoal briquette, I would poop a diamond at this point. It helps that my reviews have been pretty good, my twitter numbers are way up, and my advertising is generating lots of hits. That's all good, but, like Schrödinger's cat. I won't know until I know. So, until August 23rd, I'm trapped in promotional limbo.
And having a publisher through it all? Makes it worse, unfortunately. My publisher, December House, is great and I am so lucky to have them. I mean, I have a group of people doing all kinds of things on my behalf and I don't have to tell them what to do (which is good because I obviously have no idea what needs to be done). So how can that not be great? Well, before I had a publisher, if my book didn't sell very well, it wasn't a big deal. It would be disappointing, but it didn't effect anyone else. But now if my book flops, it won't just be disappointing, I'll be letting the whole December House team down. I thought the hard part was done, but this pressure I place on myself is maddening.
I now spend my days social networking and promoting my book which, at the end of the day, feels like I have done nothing of value at all. I bounce from Twitter to Facebook to LibraryThing to Instagram to Tumblr to Goodreads to Bibliocracy to Klout, I write a few pithy statements, answer some questions, and I start over again. I switch from book pimp to author whore and back again all day. Then I lie awake in bed and worry that I didn't do enough and/or will forget a new idea I planned to pursue tomorrow. By the 23rd, I'll be a twitching, drooling mess in need of sleep, a shower, and a shave (and possibly a home, the wife is less than pleased with the current state of affairs).
So get ready to buy my book, Hitter, on the 23rd! No, seriously. If it doesn't sell, my family will begin to starve. And, if my household goes all "Donner-Pass", you know I'll be the one eating that final bowl of soup all alone. Then my sadness will turn to madness and I am bound to go on a Mad Max style rampage and destroy civilization, if not the world. And then we'll all have to fight each other over canned food, then over dog food, then over hamster pellets, and then over whatever is left (probably those nasty frickin' Necco wafers and/or Grape Nuts cereal). If you think about it, it's a pretty simple choice for you to make; buy my book or accept the blame for your part in the end of the world. Spending a few bucks to keep a sociopath like me off the streets sounds like a good deal under most conditions!
Hitter will be available in most digital formats (Kindle, Kobo, iBooks, Nook, Google Play) on August 23! The author, Daryn Guarino, will probably still be hiding at the bottom of a deep hole in his back yard, crying uncontrollably and eating Toll House cookies.
And then I got picked up by a publisher! Hitter, my brutal real crime book, will be released by December House on August 23. Details here: http://www.decemberhouse.net/viewblog...
I am discovering that fewer things are more nerve-wracking than having a release date (Hitter – August 23). I want to go get one of those medically induced comas I always read about and wake up on the 24th. Each day brings the release date closer and each day my gut draws into a tighter and tighter ball. If I ate a charcoal briquette, I would poop a diamond at this point. It helps that my reviews have been pretty good, my twitter numbers are way up, and my advertising is generating lots of hits. That's all good, but, like Schrödinger's cat. I won't know until I know. So, until August 23rd, I'm trapped in promotional limbo.
And having a publisher through it all? Makes it worse, unfortunately. My publisher, December House, is great and I am so lucky to have them. I mean, I have a group of people doing all kinds of things on my behalf and I don't have to tell them what to do (which is good because I obviously have no idea what needs to be done). So how can that not be great? Well, before I had a publisher, if my book didn't sell very well, it wasn't a big deal. It would be disappointing, but it didn't effect anyone else. But now if my book flops, it won't just be disappointing, I'll be letting the whole December House team down. I thought the hard part was done, but this pressure I place on myself is maddening.
I now spend my days social networking and promoting my book which, at the end of the day, feels like I have done nothing of value at all. I bounce from Twitter to Facebook to LibraryThing to Instagram to Tumblr to Goodreads to Bibliocracy to Klout, I write a few pithy statements, answer some questions, and I start over again. I switch from book pimp to author whore and back again all day. Then I lie awake in bed and worry that I didn't do enough and/or will forget a new idea I planned to pursue tomorrow. By the 23rd, I'll be a twitching, drooling mess in need of sleep, a shower, and a shave (and possibly a home, the wife is less than pleased with the current state of affairs).
So get ready to buy my book, Hitter, on the 23rd! No, seriously. If it doesn't sell, my family will begin to starve. And, if my household goes all "Donner-Pass", you know I'll be the one eating that final bowl of soup all alone. Then my sadness will turn to madness and I am bound to go on a Mad Max style rampage and destroy civilization, if not the world. And then we'll all have to fight each other over canned food, then over dog food, then over hamster pellets, and then over whatever is left (probably those nasty frickin' Necco wafers and/or Grape Nuts cereal). If you think about it, it's a pretty simple choice for you to make; buy my book or accept the blame for your part in the end of the world. Spending a few bucks to keep a sociopath like me off the streets sounds like a good deal under most conditions!
Hitter will be available in most digital formats (Kindle, Kobo, iBooks, Nook, Google Play) on August 23! The author, Daryn Guarino, will probably still be hiding at the bottom of a deep hole in his back yard, crying uncontrollably and eating Toll House cookies.
May 16, 2013
The Noisy Monkey and the Introvert
I am an introvert. It is not an illness. It does not need to be cured. Extroverts draw their energy from people, introverts draw their energy from the absence of people. Nothing is wrong, I feel fine, stop asking. Better yet, since I’m on paper and fantasizing that an extrovert has a brain behind the cloud of noise that hangs over them, let me tell the extroverts off.
Dear Extrovert, your constant stream of meaningless, thought-free chatter makes me feel like I am sitting inside the monkey house at the zoo. Is it too much to ask that you have a point when you speak? I really do not want to hear your feeble, so-called, “thought processes” as you fill the room with useless and worthless brainspew. Do you extro-people think anything that you don’t say out loud?
I need to be alone. My extrovert is trying to “help me” get over my “funk”. She feels that sitting quietly in the room with me is the same as me being alone. It isn’t. I love her, but she is wrong yet again. I don’t bother telling her so anymore, it is a waste of both of our times. As an extrovert, she is capable of listening, but incapable of learning from it. My introvert ways are so alien to her that I must be wrong about what makes me feel better. I love her, but it is frustrating. What I truly want is to sit alone and do whatever it is I feel like doing. When I say alone, I mean, I don’t want a living creature within hundreds of miles of me. Being alone in a room is good, being alone in a building is better, and being alone on a desert island sounds like heaven. I need to be alone, but here she is all cuddly and loving and trying to help and, unfortunately, just making it worse. She gets mad when I want to be alone. She treats me as if I am ungrateful that she wants to be with me. She constantly mentions that I am different now than when we started dating. In truth, the difference is that I live with her now. I cannot leave, I cannot escape to my own place, I cannot truly recharge in the manner that I want for as long as I want. If I retreat to my basement office, she follows. If I lock the door, she pounds on it. She will then spend an hour sitting in front of me explaining to me how she understands that I need to be alone, but, if she truly understood, she would just walk away and leave me be for the hour. Damn extrovert!
She woke me up at 7am with a coffee and a back scratch and it is a damn fine way to start the day and I do not deserve it. She got up at 4am because everyone in her family does it. The phone in our house rings at 5:30am as various relatives, also extroverts, check in and say good morning. A night person, I sleep deeply through predawn happy hour with nary a hiccup. Anyway, at this moment, I’m upright, I’m coffeed, I’m scratched, and I am under siege! She immediately starts driving the fog of sleep from head with a rundown barrage of the events of the last 3 hours. Family updates, work updates, friend updates, life updates, and then a list of times and dates and places for various things today and next week and next month…but now, my inner crab is armoring up and starts screaming, “Holy crap! Is sleep the only place we can hide from her?” I start asking her questions about the nothing that is spraying out of her head. She doesn’t answer the question I ask, she never does, she, instead, answers the question she thinks I am trying to ask. Few things piss me off more than an extrovert trying to understand what an introvert is thinking. As an extrovert, she is used to asking questions without thinking first, extroverts do most things without thinking first. Introverts don’t. I’m not asking the first question that popped into my head when I finally voice a question. I am asking the question that resulted from a series of high-speed internal research questions and arguments with special consideration given to logic. I use what is called a thought process and, after I have accessed all the information stored inside my brain to mull the topic over, then I speak. So I ask a question and she answers a different question and we do this until she gets mad because I keep asking the same question over and over in a simpler and simpler form as if she is an idiot. She never actually answers the question I am asking, so use your own judgment as to what that makes her, but I suspect it does rhyme with Shidiot or Moopid. Once I begin to assail her intelligence, she angrily flees. I make a mental note about success of the tactic.
In order to “cheer me up”, my beloved has decided to take me to dinner. It is a lovely gesture, but it is the opposite of what I need. I just need a few hours alone. Maybe ten hours or so in a row. I just want to sit and barely exist and not hear my name. I want to wander around in my underpants, listen to some music, play a few video games, organize my thoughts, and just recover the energy I need to face the world. Draw into my shell until I am relaxed and happy. But, instead, we go out. Damn extrovert.
The restaurant trip was no trauma. The place was almost empty and the food was amazing. I still have an “alone time” bill to pay, but it won’t be tonight. She was nice to me, she thinks she has helped, so now I owe her even though she has provided nothing that I actually want or need.
Okay, today I am seriously in need on aloneness to the point where bad things happen. With the best of intentions in her heart, I will murder this extrovert bitch! Go away! The kids are at school and I have just returned to my office to start my day. She has decided to work from home today so she can “leave me alone”. Yep, she’s home to leave me alone. She could be at work, but she stayed home because I need to be alone and she needs to be there with me. When logic fails to influence her thinking, a beating or killing seems fully justified. Why should my actions make any sense if hers do not? The kids are at school and my honey is not currently underfoot, but it’s only a matter of time befo… And there it was, her gesture of goodwill, “Do you want to go to breakfast?” I need to be alone and I would like to get my day started. Breakfast means a two hour chunk of time carved out of my five and a half hour “kids-are-at-school” time. So I say no thank you. “No Thank You” must be crazy person code for “I hate you as a person and I wish you would get paralyzed by a freak hamburger and football mascot accident”. She is angry that I do not want to go to breakfast. She stayed home specifically to help me be alone, damn it, and I have now crapped all over her kind gesture. Sigh. Her anger doesn’t make her go away though, it doesn’t make her storm off, it doesn’t do anything but turn the volume up on her constant extroverted, content-free, yapping.
I kindly ask her to leave my office. She does not. I kindly request that she leave. She does not. I tell her to leave. She does not. Having exhausted my kindness, I grab her by the hair, spin her around, and physically throw her from my office. Despite her version of the story, she does not actually leave the ground and cartwheel down the hall, but I am none too gentle. I don’t care. I am an introvert, not a damn doormat. The yipping and yapping of the extrovert grinds at me until, like the Incredible Hulk, I MUST be alone and if that means killing you, too bad for you, you moron. All you have to do is go away and you are safe. Are you so stupid that self-preservation is beyond you? Invade my personal space and I will cripple you and leave you to die on the floor of the laundry room. This is not a new response from me. I will ask a person to leave my sanctum as kindly as I can when I have had enough, but I will only ask kindly a few times. Then I ask less politely. Then I tell you the consequences of remaining in my room. And then execute those consequences upon you. I’m almost six foot and 275 pounds, a former football player and a current weightlifter…when I tell you I will throw you from the room if I have to, you better believe I literally mean THROW. Or you could just simply walk away. I won’t chase you, I don’t want to fight you to make you go, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t or that I am not any good at it.
I love days when we are not talking to each other. The solitude and quiet is awesome. She went out with her friends for about four hours this evening. I think it was supposed to teach me a lesson or some other unthinking extrovert nonsense gesture. But I’ll take my alone time whenever I can. I loved her being gone and I secretly wish she hadn’t come home at all. Not to wish harm on her, just so I can soak up the alone.
She is still angry with me and not talking to me, so I score another few hours of peace and quiet. She has started texting me, which means she wants to talk. No way! I plan to respond tomorrow and to preserve tonight’s silent and glorious aloneitude!
She went to work, but left a note. By the hearts and flowers on it, I can see that she wants to be friends. I wouldn’t mind another day or two (or a year) alone, but I’ll let her off the hook to preserve the relationship. I text her and a few hours later all is well. Another drama where no drama was needed, but an extrovert isn’t a thinking animal. I just needed to be alone. I asked to be alone. I demanded to be alone. All she had to do was leave me alone for a few hours, maybe even overnight. I won’t be out drinking and whoring and fighting. I just want to sit in my little basement office with the door closed and be alone, my own personal hidey-hole, my shell. That’s all I want. It doesn’t cost any money. I just need some time. I’m an introvert, not a criminal. Introverts become hermits because extroverts refuse to shut their mouths and leave them alone. A cabin off in the woods and no one around for miles sounds pretty damn good.
But we’re talking again…which means she is talking again…and talking and talking and talking and talking. Content-free and non-stop. My alonetime meter starts building up again and it won’t be long before I need to hide from the wordstorm yet again. It's a never-ending cycle. Can’t she just shut her mouth for a second? I am an introvert and, with every unimportant word, she gets closer and closer to becoming a quiet corpse at my feet. Since an extrovert cannot learn to shut-up, please go back to the start of this paper and begin again.
Dear Extrovert, your constant stream of meaningless, thought-free chatter makes me feel like I am sitting inside the monkey house at the zoo. Is it too much to ask that you have a point when you speak? I really do not want to hear your feeble, so-called, “thought processes” as you fill the room with useless and worthless brainspew. Do you extro-people think anything that you don’t say out loud?
I need to be alone. My extrovert is trying to “help me” get over my “funk”. She feels that sitting quietly in the room with me is the same as me being alone. It isn’t. I love her, but she is wrong yet again. I don’t bother telling her so anymore, it is a waste of both of our times. As an extrovert, she is capable of listening, but incapable of learning from it. My introvert ways are so alien to her that I must be wrong about what makes me feel better. I love her, but it is frustrating. What I truly want is to sit alone and do whatever it is I feel like doing. When I say alone, I mean, I don’t want a living creature within hundreds of miles of me. Being alone in a room is good, being alone in a building is better, and being alone on a desert island sounds like heaven. I need to be alone, but here she is all cuddly and loving and trying to help and, unfortunately, just making it worse. She gets mad when I want to be alone. She treats me as if I am ungrateful that she wants to be with me. She constantly mentions that I am different now than when we started dating. In truth, the difference is that I live with her now. I cannot leave, I cannot escape to my own place, I cannot truly recharge in the manner that I want for as long as I want. If I retreat to my basement office, she follows. If I lock the door, she pounds on it. She will then spend an hour sitting in front of me explaining to me how she understands that I need to be alone, but, if she truly understood, she would just walk away and leave me be for the hour. Damn extrovert!
She woke me up at 7am with a coffee and a back scratch and it is a damn fine way to start the day and I do not deserve it. She got up at 4am because everyone in her family does it. The phone in our house rings at 5:30am as various relatives, also extroverts, check in and say good morning. A night person, I sleep deeply through predawn happy hour with nary a hiccup. Anyway, at this moment, I’m upright, I’m coffeed, I’m scratched, and I am under siege! She immediately starts driving the fog of sleep from head with a rundown barrage of the events of the last 3 hours. Family updates, work updates, friend updates, life updates, and then a list of times and dates and places for various things today and next week and next month…but now, my inner crab is armoring up and starts screaming, “Holy crap! Is sleep the only place we can hide from her?” I start asking her questions about the nothing that is spraying out of her head. She doesn’t answer the question I ask, she never does, she, instead, answers the question she thinks I am trying to ask. Few things piss me off more than an extrovert trying to understand what an introvert is thinking. As an extrovert, she is used to asking questions without thinking first, extroverts do most things without thinking first. Introverts don’t. I’m not asking the first question that popped into my head when I finally voice a question. I am asking the question that resulted from a series of high-speed internal research questions and arguments with special consideration given to logic. I use what is called a thought process and, after I have accessed all the information stored inside my brain to mull the topic over, then I speak. So I ask a question and she answers a different question and we do this until she gets mad because I keep asking the same question over and over in a simpler and simpler form as if she is an idiot. She never actually answers the question I am asking, so use your own judgment as to what that makes her, but I suspect it does rhyme with Shidiot or Moopid. Once I begin to assail her intelligence, she angrily flees. I make a mental note about success of the tactic.
In order to “cheer me up”, my beloved has decided to take me to dinner. It is a lovely gesture, but it is the opposite of what I need. I just need a few hours alone. Maybe ten hours or so in a row. I just want to sit and barely exist and not hear my name. I want to wander around in my underpants, listen to some music, play a few video games, organize my thoughts, and just recover the energy I need to face the world. Draw into my shell until I am relaxed and happy. But, instead, we go out. Damn extrovert.
The restaurant trip was no trauma. The place was almost empty and the food was amazing. I still have an “alone time” bill to pay, but it won’t be tonight. She was nice to me, she thinks she has helped, so now I owe her even though she has provided nothing that I actually want or need.
Okay, today I am seriously in need on aloneness to the point where bad things happen. With the best of intentions in her heart, I will murder this extrovert bitch! Go away! The kids are at school and I have just returned to my office to start my day. She has decided to work from home today so she can “leave me alone”. Yep, she’s home to leave me alone. She could be at work, but she stayed home because I need to be alone and she needs to be there with me. When logic fails to influence her thinking, a beating or killing seems fully justified. Why should my actions make any sense if hers do not? The kids are at school and my honey is not currently underfoot, but it’s only a matter of time befo… And there it was, her gesture of goodwill, “Do you want to go to breakfast?” I need to be alone and I would like to get my day started. Breakfast means a two hour chunk of time carved out of my five and a half hour “kids-are-at-school” time. So I say no thank you. “No Thank You” must be crazy person code for “I hate you as a person and I wish you would get paralyzed by a freak hamburger and football mascot accident”. She is angry that I do not want to go to breakfast. She stayed home specifically to help me be alone, damn it, and I have now crapped all over her kind gesture. Sigh. Her anger doesn’t make her go away though, it doesn’t make her storm off, it doesn’t do anything but turn the volume up on her constant extroverted, content-free, yapping.
I kindly ask her to leave my office. She does not. I kindly request that she leave. She does not. I tell her to leave. She does not. Having exhausted my kindness, I grab her by the hair, spin her around, and physically throw her from my office. Despite her version of the story, she does not actually leave the ground and cartwheel down the hall, but I am none too gentle. I don’t care. I am an introvert, not a damn doormat. The yipping and yapping of the extrovert grinds at me until, like the Incredible Hulk, I MUST be alone and if that means killing you, too bad for you, you moron. All you have to do is go away and you are safe. Are you so stupid that self-preservation is beyond you? Invade my personal space and I will cripple you and leave you to die on the floor of the laundry room. This is not a new response from me. I will ask a person to leave my sanctum as kindly as I can when I have had enough, but I will only ask kindly a few times. Then I ask less politely. Then I tell you the consequences of remaining in my room. And then execute those consequences upon you. I’m almost six foot and 275 pounds, a former football player and a current weightlifter…when I tell you I will throw you from the room if I have to, you better believe I literally mean THROW. Or you could just simply walk away. I won’t chase you, I don’t want to fight you to make you go, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t or that I am not any good at it.
I love days when we are not talking to each other. The solitude and quiet is awesome. She went out with her friends for about four hours this evening. I think it was supposed to teach me a lesson or some other unthinking extrovert nonsense gesture. But I’ll take my alone time whenever I can. I loved her being gone and I secretly wish she hadn’t come home at all. Not to wish harm on her, just so I can soak up the alone.
She is still angry with me and not talking to me, so I score another few hours of peace and quiet. She has started texting me, which means she wants to talk. No way! I plan to respond tomorrow and to preserve tonight’s silent and glorious aloneitude!
She went to work, but left a note. By the hearts and flowers on it, I can see that she wants to be friends. I wouldn’t mind another day or two (or a year) alone, but I’ll let her off the hook to preserve the relationship. I text her and a few hours later all is well. Another drama where no drama was needed, but an extrovert isn’t a thinking animal. I just needed to be alone. I asked to be alone. I demanded to be alone. All she had to do was leave me alone for a few hours, maybe even overnight. I won’t be out drinking and whoring and fighting. I just want to sit in my little basement office with the door closed and be alone, my own personal hidey-hole, my shell. That’s all I want. It doesn’t cost any money. I just need some time. I’m an introvert, not a criminal. Introverts become hermits because extroverts refuse to shut their mouths and leave them alone. A cabin off in the woods and no one around for miles sounds pretty damn good.
But we’re talking again…which means she is talking again…and talking and talking and talking and talking. Content-free and non-stop. My alonetime meter starts building up again and it won’t be long before I need to hide from the wordstorm yet again. It's a never-ending cycle. Can’t she just shut her mouth for a second? I am an introvert and, with every unimportant word, she gets closer and closer to becoming a quiet corpse at my feet. Since an extrovert cannot learn to shut-up, please go back to the start of this paper and begin again.
March 20, 2013
The Meaning(less) of Like
Before I get started, I need to provide a little background information. I own a publishing company that I founded back in 1997, Active Synapse, and we publish three graphic novels ("Clan Apis", "The Sandwalk Adventures", "Optical Allusions", all by the talented Jay Hosler) and five books ("Prey Until Dawn" which is a combined version of its four components, "Prey Until Dawn: Tales of the Yellow Book: One", "Prey Until Dawn: Tales of the Yellow Book: Two", Prey Until Dawn: Tales of the Yellow Book: Three", "Prey Until Dawn: Tales of the Yellow Book: Four", all by yours truly). Active Synapse has an informational website at www.ActiveSynapse.com that details all pertinent information.
Like most people with a public email address, I get lots of email for lots of reasons. Ignoring the tremendous volume of fake PayPal notices, porn, and male enhancement spam, the emails break down into two basic types: "I like your books" and "I want to give you advice".
As you can imagine, I enjoy receiving and reading the "I like your books" emails. It makes everyone happy, author and publisher alike. Keep sending them, I love to read them.
My beef is with the second type of email, the "I want to give you advice" type. After being a publisher for the last sixteen years, getting advice from someone with absolutely no experience as an author, publisher, or business person is like being handed a mason jar filled with warm spit. It's not good for anything, nobody wants it, and I don't know what to do with it. Directly biting the head off someone trying to offer advice isn't overly gracious, but neither is offering unsolicited advice. I figure that I'll handle it indirectly and passive-aggressively with this blog. If you sent me advice, I'm sure it was really, really helpful and I'm obviously talking about someone else.
Lately, the advice emails have been harping on adding a Facebook "Like" button to my website. You know, if you find my website, that's great. If you read through it, that's even better. If you go buy my books because of it, bingo, that's the whole point! But what good is a Facebook "Like" button? To me, it's saying "if you enjoyed this website, you will enjoy looking at another website that contains the exact same information". I simply don't see the value in maintaining two websites with identical information. You found my real website, so going off to find my Facebook website changes nothing and I would prefer you go off to find my books on Amazon instead. Facebook “likes” cannot be deposited in the bank and do not drive sales, so they are worth just a little bit less than real page hits. The information displayed and customization allowed on a Facebook page is highly limited in both form and format, not to mention subject to the scrutiny of a nameless Facebook administrator of dubious skill and training. I didn't start my own business to get a new boss or to limit my creativity or expression thereof. Anyone can find and see my real website with a Google search, but only Facebook users can find my Facebook site. This means, at best, Facebook "likes" are merely a subset of people who already found my real website. Facebook people are not meaningless and good on you if you use that “Like Me On Facebook” option on your website. But for me, the extra work required to essentially duplicate my real website doesn't hold any value or make any sense.
And please don't ask to be my friend on Facebook! I'm sure you are pleasant and nice and not a foil-hat wearing, racist, homophobic, religious and political zealot, but I use Facebook to keep in touch with my actual friends and family. Family is blood, so you can't really join that crew with the click of a mouse button. Friends are trusted people willing to help me hide a body at 3am after my van gets stuck in the snow (or already have done so). Between the two groups, I have enough foil-hat wearing, racist, homophobic, religious and political zealots to last a lifetime, so thanks, but no thanks. I do appreciate you being a fan, I really do, but entry to my inner circle requires a bit more than bad advice and a “Like”.
"Like" this blog one billion times to make sunshine shoot out of my unicorn's butt.
Like most people with a public email address, I get lots of email for lots of reasons. Ignoring the tremendous volume of fake PayPal notices, porn, and male enhancement spam, the emails break down into two basic types: "I like your books" and "I want to give you advice".
As you can imagine, I enjoy receiving and reading the "I like your books" emails. It makes everyone happy, author and publisher alike. Keep sending them, I love to read them.
My beef is with the second type of email, the "I want to give you advice" type. After being a publisher for the last sixteen years, getting advice from someone with absolutely no experience as an author, publisher, or business person is like being handed a mason jar filled with warm spit. It's not good for anything, nobody wants it, and I don't know what to do with it. Directly biting the head off someone trying to offer advice isn't overly gracious, but neither is offering unsolicited advice. I figure that I'll handle it indirectly and passive-aggressively with this blog. If you sent me advice, I'm sure it was really, really helpful and I'm obviously talking about someone else.
Lately, the advice emails have been harping on adding a Facebook "Like" button to my website. You know, if you find my website, that's great. If you read through it, that's even better. If you go buy my books because of it, bingo, that's the whole point! But what good is a Facebook "Like" button? To me, it's saying "if you enjoyed this website, you will enjoy looking at another website that contains the exact same information". I simply don't see the value in maintaining two websites with identical information. You found my real website, so going off to find my Facebook website changes nothing and I would prefer you go off to find my books on Amazon instead. Facebook “likes” cannot be deposited in the bank and do not drive sales, so they are worth just a little bit less than real page hits. The information displayed and customization allowed on a Facebook page is highly limited in both form and format, not to mention subject to the scrutiny of a nameless Facebook administrator of dubious skill and training. I didn't start my own business to get a new boss or to limit my creativity or expression thereof. Anyone can find and see my real website with a Google search, but only Facebook users can find my Facebook site. This means, at best, Facebook "likes" are merely a subset of people who already found my real website. Facebook people are not meaningless and good on you if you use that “Like Me On Facebook” option on your website. But for me, the extra work required to essentially duplicate my real website doesn't hold any value or make any sense.
And please don't ask to be my friend on Facebook! I'm sure you are pleasant and nice and not a foil-hat wearing, racist, homophobic, religious and political zealot, but I use Facebook to keep in touch with my actual friends and family. Family is blood, so you can't really join that crew with the click of a mouse button. Friends are trusted people willing to help me hide a body at 3am after my van gets stuck in the snow (or already have done so). Between the two groups, I have enough foil-hat wearing, racist, homophobic, religious and political zealots to last a lifetime, so thanks, but no thanks. I do appreciate you being a fan, I really do, but entry to my inner circle requires a bit more than bad advice and a “Like”.
"Like" this blog one billion times to make sunshine shoot out of my unicorn's butt.
January 13, 2013
Since you asked
Since getting picked up by December House, dozens of people now write, text, and twitter questions to me all the time. Since I am rather antisocial, I now need a blog to avoid actually talking to people. I normally hate blogs and blogging because it takes time away from real writing and, since I don't usually have anything worthwhile to report, why waste anyone's time? I'm a writer and when a writer is writing, his life is quite boring. And I write all the time. I don't like reading blogs because most people don't have anything interesting to say. I would rather post just a few blogs of substance per year than post a weekly blog cluttered with filler and other non-content. But questions have been asked and today I have something to say, so today I blog.
The two most popular questions, by volume, are:
Q: Do you know how bad you suck?
A: I am completely unaware, but thanks for asking so many times, Mom.
Q: What is Daryn working on today?
A: Kids, wife, dog and the stuff listed below.
Under the guidance of my agent, editor, and publisher, I am reworking my book, Hitter. I had some structural stuff to adjust; adds, changes, and deletes. It was short, only 44k words in length, and it needed to be 60k at a minimum. A 36% increase or better is no small task. I prevailed and got it up over 62k words Friday night. Hooray! Now I still need to read it two or three times, editing as I go, to make corrections in flow, pacing, grammar, tense, and spelling. My people will get it next and they'll do the same thing AND give me an opinion. I'll go through it one last time and then I'll send it to the lovely Henri, my editor, for her opinion. After that, I wait to see if I have to do more revisions or not.
I am also working on a sword-and-sorcery book as well. The working title is The Return of the Night Lord and it sits at a puny 27k words. I spent lots of time drawing and detailing a large map of the world. Drawing and coloring does not feel like work, no matter why you are doing it, but the time and effort spent was well worth it. It's an excellent visual aid and I think it really adds to the richness of the story when I'm writing. When I'm not rewriting Hitter, I spend my time writing this book.
I am also splitting my book, Prey Until Dawn, into four smaller books. I'm keeping the single volume edition because, personally, I like a nice thick paperback, but, given the preferences of the modern reader and the growing strength of the ebook market, smaller works are more desired. It's not writing, but it's part of the work if writing. Until I get an assistant, the task falls to me.
I also have stories underway in the genres of family humor, night life humor, science fiction, and even some erotica. They consist of little more than 5k words or so each, so I won't call them books just yet.
You asked, so now you know!
The two most popular questions, by volume, are:
Q: Do you know how bad you suck?
A: I am completely unaware, but thanks for asking so many times, Mom.
Q: What is Daryn working on today?
A: Kids, wife, dog and the stuff listed below.
Under the guidance of my agent, editor, and publisher, I am reworking my book, Hitter. I had some structural stuff to adjust; adds, changes, and deletes. It was short, only 44k words in length, and it needed to be 60k at a minimum. A 36% increase or better is no small task. I prevailed and got it up over 62k words Friday night. Hooray! Now I still need to read it two or three times, editing as I go, to make corrections in flow, pacing, grammar, tense, and spelling. My people will get it next and they'll do the same thing AND give me an opinion. I'll go through it one last time and then I'll send it to the lovely Henri, my editor, for her opinion. After that, I wait to see if I have to do more revisions or not.
I am also working on a sword-and-sorcery book as well. The working title is The Return of the Night Lord and it sits at a puny 27k words. I spent lots of time drawing and detailing a large map of the world. Drawing and coloring does not feel like work, no matter why you are doing it, but the time and effort spent was well worth it. It's an excellent visual aid and I think it really adds to the richness of the story when I'm writing. When I'm not rewriting Hitter, I spend my time writing this book.
I am also splitting my book, Prey Until Dawn, into four smaller books. I'm keeping the single volume edition because, personally, I like a nice thick paperback, but, given the preferences of the modern reader and the growing strength of the ebook market, smaller works are more desired. It's not writing, but it's part of the work if writing. Until I get an assistant, the task falls to me.
I also have stories underway in the genres of family humor, night life humor, science fiction, and even some erotica. They consist of little more than 5k words or so each, so I won't call them books just yet.
You asked, so now you know!
January 9, 2013
And then something happened
Sales of my books have been decent, better than expected for having a limited advertising budget. I can't retire on the monthly proceeds, but I can't complain about the extra income. As most undiscovered writers know, managing the business side AND trying to write at the same time is quite a chore. Having an agent, a publisher, and an editor is the way to go, but the pursuit of those things is lots of work and generally fruitless. Spend your time chasing readers or spend it chasing management or spend it writing? Having to do it all is exhausting.
NaNoWriMo was November and I got drawn into an interesting writing project. So I had to be my own agent, my own publisher, my own editor, and was now writing TWO books. All the writing work plus a deadline combined with the family "work" of hosting Thanksgiving meant lots of late nights (more than usual). Just as my stretched energy began to ebb, an email arrived. December House wanted to publish Hitter, one of my books! Energy restored!
I was assigned an editor, Henri (she lives somewhere in the UK) and we have been working together on a revision for the last few weeks. Their demands are understandable and reasonable, but it's hard to get back into the mindset that wrote that particular book. I had to sit down and read it four times before I got the feel back, before the character took hold in my psyche again.
Hitter was an early work of mine, an experiment to see if I could actually write a book. A mere 44,000 words, the diary of a hitman. In addition to the agreed upon structural changes, I also had to beef it up to 60,000 words or more. It's been five weeks of work and broken sleep, but I'm sitting at 57,000 words today and hope to have a solid 60k+ word draft finished by the end of the week.
Some good things happened to me and I'm having a good day, so I wrote this blog entry to share the news (and procrastinate, I am a writer, after all).
Find me on the December House author page to score extra happy points.
http://www.decemberhouse.net/authors.php
NaNoWriMo was November and I got drawn into an interesting writing project. So I had to be my own agent, my own publisher, my own editor, and was now writing TWO books. All the writing work plus a deadline combined with the family "work" of hosting Thanksgiving meant lots of late nights (more than usual). Just as my stretched energy began to ebb, an email arrived. December House wanted to publish Hitter, one of my books! Energy restored!
I was assigned an editor, Henri (she lives somewhere in the UK) and we have been working together on a revision for the last few weeks. Their demands are understandable and reasonable, but it's hard to get back into the mindset that wrote that particular book. I had to sit down and read it four times before I got the feel back, before the character took hold in my psyche again.
Hitter was an early work of mine, an experiment to see if I could actually write a book. A mere 44,000 words, the diary of a hitman. In addition to the agreed upon structural changes, I also had to beef it up to 60,000 words or more. It's been five weeks of work and broken sleep, but I'm sitting at 57,000 words today and hope to have a solid 60k+ word draft finished by the end of the week.
Some good things happened to me and I'm having a good day, so I wrote this blog entry to share the news (and procrastinate, I am a writer, after all).
Find me on the December House author page to score extra happy points.
http://www.decemberhouse.net/authors.php
October 25, 2012
October Means Horror
Today, I'm going to write about my second book, "Prey Until Dawn". This book is of the horror genre. It contains both action horror, similar to Robert E. Howard, and cerebral horror, in the vein of H.P. Lovecraft.
Action horror is the type of read where you shift in your seat and read quickly so you can find out what happens next. Does the hero get there in time? Does the hero prevail? The pacing gets faster and the mood rises until a frantic state is reached. This is a classic horror MOVIE type of horror, but, as I have discovered, it is much harder to pull off in print. A chase scene in a movie doesn't need words, it's all visual. A chase scene in a book requires finesses and a speedy delivery at the same time. If you find yourself reading quickly or unable to stop reading until a scene has finished, you are in the grip of an action horror. Action horror doesn't have to be spattered with gore and blood, but usually is.
Cerebral horror is the horror that doesn't stop when you finish reading. This is the horror of nightmares. You finally finish the book but the bad guy hasn't been caught or the problem hasn't truly been solved. You end up afraid of the dark for a while in real life for vague and unspecified reasons. This is classic BOOK horror. If you find yourself thinking, "Wait a minute, if she left the evil amulet in her sister's jewelry box, what happens when her sister finds it later?", you are in the grip of a cerebral horror. H.P. Lovecraft was a master at delivering this type of horror.
"Prey Until Dawn" is a series of tales about the forbidden knowledge contained in an ancient book and the impact it has on the lives of those willing to read it. Forbidden knowledge doesn't mean evil or bad, it simply means the type of knowledge you are better off NOT knowing. Just as unlocking the secrets of the atom seemed like a good and helpful idea until the research created atomic weaponry, the secrets contained in the ancient book in "Prey Until Dawn" offer the same double-edged sword, salvation and devastation. The main characters, sometimes with the best of intentions, try to make use of the forbidden, but come to realize that the knowledge is too large, more than they can ever hope to bend to their will. This is my favorite kind of horror, scary because the truth is so stark and cold, not because there is blood spraying everywhere.
If you are looking for something scary to read this October, look no further than "Prey Until Dawn". It will give you shivers and shakes as you read it and leave nightmares for you to "enjoy" after you are done.
If you buy it, I thank you and would love to hear what you think. You can find "Prey Until Dawn" at:
Amazon.com (my Amazon CreateSpace eStore), print edition:
https://www.createspace.com/3969781
Amazon.com print edition:
http://www.amazon.com/Prey-Until-Dawn...
Amazon.com kindle edition:
http://www.amazon.com/Prey-Until-Dawn...Daryn Guarino
Action horror is the type of read where you shift in your seat and read quickly so you can find out what happens next. Does the hero get there in time? Does the hero prevail? The pacing gets faster and the mood rises until a frantic state is reached. This is a classic horror MOVIE type of horror, but, as I have discovered, it is much harder to pull off in print. A chase scene in a movie doesn't need words, it's all visual. A chase scene in a book requires finesses and a speedy delivery at the same time. If you find yourself reading quickly or unable to stop reading until a scene has finished, you are in the grip of an action horror. Action horror doesn't have to be spattered with gore and blood, but usually is.
Cerebral horror is the horror that doesn't stop when you finish reading. This is the horror of nightmares. You finally finish the book but the bad guy hasn't been caught or the problem hasn't truly been solved. You end up afraid of the dark for a while in real life for vague and unspecified reasons. This is classic BOOK horror. If you find yourself thinking, "Wait a minute, if she left the evil amulet in her sister's jewelry box, what happens when her sister finds it later?", you are in the grip of a cerebral horror. H.P. Lovecraft was a master at delivering this type of horror.
"Prey Until Dawn" is a series of tales about the forbidden knowledge contained in an ancient book and the impact it has on the lives of those willing to read it. Forbidden knowledge doesn't mean evil or bad, it simply means the type of knowledge you are better off NOT knowing. Just as unlocking the secrets of the atom seemed like a good and helpful idea until the research created atomic weaponry, the secrets contained in the ancient book in "Prey Until Dawn" offer the same double-edged sword, salvation and devastation. The main characters, sometimes with the best of intentions, try to make use of the forbidden, but come to realize that the knowledge is too large, more than they can ever hope to bend to their will. This is my favorite kind of horror, scary because the truth is so stark and cold, not because there is blood spraying everywhere.
If you are looking for something scary to read this October, look no further than "Prey Until Dawn". It will give you shivers and shakes as you read it and leave nightmares for you to "enjoy" after you are done.
If you buy it, I thank you and would love to hear what you think. You can find "Prey Until Dawn" at:
Amazon.com (my Amazon CreateSpace eStore), print edition:
https://www.createspace.com/3969781
Amazon.com print edition:
http://www.amazon.com/Prey-Until-Dawn...
Amazon.com kindle edition:
http://www.amazon.com/Prey-Until-Dawn...Daryn Guarino
October 24, 2012
In the beginning
I have written two books in my life so far and am working on a third. "Hitter" is my crime genre book. "Prey Until Dawn" is of the horror genre. My third book is a sword-and-sorcery type and doesn't even have a working title just yet. This blog post is about my first book, "Hitter"
"Hitter" is the biography of a hitman. I can fancy the words up for you, but the life of a hitman covers it perfectly. Want to know how someone becomes a professional killer? Want to know what path leads you to become a hired gun? My book will show you. It's not pretty and it's not for everyone.
My book shows that the life-of-crime career starts as normally as any other. You grow up in the world, you see a few things, you learn a few things, and you meet a few people. Before you know it, it's like you've been a criminal your entire life and it all seems perfectly normal. My book only shows the path taken by one person, but that person could be any of us under the right circumstances.
"Hitter" is a work of fiction, but I call it fiction only to protect my confidential sources (and to protect myself from my sources). I have muddied the details just enough, but the story is real and true. Yes, I actually do have some friends that are professional criminals. Most of them are involved in smuggling, the moving of illegal items from place to place, but some of them provide illegal services, beating, torturing, killing, and kidnapping fall into the crime services category. I spoke to my sources at length and gathered together their life experiences to create my book. It's real.
So many crime-dramas are told from the side of the police, "Hitter" is told from the side of the criminal. You will never get closer to being inside the criminal mind than my book takes you. Criminals of a certain level don't speak freely to just anyone and I won't share the details about who I know or how I know them.
Too often, I hear laymen claiming how easy it is to live a criminal life, but that is based on pure ignorance. I am certain that most of you out there have a job. If you screw up at work, you might get fired. If you screw up at work and you are a criminal, you might get arrested, go to jail, be injured, be tortured, and/or be murdered. and, rightly or wrongly, your family could also face the same fate. It's hard for me to pretend that being beaten and murdered, or finding your family beaten and murdered, is easier than a job at the cracker factory.
Another misconception about the life of crime is the glamour. The life can bring you money, but you can't flaunt it since you cannot justify where it came from. There is very little that is glamorous about a true life of crime. You can't ever tell anyone the truth, you can't let people get close to you, you can't tell people about your background, and no one gets to meet your friends. Living a life of crime means wallowing in fear and paranoia most of the time.
"Hitter" doesn't sugarcoat the life of the criminal. You'll experience all the ups and downs, the desires and the regrets, the strains that a secret life puts on the body and mind.
The criminal life is not shiny and fancy like in the movies, it's just blood and mud. The highs can be spectacular, but the low points are shockingly low and dangerous. For some crimes, the police, and the family of the victim, will NEVER stop searching for you. Criminals never get to rest, so don't call it an easy life.
If you want to get closer, if you want to feel the vicarious thrill of what it's like to be a true criminal, read "Hitter".
"Hitter" is available at:
Amazon.com Print Edition (createspace program):
https://www.createspace.com/3864069
Amazon.com Print Edition:
http://www.amazon.com/Hitter-Daryn-R-...
Amazon.com Kindle edition:
http://www.amazon.com/Hitter-ebook/dp...
"Hitter" is the biography of a hitman. I can fancy the words up for you, but the life of a hitman covers it perfectly. Want to know how someone becomes a professional killer? Want to know what path leads you to become a hired gun? My book will show you. It's not pretty and it's not for everyone.
My book shows that the life-of-crime career starts as normally as any other. You grow up in the world, you see a few things, you learn a few things, and you meet a few people. Before you know it, it's like you've been a criminal your entire life and it all seems perfectly normal. My book only shows the path taken by one person, but that person could be any of us under the right circumstances.
"Hitter" is a work of fiction, but I call it fiction only to protect my confidential sources (and to protect myself from my sources). I have muddied the details just enough, but the story is real and true. Yes, I actually do have some friends that are professional criminals. Most of them are involved in smuggling, the moving of illegal items from place to place, but some of them provide illegal services, beating, torturing, killing, and kidnapping fall into the crime services category. I spoke to my sources at length and gathered together their life experiences to create my book. It's real.
So many crime-dramas are told from the side of the police, "Hitter" is told from the side of the criminal. You will never get closer to being inside the criminal mind than my book takes you. Criminals of a certain level don't speak freely to just anyone and I won't share the details about who I know or how I know them.
Too often, I hear laymen claiming how easy it is to live a criminal life, but that is based on pure ignorance. I am certain that most of you out there have a job. If you screw up at work, you might get fired. If you screw up at work and you are a criminal, you might get arrested, go to jail, be injured, be tortured, and/or be murdered. and, rightly or wrongly, your family could also face the same fate. It's hard for me to pretend that being beaten and murdered, or finding your family beaten and murdered, is easier than a job at the cracker factory.
Another misconception about the life of crime is the glamour. The life can bring you money, but you can't flaunt it since you cannot justify where it came from. There is very little that is glamorous about a true life of crime. You can't ever tell anyone the truth, you can't let people get close to you, you can't tell people about your background, and no one gets to meet your friends. Living a life of crime means wallowing in fear and paranoia most of the time.
"Hitter" doesn't sugarcoat the life of the criminal. You'll experience all the ups and downs, the desires and the regrets, the strains that a secret life puts on the body and mind.
The criminal life is not shiny and fancy like in the movies, it's just blood and mud. The highs can be spectacular, but the low points are shockingly low and dangerous. For some crimes, the police, and the family of the victim, will NEVER stop searching for you. Criminals never get to rest, so don't call it an easy life.
If you want to get closer, if you want to feel the vicarious thrill of what it's like to be a true criminal, read "Hitter".
"Hitter" is available at:
Amazon.com Print Edition (createspace program):
https://www.createspace.com/3864069
Amazon.com Print Edition:
http://www.amazon.com/Hitter-Daryn-R-...
Amazon.com Kindle edition:
http://www.amazon.com/Hitter-ebook/dp...
Just what we need, another blog
I am a writer and this is my blog. There are many like it, but this one is mine. Now go read and review my books and then tell everyone you know about them! If you help me strike it rich, you+1 will a
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