Embracing the routine or It's time for a change...

                So where have I been?  I’ve got to be honest I’m not sure.  My muse has been on a vacation?  But again if I’m totally honest with you dear reader…and myself for that matter…writing just hasn’t been all that important to me the past eight months or so.  It all started with a change in scenery at work and then snowballed from there.  Changes at home and a readjustment of priorities in life and suddenly writing ended up taking a back seat, as did blog maintenance.  I can’t quite pin-point when it happened or even why, it just did.  I keep asking myself if that’s a bad thing.  I’m not sure I like the answer.  They say that if you really want to write you will find a way to do it.  If that’s the case then perhaps I don’t really want to be a writer.  This seriously made me reconsider how I was spending my time.  The experts seem to agree that one needs to find what they love and do that.  In the end I believe that’s what I’ve been doing.

                I love being a Dad.  It’s really the best thing in life.  Yes, there are up’s and down’s but in the end it’s the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done.  I won’t sit here and say I’m good at it, far from it, but it fires me up.  It makes me want to get up in the morning unlike anything else in my lif 
e.  (It also makes me want to go to bed from exhaustion more than anything else in life!)  So for the past eight months I’ve balanced work and being a dad.  Writing has just seemed like a chore.  I’ve not had ideas or desire to sit down and put anything to paper (or to the screen in this case…but that just doesn’t sound as romantic).  I can almost always find something to do other than write.  Some of you had read a few chapters of my only completed manuscript and I appreciate it.  I still want to work on it and perhaps one day I will.  I’ve even tried to start a couple other projects, they’ve fizzled and failed.

                Instead I’ve embraced the cool comfort of routine.  I get up, I go to work, I come home and I enjoy my family. Some will tell you that routine is evil.  Monotony is the destroyer of creativity and perhaps that’s true after all I’ve not even been riding and you know what??  I’ve not really cared.  I like my monotony just the way it is.  I’m quite content to do the same thing every day.  Maybe it’s turning 40?  Maybe it’s the constant little aches and pains that seem to have accompanied the turning of the hour glass.  I’m not sure, don’t think I care either.  I’m happy, I’m stress free, and life’s a beach.  This is not to say I’ll never write or ride again, (I mean technically you are feasting your eye holes on this here piece of writing).  I hope my muse has not abandoned me permanently. (I know my fitness has, but that’s another blog post)  I am still exploring the world with my kids and I still occasionally come up with an interesting idea for a story, (I’ve got a great female android character with a red Mohawk just itching to be written about) so I’m sure there will still be writing.  My family is growing up very quickly and I guess in the end the choice between sitting, sequestered in my office delving into the mysteries of my own mind…shudder… or hanging with the family, I would prefer to sit in my chair and watch my children grow up or go hang out with them.   Yeah I like that idea.  I like it a lot.

                So no my gentle humans, I have not disappeared.  I’ve not dropped off the end of the earth (hmmm is that another idea for a story or what?) I’m just sitting, relaxing, and enjoying life.  The world is pretty cool and I should probably slow down and stop trying to do everything and be everywhere.  Perhaps the best thing to do is relax, slow down, and embrace it all.  It won’t work for everyone but for right now, it’s working for me and life can’t get much better.  Well maybe it could but that would require a donut shop being built in my backyard and let’s face it….that’s just not practical. 

Chapter 1 or 'Here goes nuthin!'...

    I've been working on a story off and on for the past two years.  I wrote the rough draft in thirty-one days and I've been thinking about it/editing it for the rest of that time.  The character is one I really like and has such a hold on my mind that I've found it difficult to write anything else.  Charlie wants to be written about...constantly!  I'm ok with that cuz I really like the universe he's chosen as his home.  Those who know me (and probably those who don't) will see right away where my influences come from.  I've decided to post it in celebration of 350 views of my blog in just a little over 2 months.  Thank you too one and all for visiting and supporting me.  So without further ado....off. we. go!

Chapter 1:

         
     Brimstone was a backwards planet on the wrong side of the Frontier.  It was the kind of place where a person could go to get lost, the kind of place where a person could pick up an odd job or two and not always stay on the proverbial right side of the law.  In other words it was the perfect place for me.  No one knows if the planet was actually called Brimstone or if it was the name of the dust covered city that had been applied to the whole planet a century before when the city had been settled, to be honest though there really aren’t any other cities on the planet.  Oh there are a few little towns or villages lost out in the desert wastes and high in the mountains but the names are pretty much only known to the people who live there.  It’s not a bad existence though, I suppose, if someone wants to stay out of the eye of the Confederation.  In fact its pretty much ideal for that purpose and the main reason I found myself dirt side leaning against the sun warmed hull the Black Domino, an aging sometime decrepit light freighter I liked to call home.  I watched several locals loading my cargo hold with supplies I had been hired to transport off world.  The two guys were young and threadbare, their hair plastered by sweat and dust. They’d taken on the same look as the town.  As I watched I fished a short cigar from the pocket of my brown leather duster.  I lit the cigar and turned it slowly to get it going properly.  A low roofed truck bounced its way towards us.  I inhaled slowly and let the smoke out savoring its sweetness.  The truck stopped a few yards from the loading ramp.  A short skinny man in a well tailored suit exited the truck.  The man in the suit looked so out of place standing there in the hot sun I almost laughed.  I didn’t figure he’d get the humor so I kept it to myself.  Two men followed, flanking him.  They were obviously hired guns; I could see the bulge of ones shoulder rig under the jacket of a blonde headed thug and the low quick draw rig on the right thigh of the other. 

            Laying in the shade of the ship a forty pound mound of muscle and fur let out a quiet growl. 

 “Easy Tiberius.”

 Tiberius stood and shook out his fur from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail.  He ambled over to me on four stubby legs.   He sat on his haunches next to me and let his tongue hang out of his mouth.  He was compact and all muscle.  His fur was a mixture of black, gray, white and tan.  Someone somewhere once told me the coloring was called blue merle, I’d always just gone with that.  He was fiercely loyal.  He also didn’t eat much and couldn’t talk, except for the occasional bark, growl, or whine.  In my book she made the ideal partner.  Was it my fault my closest friend and ally was a dog? 

 I pushed away from the Domino and took a step forward.  I swept my duster open and tucked it away giving me easy access to my own pistol.  They stopped a few yards away.  Silence drifted between us.  I eyed the thugs, the thugs eyed me and Mr. Suit simply watched.

            “Mr. Cole, I have a proposition for you.”

            “Do I know you?”

            “I do not know why you would.  My name is Daemon, I am an authority around these parts.”

            “Never heard of you.”

            “Nor should you have, I help run the quieter side of life here in Brimstone Mr. Cole.”

            “Nothin but the quiet life here.”

            “True, business is usually quite good.”

            I let out a puff of smoke, chewing on the end of the cigar thoughtfully.  Mr. Daemon had an air about him that made it known to those around him that he got his way.  Whether you liked it or not.  He exuded a sense of authority and power that most couldn’t ignore.  It was the kind of power one acquired through intimidation.  I wasn’t sure but I think he had been trying to intimidate me.  I smiled around the cigar and decided I wouldn’t be afraid of him today.

            “What kind of proposition?”

            Daemon nodded as if making up his mind about something, “Quite right Mr. Cole or should I call you Captain Cole.”

            I shrugged.  I didn’t much care what he called me.

            “Very well Mr. Cole.  I have someone that needs transportation off planet.”

            “I don’t transport biologicals.  Skin trade aint my gig.”

            Daemon waved a hand in the air as if shooing away a fly, “No, no Mr. Cole you miss understand me.  This is not a biological or a slave.  Those are messy ways to make a living.  My associates and I do not participate in that line of work.”

            “Good to hear.”

            I had transported and or smuggled a lot of merchandise over the years, I’d even hunted bounties a time or two but slave trading was the lowest type of slime in the universe.  About the only good thing the Confederation did was to put down slave traders, and put them down hard.

            “Actually I wish for you to transport someone off planet for their benefit.”

            “You running someone off?  A business rival?”

            “Something along those lines, yes.”

            “Who?”

            “Is that important Mr. Cole?  I’d been led to believe you would only be concerned with the price.”

            “Don’t wanna worry about getting shot in the back while I sleep.”

            Daemon smiled.  It was an odd sickly sort of smile.  I figured either description fit him quite well.

            “I assure you, your guest will not be planting a knife in your back Mr. Cole.  There will be assurances.”

            “Such as?”

            “You will have two passengers, the primary target and a ‘bodyguard’ of sorts.”

            “Still two passengers no matter what you wanna call them.”

            Daemon nodded, “I understand.  I believe the going rate for transportation is around five thousand credits a passenger.”

           While we talked my cigar had gone out.  I looked at him over the blackened tip as I took a moment to relight it.  Tiberius walked around my legs and then went back to the shade and laid down.  He kept one eye on the three men in front of me and both ears stayed up as if listening for a cue from me to attack.  There was more going on than Daemon was letting onto, that much was a given and we both knew it.  My bet was on some sort of political intrigue. 

            “Ten thousand a passenger.”

            He frowned, “That is considerably more than others here might ask for.”

            “Then go ask them,” in truth there weren’t really any others.  Two other ships occupied the landing field with me and neither of them had a ship nearly as modified as mine.

            He nodded, waited a moment and then shrugged, “Very well Mr. Cole twenty thousand it is.  Ten now and ten when you drop them off at the arranged location.”

            He flicked a hand in the direction of Blondie who in turn stalked back towards the truck.  He removed two cases.  I raised an eyebrow.

            “Hard Cred?”

            “It is so much better than dealing with electronic transfers wouldn’t you agree?”

            “Untraceable too.”

            “Very astute Captain.”

            Blondie set the case next to me, careful to stay away from Tiberius who flashed fang in the mans general direction.

            “Easy boy,” I looked at Daemon, “What’s the catch.”

            “Catch?”

           “I am not new to this my friend.”

            Daemon smiled, “Of course.  There are people here who might be a bit upset if this person disappears.  It is entirely possible they will want the person back.”

            “Why not kill them?”

            “You must think me some sort of monster, but no, that would not work.  Fear and threats are easier devices for controlling ones enemy.”

            I shook my head, “I’ll never understand planet politics.  Who’s the cargo?”

            “Who is not as important as to the where?  You will take your passengers to Moonshadow.  Once there a representative of the appropriate type will approach you for pick-up.  I will return in one hour with your passengers.”

            I nodded and he left with his goons.  Moonshadow was a few weeks out of the way but my current cargo wasn’t perishable.  It would hold.  I turned towards the locals who had by now finished loading the cargo and stood idly by trying to not look like they were watching us.  The foreman approached.

            “We’re finished Captain Cole.”

            “Everything lashed down?”

            “Of course.”

            “Good, your payment has been deposited as we agreed upon.”

            “Very good Captain.” He stood there for a moment looking at me.

            “Something on your mind Foreman?”

            “Mr. Daemon is not a good man.”

            “I gathered that.”

            “He has a reputation for violence.  Death follows him.”

            “Who’s he work for?”

            “Brimstone has many people who wish to be in charge.  There is much revenue for those who control the landing pads.  Mr. Daemon works for those who oppose the current mayor.”

            “The current mayor have any kids?”

            The Foreman though for a moment, “Yes he does, several actually.  He has two young sons with his current wife and a daughter from his first wife who nears an age where she might be able to take over his job when he retires.”

            I shook my head, “I think you’re about to have a change in bosses Foreman.”

            He sadly shook his head, “It is not uncommon, I have seen many mayors come and go.  Money is a great motivator.”

            I smiled, “Yes it is.”

           The Black Domino had not been new in more decades than I’d been alive.  In her heyday she was one of the most sought after freighters on the market.  As a result there were many still in service.  I had spent far too many creds keeping her up to date and running.  She was roughly shaped like a flattened tear drop without the smooth aerodynamic look of a tear drop.  The Domino was all angles and armor plating.  She was not aesthetically pleasing to the eye.  She looked like she wouldn’t fly.   In all she was about three hundred feet long and a hundred feet wide.  I’d done my best to make it as homey as possible but the starkness and utilitarianism was still very evident inside.  I didn’t mind and Tiberius never complained so I wasn’t too worried.  I went to the cock-pit which was on the leading edge of the ship jutting out over the loading ramp which I’d raised and sealed a few minutes earlier.  I flipped a few switches and felt her come alive with a hum that reverberated through the deck as her main drive began its warm up cycle.  The Domino had one large main drive and an FTL, faster than light, drive that allowed her to make an FTL jump.  The Domino’s strength lay in her speed and her armor.  He armor plating was some of the thickest available and I’d added defensive screens many years earlier.  I had also installed a missile tube forward and a top and bottom mounted twin bolter cannon.  She packed a punch.  By Confederation regulations she was illegal as hell but out on the Frontier there weren’t too many Confederate captains willing to trouble themselves with a small tramp-freighter and her captain, unless perhaps we were in the wrong place at the wrong time.  That happened to me more than I’d like to admit.  Besides, they were all generally on the take in whatever system they happened to be assigned to and my goods generally brought them some sort of revenue so a few guns and overly modded defensive screens were the least of their worries.

            Tiberius barked and I glanced out the canopy to see Daemons truck returning.

            “Looks like our passengers have arrived.  Behave yourself Boy.” I scratched him behind the ears and he glanced at me with what over the years I believed to be his version of a smile, complete with tongue hanging out the corner of his mouth.  I shook my head and went to meet my passengers.

            “You are leaving now?” Daemon asked when he approached me.

            “As soon as the passengers and their gear are stowed.”

            He seemed pleased, “They have little gear.”

            “Good.”

 Blondie opened the rear door on the truck.  He stood back as a tall woman dressed in a form fitting leather outfit followed.  I could see every curve she had.  She stood just a few inches shorter than I.  She wore knee high boots that bristled with buckles and looked to be designed purely for combat.  She wore a sleeveless black leather duster over the form fitting leather armor.  The shoulders were covered with armor plating. She wore two pistols, one on each thigh butt forward, one had a black grip, the other red, and it matched her hair.  I thought I saw another pistol in a shoulder rig.  I’d bet my cargo she had more hidden away.  We eyed each other.  Her face was narrow with high cheek bones, blue eyes narrow and almost almond shaped.  Her skin was as white as I’d ever seen and set off starkly by the black leather and her red hair.  That red hair was straight and pulled back tightly against her scalp.  It was tied into a high pony tail that fell down to the middle of her back.  She did not return my smile. 

            “Her name is Sonja Bloodstone.”

            I nodded, “Who does she work for?”

            Daemon smiled the first genuine smile I’d seen on him, “I don’t think she ever works for anyone except for herself.”

            Sonja scanned the landing pad, eyed Blondie and then let her gaze fall on me again.

            “Will that pile of bolts make lift-off?”

            “No need to be insulting Ma’am.”

            “You out did yourself this time Jonah.”

            I saw a flicker of anger flash across Jonah Daemon’s face.  I just managed to keep a smile from creeping onto mine.

            Seemingly satisfied and with a scowl etched onto her features, Sonja turned back to the door and grabbed hold of someone and half dragged, half helped them out of the vehicle.  Her companion was nothing more than a child really.  I guessed she was no older than twelve, maybe fourteen and she looked scared.  She wore tight fitting low ride brown pants and a flimsy white cotton top.  She was at that odd in-between stage where she was more child than woman but maturity was beginning to turn on her.  Her blonde hair was hanging loose and while she tried to look strong and arrogant, her eyes betrayed the fear she was feeling.

            Daemon nodded at Sonja who only barely acknowledged him, she turned to me, “Ready to leave?”

            “Whenever you are Red.”

            “Good.”

            Sonja took the bags Blondie handed her and glared at the child who moved towards the Domino on wooden legs as if silently willing the girl to move faster.

            I turned towards Daemon, “Who’s the child?”

            “You may call her Faith.  You do not need to know more.”

            “Of course.”

            I left him standing there and followed Sonja into the Domino. 

            I sealed up the Domino and made my way to the cock-pit.  Tiberius watched Sonja and Faith as they stowed their gear in the cabins along the port side of the ship.  I ignored them and felt Sonja stare daggers in my back.  I sat in the pilot’s seat, the main drive had completed its warm-up cycle and flashing a ready status.  I brought her on-line.  I felt a presence behind me.  My skin prickled, I did not like having this heavily armed she-devil standing behind me.

 “Take a seat if you’d like.”

 Sonja sat in the seat behind me and to my right, Faith sat in the chair directly behind me.  Tiberius lay down on the deck between them.  I activated the maneuvering thrusters and lifted the Black Domino off her landing skids.  I applied forward thrust and moved slowly over the heads of Blondie and Daemon.

 "They staying to see us off?”

 “Probably making sure we really leave.” Sonja replied.

 I laughed.

I gained altitude slowly shooting over a small mountain range.  I applied more power to the main drive and clawed up the gravity well.  A few moments of the ship straining and then I felt the Domino shudder slightly as we entered the gravity free realm of open space.  I went to three quarter power on the drive and shot towards the edges of the sector.

 The computer beeped at me.

 “Ah hell!”

 “What is it?”

 “Ship approaching, Scimitar class.  Friends of yours?”

 “Possibly, will this bucket get us past them?”

            “They’re still in orbit around Brimstone but they just scanned us with active scanners.”

            “Any pursuit?”

            I checked even as I began entering the coordinates for an FTL jump.  My hands danced over the control console and occasionally I’d reach behind me to flick a switch on the ceiling.  I noticed Faith sitting there quietly a small shiver of fear running over her diminutive frame.

            “Yep.” I pushed the drive to full power, “They’re on an intercept course.”

            “Can you get us out?”

            “Let’s hope so.”

            An FTL jump required us to get up to speed on the main drive, once optimal speed was achieved you cut in the FTL drive.  Most freighters made about one point past the speed of light, a military cruiser might do two points.  The problem with those speeds is that tracking another ship was impossible.  Modern scanners were designed to work at normal drive speeds but once in FTL things moved to quick for any scans to give you anything adequate.  Speed combined with a build up of energy around the hull made scans impossible and it actually took thirty seconds or so for scans to clear once you completed a drop-jump.

            The Scimitar was doing its best to cut the angle for a quick intercept before I made the jump but looking at the tactical display I was pretty sure we’d miss an actual engagement by about thirty seconds.  They’d try to tag us with a tractor beam but we’d just be clear.  One minute dragged into ninety seconds, tension hung in the cock-pit.

            A red light on the console in front of me flashed green and I let a small smile settle on my features.  We’d be free.  The Scimitar was close and I could make out more details on her hull.  I read her name on the side of the hull, the Vengeance. The com channel beeped at me.  It was the Scimitars captain telling us to heave to.  I ignored him.

            “You’re cutting it pretty close.”

            “We’re fine.”

            “I don’t like close.”

            I nodded, reached towards a lever on the console and yanked it back.  Scans went off line, energy coils loaded up in the drives, power transfer coils came to life and the FTL drive kicked on-line.  A second later the pin-points of light that were distant and not so distant stars in space stretched, streaked and then we were encompassed in what looked to be a tunnel of cloud like ice. 

            “Any chance of them following?” Sonja asked.

            “How hot is your ward?”

            There was no answer as Sonja got up and escorted Faith from the cock-pit.

            I settled back in the pilots chair and scratched Tiberius’ head when he put it in my lap.  He panted happily and looked at me with his dark eyes.

            “Something feels wrong about this one boy.”

            Tiberius licked my hand barked once and trotted back into the ship, presumably to watch over our passengers.  I couldn’t help but think that was a pretty good idea.

Where the sidewalk ends...

              She steps into the sunlight, a bath of yellow light engulfing her with warmth and comfort.  Grace holds the door open a moment, a tiny bell shaking out a steady rhythm next to her.  The sidewalk in front of her is worn but clean.  Without knowing why Grace turns to her right and takes a step, then two, her Sunday shoes clicking quietly on cement.  She feels good; better than she’s felt in ages.  A bag bounces against her leg as she walks, she glances down at it.  Yellowed with age and scuffed she doesn’t recognize it or know why she has it.  She stops a moment, looks down again and sees hands that can’t belong to her, can they?  Slender and long but withered with age they are the hands of her mother.  Her gaze looks past the hands that aren’t her hands and sees many little trinkets in the bag. 

                Were these toys of her youth?  She remembers playing with them, her brothers stealing them and then her finding them under the tree in the front yard later in the afternoon.   Grace smiles at the memory of days gone by.  Of course she still has them.  Why wouldn’t she?  She continues her walk.  To her left an old street, a few pieces of trash littered here and there.  A car parallel parked, old and brown, so much like her father’s first car.  She wants to stop, are the seats as worn as she remembers, but something calls her forward.  The street isn’t very crowded.  She finds this odd, isn’t it Saturday?  Shouldn’t it be bustling?  A few people pass her.  One nearly runs into her.  Faces in the crowd, half remembered from places she can’t recall.

                To her right, old store fronts giant glass store fronts dominating.  She smiles and wanders towards them.  Her steps come a little faster now.  She looks at the store front of one, inside the small suite she sees a mother and several children playing.  A girl, in her teens, stands watching the children and mother.  She glances up and Grace meets her eyes, a smile wide on the young woman’s face.  The girl’s eyes give support, a reassurance everything will be alright.  The boys, twins, with light hair, tumble and giggle with each other.  Grace smiles, warmth and comfort calls her but a nagging desire to see more pulls her forward.  Another store front greets Grace, a family at dinner.   The father older, mother serving dinner out of a bowl, eager children waiting and babbling.  Grace wants to stay and watch, the man, grinning, is so familiar to her.  She wants to call out, to have them see her.  She reaches towards them, opens her mouth to speak and finds her voice mute.  She keeps walking instead, the pull even greater to reach where the sidewalk ends.

 Ends? 

As she continues her walk she sees a yellow car, engine idling deeply, sleek and swift looking, a woman in uniform smiling and waving.  At her?  Maybe?  The girl looks familiar, older than Grace remembers somehow.  Grace struggles to place the woman but waves back.  She keeps walking.  A last window pane on her right but a crack in the cement catches a heel.  Grace trips and pitches forward.  Her left hand reaching out, skinning her palm, pain shoots through it.  She holds desperately to the bag but it tears and the contents spew onto the concrete.  She looks up once quickly and sees a Christmas vignette framed in the window of another store front, frozen in time, a rock fireplace, a tree, and children babbling, grinning, and giggling around a stack of brightly wrapped presents.  They remind her of people she should know but can’t recall.  So many children watched by adults who all look up at her and smile almost sadly at her.  They are all there, but who are they?  She smiles at the joy she sees.  She can almost remember…what?

                A pain interrupts her viewing.  She looks down and sees a scrapped knee.  The sound of that little hanging bell comes back to her now.  She tries to look behind her, has some one left the store?  Why can she hear the bell?  A shadow falls over her.  The ringing bell slows.  She looks up and sees him and smiles with relief.  It’s been so long and she’s been so lonely.  Their eyes meet, an odd ballcap perched with bill up, showing off his forehead.  She laughs.  He smiles and her heart flutters.  The ringing bell slows even more.  He reaches a hand down to help her to her feet.

                “Hello Grace,” he says, his voice rich.

                “I missed you,” she replies.

                “I’ve missed you too but we have to go now.”

                Something tells her she doesn’t want to but he’s there and she’s missed him.  “I know.”

                She stands, the world swoons a moment but he’s there like she always imagined him to be and he helps her forward.  They walk towards where the sidewalk ends.  They approach the end and slow their walk.  She looks at him, he smiles down at her.  The bell slows, stops and then rings one final long ring.  Grace’s vision blurs, he hugs her.

                “Ready?”

                Yes.  Very ready.  The bell silences, the world swims and all that’s left is he and her, now and forever.

Goals, goals...the magical fruit....

                Goals, we all have them.  These little gems are the alleged back bone of a successful life.  We build our futures one goal at a time.  Is your goal to big?  No problem we can just break them up into smaller more time sensitive ones.  We even spend agonizing hours thinking about them while hunched around the almighty Facebook (or Twitter…or both for all of us truly addicted simpletons) typing our little selves into a corner with our new year’s resolutions.  There is even a tiny sub-genre of book authors who devote oodles of time to helping you, yes you, come up with these little ditties.  Each year we declare our intention to achieve and each year we fail at a few of them.  We are the masters of aggressive mediocrity by hitting a .300 average when it comes to meeting our goals.  One has to wonder, do they really matter?

                 Despite what it sounds like I’m not really bashing on them because they do actually work.  I just question whether they are the Holy Grail we’d like them to be.  I wanted to ride 1500 miles last year and I declared this to everyone who mattered.  My sister-in-law challenged me and together we set out to hit our goal and we did.  (She kicked my butt by hitting 2011 miles while I topped out at 1800.)  When I hit the fifteen hundred mile mark I did it on a ride that destroyed my bike.  (I mean this literally).  The bike was so tweaked there was no riding it ever again. Topping that off was the fact that it was a ride that I didn’t even finish.  Yet, I’d hit the magic 1500.  I should’ve been happy, elated even.  I should’ve danced a jig and thrown my arms up to the heavens.  I didn’t.  Only a few knew I’d done it and even fewer cared.   I wasn’t stronger or faster and I certainly hadn’t morphed into Lance 2.0.

What did I expect to happen exactly?

I’m not really sure to be honest.  Do we ride all year, strive to get out and hit the pavement as often as possible (with the rubber side down of course) and rack up the miles no matter what?  To what end?  To see the numbers pile up on an excel spread sheet?  (It is pretty cool though)   Some people focus on a race or a series of races.  Do they magically change with success or is it simply enough for them to ‘Do It’?  I wish I knew because as I stare at the pile of pages in front of me and realize that the goal to finish a manuscript of novel length is gone like a great puff of smoke I’m sort of left with the eternal question, ‘What now?’  Certainly it’s not going to get published simply because I wrote it.  (I’ve got a pretty big ego but it’s not that inflated)  Sure it’s an achievement not everyone can claim and yes I agree it is a start.  Many people say they’re going to write a novel and never even get this far.  But now what?  Editing?  (I’ve already started) A new goal maybe?   

Or perhaps it is the journey that is the important factor.  It’s not the goal as so many self-help Yoda’s would like us to think it is.  It’s not the perfect body at the end of six weeks or after a week of the latest vegetable cleanse.  Maybe it’s the journey that gets us to the goal that is important.  The goal isn’t the life changing moment but the journey that gets us to it.  Was it the 1500 mile mark or the many rides it took to get there, good and bad, that were important?  Not too many parents look at their kids and think ‘Just wait till they get to eighteen and then we’re done.’  (Although I’m sure when I was sixteen that thought floated around the evening dinner conversation on more than one occasion) For me it’s the journey to eighteen for my kids.  The years, month and days that it takes to get to eighteen is the important part.  This is even more important when like me you have an unconventional schedule where I’m little more than a part-time Dad for much of the time.

 
As I begin working on writing as something a little more than a hobby, goals will be made almost by default.   I will probably even strive to hit my riding/writing goals this year. I’ll get the ‘Project that can’t be named’ edited and maybe even a second draft completed.  I think though that I, along with many others, have to stop putting so much stock into our goals.  They are important to have but they are not the greener grass on the other side of the fence.   We don’t magically change simply because we attain them.  We need to remember to focus on the journey that gets us to a completed goal.  Goals are important for sure but we need to keep our selves focused on what they really mean.  The goal should not be the end all and be all of our existence so that when we attain it we end up with a letdown and then the dreaded stagnation because the heavens didn’t open up and the angels remained mute.   As with all things goals and our striving to attain them must be tempered with moderation.  Don’t give up though it’s not all bad.  Continuing the earlier baseball metaphor, we need to keep stepping up to the plate, keep swinging that bat for better or for worse because once every now and again we’ll smack a deep fly ball that just squeaks over the center field wall, just don’t forget to enjoy the sound of the crowd going nuts and the feel of the bases under your cleat.  The home run will just get added to the stat line but the experience is the thing that we’ll take with us when we can’t play anymore.

Passion

              One of the excuses I used to not write for a long time was that I had no passion in my life.  I spent a lot of time writing some pretty intense stuff that will never see the time of day.  These things were written during some pretty intense moments in my adult life.  It was like the anger, angst, and glee were all mixing to open a door to pure story.  The rainbow bridge of creativity was being opened to me through this intoxicating emotional brew.  I could sit down and the gates would open and out vomited this intense story line involving emotionally charged characters and a world that was as personal as it was cookie cutter of the movies out at the time.  It was amazing.  It was scary.  That character and the supporting cast hung around me for a long time but would only really interact with me when there was some emotional catalyst.  This led me to believe that the only way to write was by having these intense moments in life.  

                As with most people the drama of my life has mellowed as I’ve gotten older and helped to bring three beautiful children into this world.  The hunger to push myself over and over again so as to achieve the unachievable simply seemed to seep right out of me.  The birth of my twins was the first nail in muse’s coffin.  That black, moldy wooden final resting place of all my little imaginary worlds sat next to me and hummed a soft dirge at me while I toiled away at one in the morning feeding my little five pound babies nearly eleven years ago.  I tried to write but just couldn’t muster up the strength or the emotional angst to put ‘good’ words to paper (or in this case the screen).  My recommitment to my marriage and the birth of our third child really finished that coffin off and I found myself eagerly throwing dirt over it in an attempt to bury my creative side for good.  After all I wasn’t going to be able to become an author because I didn’t have the time, the energy, and the angst.  Everything was good in life and good stories only come out of the bad and the dark.

                I don’t think I got the lid quite nailed down tight enough because my muse still calls to me.  In those quiet moments it still strokes my arm and reminds me that it’s waiting to be let out.  After watching a good movie, or reading a good book my muse screams at me to be released and more often than not I do.  I’ll sit down and try to talk to it.  We write together and the ideas come out broken, hobbled, and formulaic.  I’ll sigh and remind him that now’s not the time.  He’ll skulk off into the corner and finally climb back into the coffin with an evil laugh and a reminder to me that it’ll be different next time.  It rarely is.

Still….it’s there, right in the back of my mind.  This thing I’ve left undone.  The stories, plots, and characters I’ve dreamed up speak to me in that quiet moment between being awake and being asleep.  Maybe it’s time to push past the beginnings I’ve created and settle into the middle.  Let the stories breathe.  Silence my inner critic so the muse can take full reign for a few hours each day.  This seems like more and more of a good idea the more times I give in. 

So over the years I’ve gone on to study the art and craft of writing through numerous books published by authors and companies that are devoted to it.  Most of those books sit and stare at me even as I write this.  I’ve learned a thing or two.  I created a few characters that have really resonated with me and one day while I was writing I found out that I was doing it without the angst and anger that I thought I needed to fuel a good tall tale.  It wasn’t that I was lacking passion because I felt passion but it was different.  I was feeling passion for the story I was working on, for the main character and the world around him.  It was amazing and believe it or not the ‘project that will not be named’ was born.  It had taken me nearly six years and too many attempts to count to get there but it worked.  Maybe it had just been a six year long writer’s block, more than likely it was the evil idea thwarting Inner Critic, whatever it was I learned that the kids had not sucked my muse from me with each time they cried.  I am happy and content with life and my family.  I’m writing and it’s been fun.  I’d like to say it the stuff is good but it probably isn’t.  I’ve learned, though, that a first draft isn’t supposed to be good.  It’s being written not for others but for me.  It has the potential to be good but not yet.  More re-writes and edits will be needed before we get to Good but at least now I know I can do it and I don’t need to be the Haunted Writer with Demons to do it. 

...Beginnings...

              The beginning is an interesting idea.  In life we experience all kind of beginnings from the start of a new TV show to the start of new relationships and beyond.  These beginnings can be momentous occasions (think weddings or births) or more often they simple occur, we acknowledge them and then move on.  In today’s fast food society our beginnings are even more glossed over so that we can get on with things.  Beginnings are not always good….think the first season of Star Trek: The Next Generation or if you’re really honest with yourself Star Wars Episode IV (the scene between Leia and Solo after they escape the Death Star is nothing short of horrible.).  Beginnings are even worse when you try to force them (think Star Wars Episode I or the first Hulk movie). 

                So, ‘why are you writing this’, you ask?  Well I’ll tell you why.

                I’ve started writing so many times in my life that I’ve begun to just think each attempt will lead to the dead end it usually does.  I feel this so deeply that this last time I almost didn’t even bother to start.  In the past I’ve had entire rooms dedicate to my love of all things creative and still I haven’t really ever finished anything.  This time around I had to really examine what it was that I was doing.  Why have I started and stopped so often?  Why this sense of need when it comes to writing?  This all made me think of beginnings.  I’m a professional Beginner!!

                My beginning in the ‘world’ of writing came so long ago I can hardly remember it.  Through the foggy shrouds of my mind I can see myself imagining my room as the Millennium Falcon and I, some distant relative of Han Solo (usually Flynn Solo in my homage to Tron and Star Wars in one great sweep of the imaginary arm) would be out running the galaxy like some sort of ultra-cool Freighter Jock.  My desk the command console, my bed the engine compartment I was always climbing in and fixing (it’s a wonder I didn’t become a mechanic with all of the ‘fixing’ I did on that ship)

                I was nine at the time or thereabouts.

                Then I got older and it wasn’t so cool to actually be jumping off my bed and running through the house fighting Darth Vader or Cylons at every turn (I was an equal opportunity bad guy kicker…if it was a bad guy and it was in a comic book or cool movie I would fight it).  Even though it was no longer cool and I couldn’t talk to a girl about it without her looking at me like I had mutant zit on my forehead, the stories and the ideas and the desire never left me.  I had all of these ideas and characters in my head and slowly they evolved into semi-original characters and they talked to me and I’d stay up late into the night ‘developing’.  I still needed that outlet, writing was to a certain point, me ‘self-medicating’.  So at some point in middle school I started to try and write in order to get the stories out of my head.  Those were REALLY bad.

                Fast forward to my junior year in high school (or maybe it was my senior year...they all run together now-a-days) and my English class with Mr. Jones (I’m pretty sure that was his name but don’t quote me on that.) and his journal project he made us do.  He gave us topics but he also gave us some ‘just write’ options too.  Most of the time I totally ignored the writing prompts and spent most of the year writing about Flynn or some crew I made up for some starship in the Star Trek universe (yep I ‘was’ a nerd/geek to the core.) To his credit he never commented and let me write.  I remember more than a few classes that I just wrote for the entire hour and didn’t hear a single thing he said in class.  I think this was the ‘beginning’ for me.  I wish I had had the drive and tenacity to follow my heart then but alas drive and tenacity are two traits that cannot be applied to me….ever!

                So here I am age 39 and still just beginning.  I’ve started and stopped so often I probably need a refill on brake fluid.  I’m much better at stopping than going.  It’s much easier to stop when the going gets tough or the requirements of the pursuit of a goal are just too hard.   The ideas are still there...All.  The.  Time. And sometimes they don’t leave me alone.  I’m hoping I might be able to overcome it on this fiftieth or so go around. 

                In 2009 I got close.  I finished a project.  We’ll call it Project X-1.  Its 198 pages and a completed story from beginning to end, there’s even a middle.  I got the inspiration to write a complete story from reading the book ‘No Plot? No Problem!’ by Chris Baty.  Mr. Baty founded the National Novel Writing Month thingy.  This little gem of an idea has thousands of authors setting aside November each year to write a 50,000 word novel.  I read the book in June and spent most of July doing just that.  I finished the story and promptly ran out of ideas.  I let the manuscript languish in obscurity on two laptops and several memory sticks.  We moved, I lost my ‘office’ and hardly wrote anything for two and half years.  I had a few ideas; I tried to put them down on computer and failed.  Let’s just say I have A LOT of one and two page story starts on my laptops and iPad. 

                Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about things that are lost to me.  I wanted to be an Architect and that’s pretty much a lost dream.  I’m too old to be a firefighter or a cop or heck even a soldier.  (not that I wanted to be any of those but the idea that I’m too old to do them made my heart sad)  So a few weeks ago I realized I needed to put together a small office.  A place of refuge I could ‘work’ in, I’m really not wanting the idea that I could be an author to be one of those ‘I wish I did that’ moments.  I don’t even need to be a successful author, I’d just like to put out a novel, have a few people buy it and maybe even one of them say ‘That wasn’t bad.’ (I embrace the idea of Aggressive Mediocrity) I cobbled some things together and viola I have myself an office….and you know what I’m writing again….and the stuff isn’t bad.  It’s not great by any stretch of the imagination but its making me happy and content with the effort.  I printed out Project X-1 and had it spiral bound at Staples with the idea of beginning to try and edit it.  I’ve even been slightly sorta successful at doing that. 

                And that is how the idea of Beginnings came to mind.  I think it’s time to move past the beginning and get firmly entrenched in the middle.  Let myself write the tidal wave of the middle for a while because you know what……..the ending is coming on way more quickly than I’d like it to.