It's all about control

It's time to get control

Control. It's all about who has it and who doesn't that determines which path the story takes. And maybe that's a lure to writing. Gaining control through written words can take hold early.

Letters and journals allow us to say the things that we can't (or won't) say out loud, for fear of what the consequences might be. Sharing thoughts on paper is easier than owning them in real life. Sometimes it lets us move on, other times, not so much. In high school and college, I often turned to writing to get the clutter out of my head (ok, not all that different from now.) Feelings of fear, insecurity, self-worth, frustration, or love spill over the pages, like blood through an open cut. Eventually the bleeding stops. Then the healing begins.

But you're an adult now, so you're supposed to suck it up and deal with it, or fix it, take control. That makes for great stories, where art imitates life. Better yet, it allows you create your own Hollywood ending. That's fine, unless you're trying to teach a lesson.

Writers Read

I finally got around to picking up Zenna Henderson's The Anything Box. It wasn't an easy book to find many years ago. I think it's even more difficult now.

I dove into a story titled, Turn the Page, which takes a life imitating art approach. If giving a brief overview here keeps you from reading it, then that's on you because it's pure magic and you're missing out. The story is about a teacher and the special connection she makes with her students through fairy tales. The students feel what it's like to live the lives of the characters in the stories. Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood, Chicken Little, and the children live as those characters, feeling delight, sorrow, joy, pain, fear, all of the emotions experienced in the stories. The children are to learn how it feels to be them, the hunter and the hunted, the have and have-nots, but to ultimately, turn the page, where everyone lives happily ever after. (Spoiler alert, there is no happy ending.) Like any magical story there is an eerie quality, a caveat emptor of buying in too deeply to one character's plight and forgetting to live happily ever after. (I lost some of you back there didn't I? Again, not Merriam-webster, look it up kids) You've seen them in real life too. The evil stepsisters (male and female, vanity plays no favorites), the wolf, the chicken littles of the world who always think the sky is falling. Some of her students let the stories take control of them as just one character, and they live as the hunter or the hunted, or whatever character took hold of them, into their adult lives. It really is a delightfully wonderful, creepy and sad story.

Who is in control?

Control is essential in murder mysteries, it's all about someone with the desire to take it back, or at least they've been controlled long enough. I have always wanted to write one of those, but I think I'd feel bad about killing someone.

Jimmy was fortunate. he got to live to see another day. He had control until shortly after the second drink. (If you're unclear on who Jimmy is, then you're late again. What is wrong with you, anyway? Go for a "warm up," and come back when you're ready, ok?)

Jimmy had given up control, but he didn't realize it until the mysterious leather jacket took over. Only, I liked Jimmy, and I really didn't want to see him eat gravel and bleed all over the place, so I had Mike take control and give at least a portion back to him. Jimmy wasn't a bad guy and he was clearly over matched. Leather Jacket wasn't a bad guy either, just a little overprotective of his little sister (oh, sorry, I didn't get to that part. That'll teach you to make judgements before you get the whole story.) But he did have other issues, obviously fashion was one of them.


Ultimately, the writer is in control. Dangling carrots, enticing readers, teasing them with suggestion and innuendo, then pulling out the rug from under them. And what reader doesn't like to be mislead, teased, at least a little. It makes life interesting. (Never tease an editor though. They don't like it. And now I'm just taunting mine, so I'd better move on.)

Anyway, time to exhibit some self-control and keep this short tonight. When I started this post I was really going in a different direction, but I got side-tracked and then completely derailed.

It's not uncommon to lose control, when you're the Incomplete Writer.

Time for a little warm up

Let's loosen up

If you were to go out for a jog, you'd stretch right? At least a little. Nothing worse than getting halfway down the block and having to limp home 'cause you pulled a hammy, especially when the last thing your wife said (well, yelled really) as you went out the door was, "Try not to hurt yourself." Plus you'll look like a dork as you take the walk of shame (I'm using it in my own way) wearing those neoprene leg sleeves because you wanted to look cool and not be touring around the neighborhood in ugly sweatpants. Although, let's face it they're pretty much like fancy legwarmers (what is this the '80s - Flashdance reference) and only slightly less embarrassing because pretty much everybody is wearing them. Only they don't look good right now because you barely got started and your Fitbit is laughing at you as it tics off 2 calories between the time you pulled up lame and eventually made it back to your front step, so that was a useless effort. But you get the point, right?

Any professional that relies on their voice, actors, singers, broadcasters, they go through vocal exercises so their pronunciation, annunciation and projection are as strong as it can be to communicate effectively. So why not a writer? Why not, indeed.

One of my favorite TV shows is Castle. I love murder mysteries and detective shows, besides, he's a writer so it has me hooked on several different levels. The great thing is how as the pieces of the story develop, he's always looking for an angle, telling the story dramatically, as if he were writing it himself. Relax people, I know he's not real, but it's not like we don't all have at least one person around us that turns everything into drama. This time it's fun. And you're in control. So, did you write a little bit yourself? Paint the scene in the parking lot? How'd that work out? Did you remember to stretch first? Probably not. Hope you didn't hurt yourself.

Anyway, here's what I came up with...(other than another unnecessary one sentence paragraph, which also ended in a preposition.)

Irish Proverbs

I didn't feel like going straight home that night after work. Business had been bad enough already this year with all of my accounts looking for better ways to control their expenses which ultimately led them to bringing less work my way. It wasn't a total surprise when I lost one of my biggest clients before lunch. Rumor had it I was going to lose at least one more by the end of the week. They'd be back, once they figured out the cut rate marketing "guru" they were going with would cost them more money in the end. However long that would take.  But knowing I was right didn't make me feel any better.

I called Mike when I left work and told him to meet me at that bar down the street. Some Irish pub named Murphy's or McGinty's or something like that. I didn't have a regular bar since I'm not much of a drinker, but the atmosphere and the people were nice on the few occasions I had visited. Plus Mike already offered to give me a lift home, if I needed it.

It was about 5:45 when I got to the watering hole and took to a stool along the middle of the bar. Things got fuzzy quickly after that.

All I remember is I was noticing this quote on the wall above the bar. Some stencil that read something like, "First the man takes a drink. Then the drink takes a drink. Then the drink takes the man." So, one minute I'm pondering the words on the wall, next thing I know I'm following some leather jacket with slicked back hair out some side door.

Let's face it, anything could have happened to me that night. I'm kind of a talker and when I get rolling it's like jumping in front of a freight train. I can also be a little sarcastic at times. Best I can figure, I was talking to myself, out loud, maybe a little too loud, when leather jacket jumped in with a quip. Whatever my response was must have been funny because I heard a little chuckling around me. But it must have been a little on the rude side too, because the chuckles came to an abrupt halt when leather jacket got red in the face and invited me to continue the conversation outside.

And we were off. Him toward the door and me right behind. Now I started right behind him but he must have been pretty excited because he got the the door about six strides ahead of me. By the time I reach the threshold I have a veritable conga line behind me because I guess they want to get a ring side seat for the event about to take place.

Now I'm not sure how long it had been since I had arrived this evening. But it was dark as I was stepping out into the parking lot. It was a little chilly, the kind of fall night where it's cold enough to make it a little painful to breathe as the crisp air enters your lungs. You feel the dampness fall on your skin and almost seep through into your bloodstream. There were yellow lights stuck along the brick facade of the bar and the adjacent building across the gravel expanse in between. I was sure they had been white once, but turned over time, so as to only provide a semblance of incandescent safety.

My counterpart stood in this crude space under the one street light which flickered dis-concertedly above him. He was about a couple of inches taller than me, maybe 5'10", but I hadn't really sized him up at the bar and didn't get to measure him as he went through the doorway. I didn't want to fight. I didn't know how I came to be here. I was living in a bad movie, part flashback and part b-flick reality.

I remember drinking at the bar. Well, I sort of remember three of them, no four. I walked to the bathroom at least once. There was another stencil in that hallway that read, "Everyone is wise until he speaks." I liked that one, only I wasn't thinking of myself at the time. How ironic.

Leather jacket had lit a cigarette as these moments were running through my mind in the minutes between when I had thoughtlessly accepted his challenge and now. The conga line had dispersed outside to find their vantage point for the show. Yet it was silent. I could hear the paper burning less than 30 feet away as the tip glowed orange then faded as he took a slow drag. Maybe he didn't want to fight either. Or maybe he was calming down so he wouldn't kill me.

When I came back from the bathroom I spoke briefly with a woman who had taken up on stool next to where I had been sitting. She had long brown hair that cascaded over her shoulders and the prettiest green eyes that I had ever seen. Think, I told myself. What did I say? My mind was blank. I know it couldn't have been long because the leather jacket appeared some time after that. And then...hey, where the hell is Mike?

I quickly surveyed the gravel patch for signs of his vehicle. To no avail, something must have come up. He would certainly have been here by now. As my eyes came back around toward leather jacket, he took off his signature coat...oh my God, his arms are huge. I am going to die.

He tossed the garment across the hood of what I could only guess was his black 1968 Camaro. It truly was a beautiful car and I would have appreciated it more if I hadn't felt it was one of the last things I would gaze upon on this Earth.

I heard a click behind me. Oh great. camera phones are coming out now. "Switch to video, idiot," I thought to myself. "Don't want to miss a second of this."

My face was flush and my heart was racing, but that could have been enhanced by the social lubricants that put me here in the first place. My stomach wasn't doing well either. The hamster had clearly fallen off the wheel but it felt like he was still kicking and the wheel was still spinning and I didn't know what direction everything was moving inside there but I was hoping it wasn't up.

My eyes got wide as he looked at me and said, "You picked the wrong day to...something something something," I might have to blacked out a bit, I'm not sure. There was a collective gasp behind me as I rocked a little forward, left foot slightly in front of the right. I was just teetering really.

In the moment before he came at me, I thought of one more phrase I had seen that night. "The future is not set, there is no fate but what we make for ourselves." Great. Maybe I could have found a way out of this if I could have remembered something, anything...but no. Instead I'm haunted by Irish proverbs.

He began toward me with those long strides and those enormous arms and my right shoulder hit the gravel as Mike came in and tackled me from the left. Leather jacket stopped short, stunned at what was happening, not sure what to make of it. But his confusion was short-lived as a patrol car pulled up on the street in front of the lot.

The crowd casually began to scatter, once again back to minding their own business. Leather jacket disappeared mysteriously and Mike picked me up off the ground and started dusting me off.

"What the crap, Jimmy," he said.
"Hey, Mike. You're late," was all I could think to say.
"I came to take you home. It's past time I think."
"But I was going to buy you a drink," as I tried to direct Mike back toward the bar.
"You've had enough for the both of us I think," he replied as he turned me back around and we made our way to his car.

It ain't over until, well, now

I missed my deadline because it's 5:30 and I probably won't get to proofread this as much as I should, but this was just an exercise. I satisfied my end of the bargain with the description of a parking lot. It's not as clear as the picture I had in my head, but it'll do for now. That's what rewrites and editors are for. Besides, I may never use this description again in anything I ever write. It certainly wasn't perfect.

I mean, what happened to Mike? Why was he so late? Who was the woman? What did Jimmy say that started this whole mess? I just didn't have enough time to explain it all.

What do you expect, from an Incomplete Writer?

Come one, come all

And then there were two

I have alluded that there are many incomplete writers out there. Some are a larger work in progress than others. Their experience is limited, either by age or opportunity, but they are developing at their own pace, in their own way.

In some cases, that experience is structured. It could be an assignment for school or work, with varying degrees of flexibility. Maybe they're selecting their own topic, or it's assigned, but any way you slice it, the writer is going to find an angle and make their point.

So, my daughter had this writing assignment for her 11th grade AP English class. She selected one of 5 quotes and had to write a response. Interestingly enough, it's about writing. I wasn't really in the write mode here today anyway, so I figured I'd go with a guest entry (with her approval.) Reformatted to fit on my screen of course.

Submitted for your perusal

Nathaniel Hawthorne, critically acclaimed novelist and now household name, once said “Easy reading is damn hard writing.” After three months of research, all-nighters, and lots of questions I have come to the understanding that he was right all along. The job of a writer is much harder on the inside than it appears to be on the outside to the average reader. The author is put under a lot of pressure to keep their reader interested and involved in their story. While this may seem like a lot of hard work you must remember, diamonds are created under pressure.

A writer has many hard jobs. Writing will never be just sitting down and writing. There are many steps to follow before a piece is completed and written well. A true writer will acknowledge the existence of these steps. In “On Writing Well” Will Zinsser writes, “Good writing has an aliveness that keeps the reader reading from one paragraph to the next…” (Page 5, Paragraph 4). The art of good writing is a hard one to teach but it can surely be learned and absorbed. First although, we must ask ourselves as writers…what is it I’m trying to say here?

In order to keep a reader interested, we must write about something which interests us. It is this which can sometimes limit us, but a good writer can and will find a way around it. Several challenges will come to face a writer. They must be able to navigate through these obstacles in order to write well. The key to writing a good, interesting piece is to live and learn. Our good friend, William Zinsser, writes “Living is the trick…Learning is the tonic.” To knock down these walls we must open ourselves up as writers, sometimes feel free to write about something you’re not necessarily familiar with yet. The key word in that sentence being “yet” because after all, “Learning is the tonic.” Let yourself learn, learning will help reduce your fear of losing the reader to your word and broaden your horizons. In the end, there will be nothing you won’t be able to write about. This although won’t make the process any easier if this is what you were thinking!

In order to write well, a smart writer needs a plan. There is a method to every genre of writing whether it be Fiction or Nonfiction but, it all begins with a plan. The author’s plan is to write for themselves while making it a simply mesmerizing tale for readers. The author must always follow the path of the story they’re telling. In order to make it easier to read for their readers, authors must avoid problems such as clutter and incorrect grammar as well. Throughout the process of planning, writing, and rewriting the author is constantly fighting a war with themselves to prevent the words from taking hold. Through it all, a smart and professional writer can pull a work of art out of thin air.

In conclusion, easy reading is truly hard writing. A lot of hard work and effort goes into making a piece of literature easy to understand and interesting enough for you to pick back up again. Writing well is a hard process but if you are gifted with the talent of writing, take it from William Zinsser and “take your talent as far as you can and guard it with your life.” In the end, you’ll create something truly magical with such a talent and one day all the pressure will have been worth it. Soon you’ll discover that maybe it was you who was the diamond all along and a diamond can’t be broken.

Diamonds are forever

I love the comparison she draws between the creation of good writing and diamonds. Hopefully I can carve out a few gems along my journey. She also admits to her her all-nighters, which I have referenced previously, so now you know I'm not crazy (at least not about that.) I might get crazy later. I don't feel like I have my usual edge because I'm typing this much earlier in the evening, but it's not even close to my bedtime (or the "passed my bedtime" area when I normally write) so I could be back for more fun.

And just to see if my editor is still watching me, I'm going to throw in this ugly morsel of a one sentence paragraph.

Your assignment should you choose to accept it 

Diamonds are created at high temperature and pressure. So I'll turn off the AC and give myself a little assignment to finish by 5 am Sunday morning. Get the creative juices flowing. So, while I gather some of my previous writings, journals, notebooks to rework (and perhaps burn,) I will start some new random entries. My next entry will be a description of a parking lot. Sounds like fun, huh? You are welcome to play along if you want.

Maybe some of these random blurbs will become part of some larger story in the future. For now, I'm just sharing one more piece...of another Incomplete Writer.

The writing process

In the beginning...

There wasn't one. I know. I started with a sentence fragment, unless you count the subheading in which case, you're very forgiving and we're good. But like I stated in my very first post here, a story doesn't always begin with the beginning.

Ideas sometimes come at me like lightning bolts. It might be something I said or heard someone say. I might get to the end of an experience and trace backwards to find my story. I never know when inspiration is going to strike. I also don't write my thoughts down when I should so I've lost some greatness over the years, I'm sure, for not having been carrying something with me to capture that moment. I'm trying to get better.

My process is simple

I don't have one. I realize that's hard to believe. I know I should have one. But I don't.  I sit down and write. Mostly, I've been talking to myself, collecting my thoughts internally, organizing phrases or imagining the scene to create a visual before the words come out so that other humans might read them. One could hardly call that a process.

I have written factual articles for newspapers, daily and monthly, and had a few editorials published. Those are not the norm, typically I write from emotion. Pain, loss, love, fear, confusion, anger are all fantastic motivators for getting the words flowing. If you're looking at that partial list and saying. "Jon. Five of the six on your list are pretty negative aren't they?" then you're reading too much into that (maybe) and you should find a nice psychology blog and self-diagnose. We're not digging that deep...yet.

My process fits my style. This isn't about researching poisons for a murder mystery, conducting a survey to identify the 3 critical aspects of great leaders or cataloging a historical event for posterity. I feel something, and then I work to make you feel it too. We laugh together. We cry together. (See, I put the positive one first.) We revel in me thumbing my nose at conventional grammar and the use of excessive commas, which I use very, very, very, very, much. ("100 words. Exactly. You can count 'em if you want.") My editor is cringing now, hoping that I use so many that I become comma-tose and stop, just stop. Such a mess.

Shut up and deal

Writing is passive. It was a way of getting out those things I couldn't say aloud or where I missed an opportunity. That girl I couldn't talk to in the 5th grade, that snappy comeback to a high school bully that never came from my lips, the time I was 500 miles from home and my father was taking his last breaths. Those are things that are difficult to deal with when you're 11, or 14, or 20 years old. So you take out your frustrations on an unsuspecting piece of loose leaf. You work your way through it. That's how you cope with love and anger and loss.

Notice how I start talking about me and I end up talking about you. We're not that different, you know. We all have a story to tell. And there are so many writers who will one day share their voice and be heard. I've talked to some of you. And you don't always see us coming. It could be the girl in the next cubicle, the guy on the forklift at the warehouse, or the 9-year-old next door. That's life. Anything can happen.

How did we get here again?

We've stumbled off the path. Plus we started in the middle. See, you only thought it was the beginning. Stop thinking. Read. Feel.

Ok. So now you're saying to yourself, "What the heck is he talking about? He started with ideas and then he got to writing." The ideas were the beginning. Or were they? Rarely does one get lightning from a clear blue sky. What's the trigger? For me it usually starts with an M.

Inspiration brought to you by the letter M

I felt like an episode of Sesame Street was going to break out here. Anyway...

Moments. Life experiences can bring the words out. First loves, family outings, funerals (The letter M just got F'd) are easy ways to tap into emotions and begin writing. Being a writer is a little like being an actor. Get into character, go back in time, relive that moment.
Movies.  There are some great movies that can get me energized. It also fuels my contention that there is nothing new out there. Everything has been done before. While Rat Race is a funny movie in it's own right, It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World came long before that (I just like it for the commas) - feel free to repackage an old idea and make it your own.
Music. Maybe it sparks a Memory (lots of M's to go around.) Then of course, there's nothing like relaxing, getting pumped up or drowning out the world with some tunes while you get all the words out. Plus, it might provide the perfect addition to the soundtrack for your movie (after you finish writing the book first.)

Time for bed again

I was in bed earlier, but I couldn't sleep and felt compelled to write. It's 4 a.m. now and suddenly, I'm craving M&Ms...oh well, there's always something...when you're dealing with the Incomplete Writer.

Moving onward

No rest for the weary

So I got 2 hours of sleep. I've been in worse shape, but I'm still feeling some energy from people getting on board with me and seeing where this takes us. However, this isn't a diary so I digress...

I usually get my quotes from goodreads.com. Back in the olden days one would buy a book of quotes and have to scour through the pages to find that exact right phrase that someone famous once said to validate your own point. Today it's much easier, but I can't feel confident or guarantee accuracy with this whole Internet thingy. There's a lot of crap out there. But I've brought myself around to words I had found before that troubled me as a writer. The quote is attributed to Stephen King and states:

“If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.”

I've thought about this a great deal over the last 20 years as my love for reading greatly diminished. I read only what I had to, for school or work. Engrossed in text books, contrived literature, emails, manuals, leadership books, assignments all of them, just to glean the necessary information and move on. No love. No passion for the words that surrounded me.

I read as a child. Starting early. Not like reading Chaucer in utero, but early. Both of my parents were teachers so I didn't stand a chance. They had me hooked before I knew what I was getting myself into. Like any child that learns words and objects, eventually it all has meaning. But in the beginning there is reward for recognizing and repeating words and knowing what those words represent. And you feel a mother's love and a father's pride, the words take on a life of their own. They warm you like a blanket on a cold night or nuzzle you softly, comforting you like a fluffy stuffed animal.

You fall in love with reading, more words, more stories, more characters and places that are so far away and you want to go and visit...but later you grow up. The characters aren't real anymore, the stories no longer excite you. The words become meaningless. You begin to write your own meaningless words, but they're not yours, not you.

The night grows long

I can't sleep again tonight. I started writing this earlier in the day and I was a little more chipper. Now I have too many thoughts and the lapping waves aren't cascading over my feet softly on an endless beach, but crashing overhead, knocking me down and I can't get up before the next one hits me from behind. There's saltwater in my eyes and my ears...I can't see or hear, and I shake my head a little, rubbing my eyes, trying to stand, but I'm turned around again. I flail my arms and I'm suddenly clear, I can see the beach but the current is taking me back toward the waves and then another crashes and I'm thrown down again. I gasp for air but only take in water, choking, struggling to breathe. I want to get out but I'm getting tired, but not enough to give up although that would be preferable now...You could say I feel a little overwhelmed.

But that's more like me. The rambling, wordy, overstimulated human being that people have come to know. My editor is pulling her hair out now and there are red marks on her computer screen or tablet or smartphone or whatever she's using today, feverishly crossing out the unnecessary words that I find ancillary (especially words like ancillary,) but I'm going to click the publish button before she gets to see it because I'm a little stubborn and childish like that.

Ok. This has really turned into more of a misguided journal entry and I'm obviously too tired to make sense, (it's 1:46 am, and my daughter came out of her room, so she's still awake - there really is something wrong with that girl) but I'm just going to push through it. Perhaps in doing so my voice will gain definition, I will achieve some clarity and the words will come back to comfort me (and stop tormenting you.)

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

I've taken some deep breaths and now I'm ready to focus again. My editor is going to hate me later for publishing this, but the process isn't always pretty. Ugly thoughts on the back burner for another day. Time to focus.

So, writers write. But they also read. After all, knowledge is power. Besides, how can you know what good looks like if you haven't seen it with your own eyes, taken it apart and put it back together again? Stories have structure. Words have meaning. Characters have purpose. Creating a harmonious blend doesn't just happen. It's learned by reading other writers, researching to make your stories feel real, developing characters that live beyond your pages.

Coming back around again

I'm going to have to start small to get back into this reading thing. I was considering picking up Space by James Michener again, but I don't think I have the fortitude, although his descriptions of places and people are something I find amazing. I aspire to one day write like that. No. A little smaller, but I think I need to read something I've read before, something familiar, an author whose words grabbed me and shook me a little.

I thought about The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis, which I read long before Aslan's glorious mane graced the silver screen. I own 3 sets of the 7 book series, which I was first began reading in the 2nd grade. Fantastical tales and wondrous characters but I just don't think I can climb back into the wardrobe again. That "Dawn Treader" has sailed.

Alright, got done digging through several bookcases and I think I'm ready to do this. The Anything Box by Zenna Henderson. Science fiction. A little creepy. Short stories. Oh yeah. This is the one. I had a great teacher, Mrs. Rozewski, in the 7th grade that introduced me to this one.

Well, this one was a little messy today, but my day was kind of messy too and I felt like I had to get it out of my system. Like I said, the process isn't always pretty...especially when you live each day as the Incomplete Writer.

I can't sleep...

It's not that unusual...

I have already used the ellipsis twice, so I know I'm getting you riled up a bit. But that's how my thoughts come in, one over top of another, like spent waves washing over an unsuspecting beach. I try to grab at them quickly, all of them, overlapping. Trying to capture them all before they're sucked back into the surf again and eaten up by the ocean's waters. And that's why I can't sleep right now.

I have never truly understood what makes me this crazy, but writing has helped over the years. It helps to get the crazy out (at least some of it.) I don't want to get rid of the crazy and no one has ever confused me with a normal person (whatever that is) and I'm trying to type as I'm thinking, which I know full well is a dangerous enterprise, but I've learned so far is that you can't make every one happy, no matter how hard you try. Perhaps I can make someone happy. So, I'm just here to be myself, and give you another little piece of me...

Not a morning person

Morning people don't bother me. I'm not a coffee drinker either, or breakfast eater. Sometimes I even forget to eat during the day, going for more hours than I should if I get busy. The only time frame in the a.m. that I am fond of is after 12 and before the sun comes up. Maybe I'm broken, I don't know. I have a horrible time waking up in the morning. Leave that to the "normal people." Oh, I can act like one of the normal ones, but it's not my strong suit. I fear that my daughter is just like me. She's walked by the room twice as I've been typing. Nobody really mistakes her for normal either. But more importantly, back to me...

So, this sleep thing has gone on for more years than I care to admit. I've just rolled with it. I was the king of all-nighters. I started that in high school. I had this History teacher, Mr. McGonigal (I change no names to protect the innocent.) He had a major assignment due at the end of every quarter. I never completed one prior to the morning it was to be handed in. I did make some kind of preparation, mostly in my head. Organizing my thoughts, creating mental images of the final product, without beginning any actual work. I wrote one paper that I didn't start until 8 p.m. on the night before it had to be handed in. (Don't try this at home, kids.) I don't type particularly well and my dot-matrix printer (yes, I'm THAT old) jammed more than a few times as I was trying to get the last of my revisions done at 5 a.m. He always seemed pleased with my work, I mostly got "A"s, I can't ever remember a time that was unsuccessful. I've got another story about him later when I write about some of my great teachers (TBD.)

Yes, we're still talking about sleep

Why? Because I'm still awake. So then there was college. Still the king of all-nighters. Dropped an 8 a.m. class in college that I was daft enough to sign up for once (Once! - If you got that joke, stay tuned, you're my kind of people.) I gravitated towards late morning or evening courses, but it didn't always work out, because sometimes you just have to do the early morning thing. Like at exam time.

So I had this Physics class my Junior year. Not a real physics class mind you, since I was a Liberal Arts kinda guy (yeah, Rick. I admit it,) just filling out those requirements. But I was nailing it. So I pull my usual, all-nighter before the exam. Only, I fell out somewhere after 4 and I woke up at 9. Granted, that was generally early for me on too many days, but that particular day I needed to be at my exam...that started at 8. So I throw on a hat and ran down College Ave (I was already dressed so don't even go there.) When I arrive at the classroom to take my test, there's no one there. Yeah, I was kind of shocked too.

So, now you're asking: Were you at the right classroom, Jon? Did you get the day right? Is this a dream? Can this really be happening? I know, because I was asking myself all those same questions, only, like 20 some years ago, so you're late again. C'mon catch up people.

So, the Left Side of my brain wakes up and says: "Jon. Why don't you see if Professor whats-his-name is in his office." Only my brain knew the name then, but it's old now too and it doesn't remember everything. And I go around to his office. He was this cool old, short guy with glasses, I'm sure you know one. He's just sitting calmly at his desk. So I'm exhausted when I get to the door and I lean against the door jamb as I stammer some mess about sorry for being late and there's no one in the classroom and can I still take the test and it's scheduled from 8 until 11 and...somewhere in all that garbage from my head and my mouth, he just simply handed me the test and told me I would probably have plenty of time to finish and I wouldn't have anybody to cheat off of. Forty-five minutes later it was over. And I made a 93. At least that's how I remember it. Like you're gonna check.

Lord, I was born a Ramblin' Man

Things haven't changed much over the years. It's one o'clock in the morning now. I have to be at work at 7...and I'm still typin'. (But you're gonna like this next part 'cause it was kinda cool when it happened and you were gonna wish you were that good.) This isn't the first time I've written about sleep though. Did that in college too.

I had this Voice Articulation and Delivery class one semester. This is the part where you say, "Jon. What kind of class is that and what work would that entail?" You learn how to talk. Yup. You'd think that would be easy, right? It isn't. It's the class you take if you're going to seriously pursue acting or broadcasting as a career path. You learn all about how to properly vocalize, lose the accent, enunciate, communicate clearly. It starts with the International Phonetic Alphabet (IPA.)

Take a look at an IPA chart sometime. Not now, I'm still writing here. Later. I just gave you the link to be nice. So anyway, might as well be hieroglyphics or an alien language. It's symbols that represent sounds. Glottal, Fricative, Nasal all have their place and you learn how to break down words into sounds so that you can pronounce them like you're supposed to. It can be confusing. Let's say I still don't know the correct way to say "orange." We actually argued that in class. The word orange. God, I miss college.

The goal of the class was to essentially lose whatever accent you came in with and speak using proper phonetics. Not really "My Fair Lady," but close. You control every facet of your speech, sounds, tones, inflection, volume. One of our assignments was to read in front of the class. I don't remember what sounds were the focus then but I decided I was going to use something I had written myself. The professor approved what she read and seemed pretty gun-ho about me presenting it. Guess what it was about? Yup. About lying awake in bed trying to fall asleep.

So I read this piece I had written, about how you just start out lying there, staring at the ceiling. Thoughts streaming through your head about today, the next day, that project you're working on. There's so many things processing and your brain can't shut down. One idea leads to another. Your eyes are sleepy but you're brain isn't ready for rest, yada yada. I'm clearly enunciating every word. I start out a little fast and slow down my pace as I continue through. Gradually I'm getting slower, calmer, the thoughts are a little muddled but the anxiety is easing, the pillow is softening under your head, and you're trying to think about the beach, the lap of the waves calming you as you close your eyes and just listen to WAKE UP!

That 's exactly what happened in class. I think one dude actually fell asleep. Either I was extremely boring or off the chart awesome. I prefer to think it was the latter. My professor and classmates seemed to like it. I imagine that's why I think that thoughts, written words and speech are really the same thing.

Words aren't just words

But it's what makes writing so difficult, Conveying emotions, thoughts, actions, conversations, setting a scene, all that draw a reader in, deliver a compelling story along the way where actions connect...that's not easy. It's hard enough to understand people we talk to on a daily basis face-to-face (I'm laughing on the inside now because I've just realized that I have a former co-worker who can't believe I took the class I talked about here. Mainly because I reverted to my roots from growing up in South Jersey and have difficulty pronouncing the word "water" to this day. This one's for you, Andrew. It's number 6 on this list.)

Sharing thoughts that are clear and understood by someone reading them are tough too. Ever misunderstand someone's tone from a text? Ever had someone misunderstand yours? Words can fail us. Finding those words can be frustrating. Sometimes the right word can't be found, maybe it doesn't exist.

My daughter has come in to move her laundry from the washer to the dryer so I am now certain that she's crazy like I am, just in a different way. It's 2 a.m. now and I'm wondering if I'll get any sleep at all. The waves keep drifting in. No sharks, but no more calming in their absence. Maybe I'll try to rewrite that sleep thing again...or stare at the ceiling some more.

People say I think too much...it comes with the territory, when you're the Incomplete Writer.

The journey has already begun

You're late.

Not every story starts at the beginning. No doubt there is a beginning, which is a benefit one gets as a reader, but as a writer or a storyteller the journey did not begin there. The beginning came later, the story came together and words poured, a cacophony, perhaps tamed by the writer...perhaps not so much, only to be delivered to the reader in the order and tone in which it was meant to be felt.

It is truly cruel to burden a writer with a title. That would be like asking an artist, "so what do you call this one?" and point to a blank canvas. I found myself in the same predicament. What do I call what I do? I just want to write. Share my thoughts and feelings. Sprinkle in some stories or parts of stories that have yet to be told...in my words. Make you feel...feel something, anything.

I mean, if you're going to write about frogs, then by god there's your title. Maybe you get a little crazy and call it something like, if you're feeling froggy...or play off Twain's celebrated frog, but what of a simple writer? Maybe get cute playing the Right/Write angle...but that didn't feel quite right (or write) either way everything seemed to be taken already in this venue, even if it appeared as though some of them dropped off the planet in 2003, but to make a long story short (too late,) we are here now.

We're both here, late, though I could hardly blame you, I just got here myself and that's the whole reason that you came so, guess it's my fault. Sorry. I promise I'll try to make up for it.

What's in a name?

Despite the fact that which we call a rose would indeed smell as sweet, the name is the thing, after all. We learn as infants that calling objects by their correct name is important. It identifies what we want, how we feel, what we see, let's leave semantics alone (for now), but it IS important to identify what we are experiencing. So, I, am the incomplete writer.

How could I possibly be anything else? I'm not done yet. But there are parts that are clearly over for me and I feel very strongly about sharing those days and nights and stories. And yet, I will never be complete. Even after I take my last breath the thoughts and ideas I have shared will carry on. My children, my family, my friends, the people who I have touched with my words, those words will live on through them. Even the words on this page will stand, without me. We make our mark. Boldly or timidly we leave a piece of ourselves in everything we do. That's life. The journey shapes who we are, who we will become. Every day is new with endless possibilities, but as I sit here typing this, and you sit there some day reading this, we are, as yet, incomplete. Welcome to my world.

More Shakespeare, good grief

"All the world's a stage. And all the men and women merely players..." - William Shakespeare.

I didn't really want to reference more Shakespeare, but it's a great line. Am I boring thee? Toughen up.

Every story has characters. Art imitates life (or is it the other way around?) Anyway, there is no story without believable characters. Engaging the reader to believe in those characters is essential to the very existence of the tale itself. Why is that important? The reader must care about those characters. Love 'em or hate 'em, the reader has to feel for those characters, or lose interest, and the story dies. So here I am, a character, in progress, reaching out to you. Living on this page and hopefully many more, sharing my story with you. But, if we're going to take this journey together, you must know a few things about me (as a writer.)

1. Don't feed me after midnight
2. Never get me wet.

Wait. Wrong rules. OK. Here we go. This list isn't numbered. But I feel it needs a subheading.

Know what you're getting into

•  I write what I feel and you are free to feel how you wish. If the spirit moves you to share back to me, please don't be rude. I am sharing, not asking for your opinions. Constructive criticism is appreciated, with the operative word being "constructive." "You suck," is not helpful feedback. I've heard it before and it didn't help then either.
• I have had a great love affair over the years with punctuation. Don't freak out. I'm particularly fond of the ellipsis (...) and commas. They make me feel good. Why?
• I'm prone to a more conversational writing style. If I want you to pause when you're reading, I will make you, just like you were hearing me speak the words directly to your ear. That's how I use punctuation. It's a tool, not a rule.
• My grammar died a few years ago. So, sometimes my sentences are not complete. I will occasionally run-on as well. If complete sentences were necessary everyone would use them. They don't and you know who you are.
• I will use the words "and" and "or" a lot. No really. A LOT. I'm fond of words and I try to use as many as I can to get you to where I'm coming from.
• I have no problems ending a sentence with a preposition. Get over it.
• I can ramble. A LOT. I'll try not to. But, I make no promises. Some of the world's greatest discoveries stemmed from mistakes, unintended consequences, or downright failures. That's the excuse I'll go with here.

So, it's after 4 am and I think that I've finally got it all out of my system. Now I can go to bed. You could come with me, but we just met and I'm not comfortable enough at this point. Oh, I guess I should introduce myself.

I'm Jon and I'm the Incomplete Writer.