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The Scars of who we are part III

Filed under: Life — 1 Comment
January 16, 2013

The Scars of Who We Are Part III

Part 3. Pull back the curtain and tell me what you see and tell me who is it you’re trying to be and how they compare to the person that you are? So take my hand and hold it tight, I promise not to lie to you tonight, for tonight is only the beginning, when we rediscover and find out who it is, we really are.

I actually meant to have this up last week; unfortunately I came down with the flue and bronchitis, which as you can imagine pretty much wiped me out. Granted I tried to write a little on my novel but couldn’t get very far. I also attempted to work on my blog, which became difficult when all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep (I’ll spare you the other details.) I also want to apologize to the community boards I’m a part of, I really want to be more active on the boards, but while I was sick, I lacked focus. But with the help from my doctor and some good friends I’m finally better and find myself able to sit down and really write.
I’ve always been a firm believer in dreams, there’s enough automatons in the world, who are those who simply give up, or surrender their dreams, often becoming bitter, resentful and pessimistic. What the world needs, what it really needs, are dreamers. It was Robin S. Sharma who once said “Dreamers are mocked as impractical. The truth is they are the most practical, as their innovations lead to progress and a better way of life for all of us,”

Dreamers are the ones who inspire us with their works, awe us by their creations or move us by their words. I’m sure we’ve all seen one movie, or read a book that inspired you to do more, or to make more out of your life. Almost always it makes you feel like you’ve been sleep walking through life this whole time and that now you’re finally awake and seeing things clearly for the first time. Seeing just how different the world really is, but change can be difficult, but sometimes it the change that you need.

I know people look down on me and I know it’s because they sometimes see me as a dreamer, who’s head is always lost in the clouds. But it’s my dreams that me strong and it’s my dreams that kept me young at heart. Because of my dreams I learned perspective. I can see beyond and past myself and all my insecurities, I can see a world where anything is possible. A world filled with incredible joy, happiness and wonder. I see this world whenever I close my eyes, I see what we as a people can really do, I see our potential and I see it in everyone. This is why I write, because it’s my dream to do so and say what you will about my dreams, I believe that my dreams, along with yours are given to us directly from the hand of God himself, who puts those dreams within us.

Now following and believing in your dreams rarely comes easy, like all talents or gifts, they must be nurtured, given time to grow. They need to grow as I had in my earliest of years, when my mom had left home with my older brother Dominic, leaving me behind for my father to later find and rescue.

We are the fallen,
Who tear down the world,
We are the broken,
Who are lost,
We are the weary,
Who lost our way
Yet we’re looking forward to a better day,
Looking forward to a better day.

Unfortunately, I have seen proof of this, in old home videos that my dad had on rare occasion let me watch. On them, I see myself a young boy playing with my toys on my grandma’s couch. In the background I hear my grandma asking my dad about me. I hear his tale as I had heard him tell it over a dozen times before. Only this time I think it was his first time telling anyone of his account. There’s a note of disbelief in tone, and I hear his voice breaking. My dad rarely ever shows his pain, I think I only seen and heard him cry twice in my entire life. This being one of them, where I hear my father crying and from what I was told and from the numerous home videos they had me. Videos of other family who came to visit me, I know I was with my dad for over a week before my mother had the courtesy to finally call and check up on me.

Listening to stories of my parents converging has never been easy and I find the retelling incredibly difficult, (So bear with me, a lot of this I put together on my own because my mother told only part of the story, enough of which to make herself into the hero, while my dad had been more forthright.) Looking back always leaves me wondering, what if things worked out differently?

Something you need to understand my mother, she’s a masterful manipulator, I can speak from experience, she can spin a lie so fanciful and beautiful, fill it with endless depths she could make you believe you’re right handed instead of left, or that ice was really hot instead of cold. She can spin any lie and tell it with such conviction you can’t help but believe it to be the truth. She was incredible to watch, because she could feign any emotion, anger, great sadness, she could even go so far as openly weep, with tears streaming down her cheeks and a snot bubble in her nose, the sight of which will always leave you with your chest swelling with pity. I say this, because years later she once struck me so hard and so repeatedly, she caused permanent nerve damage to my right eye. Then had be convinced it my fault and had me scared to death to tell anyone the truth. When even now I still can’t control how my right eye twitches, usually when I eat, but I’ve learned to live with it.

But the truth about my mother is this, she was the greatest actress I ever seen and even in so knowing all this, my love for her was still boundless and all I ever wanted was for her to love me. (So when she manages to get my dad on the phone, this is who he’s dealing with)

She cried, begged and eventually talked him into bringing me over to her mom’s house. My Grandma Agnes, lived with her elderly mother Aida at the time, so my dad figured it’d be a safe as a meet as any. When he shows up, my dad tells me she’s super sweet, kind and very complacent. (So naturally my dad is suspicious that something is up) However, no one save myself is truly immune to her charms and that took me practically twenty two years of my life to develop, so my dad didn’t have a chance.

   We are the beaten and the downtrodden
Searching for answers in a life gone wrong,
Picking up the pieces of what’s already gone,
Living in the past,
And Standing in the midst the broken glass.
Believing we’re the lost and forgotten.
Because the flowers had yet to blossom,
But the pain is going to end,
And the sun will rise again

Before he knew it, she had talked him into bringing me into the house, showing off all the new things that her and her sister Terry S, had gotten me. One of which being a new carrier, that she kept trying to talk my dad into letting me try out. Which he reluctantly he permits, letting her put me in the new carrier. Then she attempts to talk him into putting my diaper bag down which he adamantly refuses. (Thank God my dad has some limits) So she decides to try another tactic, by convincing my dad she needed to talk to him privately upstairs and convincing him into letting my grandma Agnes watch me. Now my dad liked her enough to trust her, in his eyes she was good church going woman and she was old. So he lets himself be talked into letting her watch me, while him and my go upstairs to talk. Again she tries to slip my baby bag from my father’s shoulder, insisting that her mom may need it while they were upstairs, but my dad refuses, insisting that it’s staying on him. (Another win for the good guys…for now at least)

Somewhat defeated, but not completely out of the game yet, my mom takes my dad upstairs into Agnes’s room, which is right next to my great grandmother Aida’s room. Once alone in Agnes’s room, my mom begins telling my dad how much she missed him, apologizing to him for everything she’s done, kissing on him as she tells him how much she loves him, needs him.

My dad resisted for a bit, but his resolve begins falter, (Hey, the poor guy is only human; give him a break and now my least favorite part of the story.) My mom proceeds in her attempts of seducing my father…he tries to resists, keeps telling her no and freaking out that her mom was right downstairs and that her grandma was probably next room. But she ignored him and pressed her advantage, waving off his concerns of her mother or grandmother walking in. She begins taking off his belt and pulling down his pants and my dad tries to resist. But she manages to distract him just enough to get his pants down around his ankles.

This is when the cobra chose to strike, she rips my baby bag from my dad’s shoulder, shoves him down onto the bed, turns and races out of the room. My dad realizing that this clearly was a setup is back on his feet in no time, pulling on his pants and giving chase. He already knows she intends on taking me back, why he had no idea, but he couldn’t risk letting her having my life back in her hands. So my dad explodes out of the bedroom after her and she’s already down the stairs, he hears her shouting to her mom and my dad’s heart sinks. He walked right into a setup and he bolts to the stairs in hopes of catching my mother before she could escape with me.
Now, did I mention my mom immorality? Because as my dad reaches the stairs he hears my mom sending my great grandma Aida up the stairs, costing my father precious time as he tries to quickly push past her without sending her spilling down the stairs, or causing her any harm. By the time he gets past her, my mom is already outside with me.

“How can you let her do this?” My father asks, looking to my grandma Aida, sickened before he races out of the house just in time to see my mother pulling away.
Determined to get me back, my dad races to his truck and floors it all in hopes of getting me back. (My dad tells this part slightly more colorfully with how he’d swore he was going to kill her for abandoning me, then stealing me) So then begins the car chase, out of a subdivision, onto a freeway, then a highway, all the way up to Cincinnati Ohio, back to Kentucky, then back up to Ohio because my mom was trying desperately to lose him. She hadn’t expected my father to be chasing her, never thought he’d enter a high speed car chase in order to rescue me. She wanted me in Ohio, because that’s where her sister Terry S lives up that way, which she figured it’d be safe since her husband was truly loaded, mansion and all. (Seriously her house was literally a mansion; every home I grew up in could fit inside) My mom almost makes it there, when she gets pulled over for speeding and erratic driving.
Thinking quickly and knowing this cop was costing her valuable time, my mom leaps out of the car, crying. Balling, with great big tears streaming down her face, making her breath catch in her throat as she races up to the now alarmed police officer who’s not quite sure what to make of the theatrics. She proceeds to tell the cop, that her husband just found out she was leaving him and that he was crazy, having threatened to kill her,

(Now imagine two things if you will. One your deranged spouse just kidnapped your kid who she tried to kill a few times before, not to mention had abandoned. Now imagine how angry you’d be, how mad you’d look. Now I want you think of a cop who hears that you’re crazy and trying to murder said spouse, which let’s be honest you’re probably considering. So in case you’re wondering yeah, it’s not looking too good for my father) almost like clockwork, my dad pulls up behind the cop thinking that he finally had her and there was no way she could continue her escape now that a cop was involved. Then my dad’s heart sinks as the cops sends my mother on her way.

The officer and my old man end up exchanging some heated words, (Which doesn’t help his case) and the end results in him being forced to turn around and return home, defeated.

The days grow shorter,

The nights ever longer,

As I grow endlessly colder….

But clinging ever so tightly,

To this little light of mine.

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The Scars of who we are, part 2

Filed under: Life — 1 Comment
January 5, 2013

The scars of who we are Part 2
Part 2. Where are you when you can’t be found?

For what it’s worth, I think I was a pretty happy kid and no matter how dark the world around me grew, I couldn’t shake this feeling I had, that I was special, unique in some way I couldn’t quite described. I had always felt as if I was meant for something more, something greater than myself. Now this could be, that when I was born I was born both upside down and backwards, forcing the doctors to perform an emergency C-section in order to save my life. Something I don’t think my mother had ever really forgiven me for, because before then she was one of those models you’d see on T.V or magazines.

But I’m getting a little ahead of myself. Because my first struggles had started before I was even born. This I know, I know from the stories my farther had often shared with me while I was growing up, stories I’ve always kept to myself until the day I graduated High school and my mother confirmed everything he told me was true. By telling me, how useless and pathetic I was and how she tried having a miscarriage and get an abortion.

I know not exactly something you want to tell your son, or a kid, but I grew up with both parents telling me how much the other didn’t love me. In truth, I secretly hoped that they were both wrong.

Now my dad tells me, that my mother wasn’t particularly an easy person to live with, nor was she exactly thrilled with having another kid, because she had already had a son from a previous marriage, my older brother Dominic. But my dad can be quite insistent and managed to convince her try, because he wanted a kid of his own. He wanted someone to carry on his legacy and if you ever seen my dad, you’ll see that he’s really good with kids, because he sincerely loves them. (Partially because he’s really a big kid at heart)

But for a while it would seem that fate was against them, for after a whole year of trying, they had failed to ever conceive. It wasn’t until they gave up trying which was when I was finally conceived. During which time my dad tells me my mother was becoming increasingly hard to live with, always wanting to start a fight with him whenever he came home from work, which lead to him working double and triple shifts just to stay away from her. But during this time, my dad tells me that when they would fight, she would get angry and sometimes throw herself down on our steps and slide down on her belly in attempt to get even with him and to cause some irreparable harm to myself while I was still in her womb. Once she even got so angry amidst an augment she would begin beating on her stomach, in attempt to kill or harm me while I was still in the womb, something that would always break my dad’s heart and drive him to tears and sometimes unparalleled fits of anger. Causing him to throw her down, straddle her chest and began slapping her face with fingers all the while asking her how it felt and if she liked that, then threatened of she ever did anything like that again, he’d kill her. (I can’t say I condone his actions, I don’t think a man should ever strike a woman, but in truth I don’t know how I feel about it in this kind of situation)
But on this peculiar situation, her brother, my uncle Mike who had just gotten out of prison had decided to show up at house and see my mom. (I know what you’re thinking, how much more dysfunctional can we get, but it’s true) My dad sees the marks he had left on my mother’s face and tells her not to answer the door, knowing that if her brother took one good look at her face, he would do what my father would do and try to kill the guy who did it. However my mom insists on answering the door, because it is her brother after all. So my father responds with getting a baseball bat and stands at the top of the stairs, telling my mom that if he came in and tried to attack him, he would beat him away with the bat. They were at an impasse, as nuts as my mother may have and still is, she didn’t want to see any harm come to her brother, so she agreed to send him away, which she does. The stalemate resulted in my protection and my eventual birth. (Thank God right? And see, life is a miracle within itself. I mean the mere fact I managed to make it to term is miracle within itself. My mom was also a bit into drugs and had told me once she smoked pot a few times while pregnant with me and she hinted to doing a few other drugs while carrying me. So the fact that I’m even alive and I don’t look like Sloth from “The Goonies,” I’m not eating paste, or sitting in a room gluing macaroni to paper plates is nothing short of amazing. Every day I’m surprised that I am who I am, I’m healthy, fairly intelligent and physically fit. Although I can’t help but wonder how smart I would have been if my mother wasn’t my mother, you know what I mean?)

 “We are the fallen,
Who tear down the world,
We are the broken,
Who are lost,
We are the weary,
Who lost our way,
Yet we’re looking forward to a better day.”

I was a little more fifteen months old the day my mother abandoned me. Her and my dad were on the outs, fighting all the time and so my dad often worked double shifts. Because that way, he’d be too tired to fight and could go right to sleep whenever he got home. Making what my mother did, all the more horrific. My mother had taken my older brother, packed up both her and his things and left me. She left me sleeping in my carrier, at the top of the stairs, apparently she hadn’t even bothered to strap me in.

My dad was on his way home from working a double, dreading going home. It was late in the day and he knew my mother would be up and would most likely start in on him as soon as he walked in the door. So he was debating rather he should go home, or go his mothers. On his way to his mom’s, my dad heard a voice speaking to him. (Now I can’t vouch for this, but part is every bit my father’s story. I’m a Christian, like my father before me and most of my family. I wasn’t around for this part of the story, believe it or not, it’s up to you)

The voice told my father to go home. My father, without question believes it was God and is every bit as stubborn as me, so I’m not surprised when he told me he said “No,”

“I said go home,” God ordered,

“No,” My dad snaps, “If I go home she’s going to be there and I can’t take it anymore!” My dad shouts to his windshield.

“I don’t care, I said go home,” countered God.

“Alright fine, I’ll go home,” My dad relented, “but I’m just going there to take a shower and grab some clothes, does that make you happy?” My dad asked, hearing nothing but his radio and silence. Afraid to disobey and risk the voice returning my dad turned around and headed back home.

Once home he discovers that my mom is gone. At first he Believes that she took my older brother and me somewhere and left. Yet further investigation would prove otherwise, for it doesn’t take him long to discover me asleep atop the stairs. My dad couldn’t describe all the emotions that went through him as he discovered my mother had left the house, abandoning me to my own devises. He was angry, heartbroken, astounded, he couldn’t believe she really left there. So he gathers my few belongings along with his and takes me to my grandmothers.
(Sorry folks, I’m going to wrap this up here, in part III, my mother devises a plan to kidnap me from my father, which leads to a car chase as my dad races to catch up with her in hopes of rescuing me)

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The scars of who we are, Part 1.

Filed under: Life — 3 Comments
January 3, 2013

The scars of who we are, part 1.

Intro. Life is often like our dreams, where nothing is ever quite as what it seems.
~J Cooper

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by someone else, I don’t know. All I know for certain is that some will read this thinking I’m just playing the victim, when I’m not, I’m just sharing the truth as I know it.  So if you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were too busy fighting to really take a moment to just stop and get to know me.

But that isn’t how I’ll like to begin, even though if you’re reading this now, I had just finished writing the final installment to this series, about my life, telling it as honestly as I know it. it took me a year to sum up most of my life in 17 chapters. My intention wasn’t to focus on my family, but the struggles of dealing with abuse at home and going to school and facing down the bullies that were there. But as I wrote, I found all these memories and emotions inside of me, with the story of me and my family just wanting to get out of me, so without intending to do so, it all just came pouring out.

It all started in late December of last year, when a friend heard a little of what I went through and she told a friend of her’s Shane Pergrem of True Artist Studios, check them out here http://www.trueartistsstudio.com. Who does  a lot of documentaries and had called me in for an interview. I never realized until I started talking about everything that I went through growing up about how much I needed it, needed to just talk about it. I was always afraid of being a burden, or that I would come off as a whining victim, or risk people accusing me of being a liar. When pressed I would sometimes open up and give people a few snippets of growing up with my bi-polar and my more or less schizophrenic mother. But despite everything I’ve been through, suffered, I’m still alive, I’m still standing, so I’m going to share my story with you, so that you know that things do get better, even when it feels like you’ve hit rock bottom, with no no hope of getting out, because you can. It won’t be easy, it’ll be he hardest, longest and toughest battle you’ll ever face. You may get tired or fall along the way, which we all do, but what’s important is to keep getting back up. No matter what life throws at you, you have to keep pressing forward, never stop reaching out and always, always believe in magic.

Because, that’s what I believe in. I’m a Christian who firmly believes that when God created this world, he did so with a little magic, magic that he placed in you. Because we  all start off knowing magic when we’re young. We’re born with fire, storms and comets inside us. Even when I was a boy, I would step outside myself and see a world of endless possibilities, I believed in magic, heroes, dragons and that all animals secretly had the power to speak and all we had to do was be patient and listen. talk. But not everybody could see it, that web of magic we all lived in, connected my those silver filaments of chance and circumstance, but I knew it all along. The world was my magic lantern and with it  I unlocked the secrets of the past, adventured in the present and explored the far future. When we’re kids, we don’t discriminate, beat ourselves up, or make excuses, we live in the moment, day by day, capable of seeing our destinies on tiny grains of sand and the power to sing to birds.

But as we grow older, we develop fears, doubts and become consumed by the opinions of others, becoming afraid to say what’s on our minds, our heads and in our hearts. We worry about what others might think, or do and we forget the magic that’s been imprinted, like fingerprints onto our very souls. We often take for granted the moment we feel that magic pool residing within our souls, when you finally get the chance to sit and talk to your crush and how you experience this incredible moment where time just stops and it lasts much longer than just moment. We forget to look up and see the world around us and the beauty we once saw in the clouds when we were young, staring up at the sky in awe, wondering what it would be like to fly up and sail through the very clouds we watched from the ground.

Many lose their way, we stumble and fall and forget sometimes the magic within their hearts. But the wonder and the magic of this world can often be found in the silver filaments of our dreams. But like all things,  once you get so far from it, it gradually fades away, like a long forgotten well that eventually dries up, becoming lost in the sands of time. And we fall in line with chance and circumstance, forgetting about the dreams where we can fly, or fearlessly exploring a lost cavern with nothing to light our way but the fading glow from the lantern we carry along in our trembling hands.

But me, I’m a dreamer and as a dreamer I believe  there’s a certain kind of magic locked deep within our souls and its called imagination and imagination is what keeps us young. (Or keeps me young at heart to say the least)

Of course growing up we do tend to get away from it, we stop believing in fairy-tales, the knights in shining armor, and the damsels in distress. Often with it goes our sense of chivalry and honor,  no longer do we believe in the magic of a moment which settles and hovers there in the air, and becomes much more than a moment, once sound stops and movement ceases for much, much more than a moment. Like when your hands brush against that of your one true love right before you share your first kiss and you can actually feel the electricity in the air, as your heart flutters and feels like it’s about to beat right out of your chest, making you feel weak, strong and lighter all at once.

But we often drift away from this feeling of magic, wonder and the daring to wish and hope upon a star, and every day thereafter it becomes that much harder to believe in both magic and the dreams that guide us. Which is odd to me, since we spend almost as much time dreaming as we do being awake.

But even if you lose that spark, all is not lost, believe me. Loss sometimes marks a larger return, being a writer I often lose several pages or entire chapters that I had spent half the night working on, or maybe an entire month of writing, honing, editing making it perfect, just to lose it. ( which tends to make you want to throw said computer out the window.)  Then after I finish shouting to the heavens and bashing my head against my desk and pacing the floors, I take a breath and mutter a few swears and other nonsense, before taking a another breath. Then I crack my knuckles and sit back down and start all over again, much like life. Sometimes you may lose a job, or a spouse, a save file, flash drive, or a loved one. No matter what it is you’ve lost, you eventually have to pull yourself back together and start over. Which can be daunting I know, I had to start over and rebuild my own life a few times over and it’s something that never gets any easier and it was never easy to begin with. But you do it, because you have too, because quitting and giving up isn’t an option, I survived and been through too much to have it kill me right there at the end. Besides, if you quit, I’ll never know how close I’ve came to achieving everything I set out to do.

With that said and remembering all those things I’ve said so long ago, many may call me a failure. But to me, failing is something that only happens once you’ve given up. I may not have achieved much of what I set out to do and had hoped to have done at this point in my life. But I’ve gained more than I could have have ever hoped for, I discovered that family is what you say it is, not what it should be. A stranger can become a friend, that friend can later become like a brother, who then becomes family.

I do all this because I have all these stories inside of me, characters who long to live, waiting patiently for me to tell their story. I learned a long time ago that you can never let little setbacks derail you, or become a roadblock. It happens, even to the best of us and with that I say, never lose that spark, that so irreplaceable spark, that animates and connects us all to everything. Remember your dreams, remember the simply joys you had as a child, when you were jumping from one couch to another to avoid the lava.

Even when we get so far away from the magic and the songs within us, I believe that whenever a song stirs a memory, or when you’re sitting in a darkened theater watching a moving that stirs your feelings, or moves you in a particular way.  For people like me, the people who have picked up a book and decided to just read again, this happens whenever you nose is buried in a book and you feel your heart racing as you immerse yourself in the world the author had created and you’re living the story as much as you are reading it, watching it all unfold before you as if you were there.

It is within these rare moments that you become connected with the swirling pool of magic residing in your very own heart. When you’re accompanying these characters on their journey, with your heart racing as you inch ever closer to the climax, just to breathe a sigh of relief as you reach the conclusion, for whatever it may be. Leaving you with the resolution, which sometimes brings closure, or contempt, sometimes great sadness or joy, even on the rare occasion it brings great displeasure. Because for a few minutes, these characters, these words written on a page have become real.

For better or for worse, I grew up in a magic time, in a magic world which helped save me from the darker side of life, which is why I decided to write this. The few people who have heard about my life and my childhood tell me how inspirational my life is, because I didn’t let the darkness encroach around my heart and soul, didn’t let it define me. Even in the times when it threatened to swallow me whole.

Now this may sound clique, but my story is my own. It may not be for everyone and I may be writing for you, just you, because this isn’t going to be a story all about sunshine and rainbows. It’s about my life and my struggles with growing up in a broken home, with an abusive mother and only being able to see my father every other weekend, which became the only thing for me to look forward too. My father saved my life and helped salvaged what little childhood I had and made it worth living. I love my father, despite his flaws and short comings. I know he did his best and he still tries to always be there and support me when he can. It’s not possible to admire someone more than I do my own father.
Now I ran a bit long here so, you’ll have to wait until The Scars of who we are Part II, where I’ll actually dive into my childhood and how I actually survived my own abortion or so speak. But before I go, I would just like to inform my readers, that despite everything I been through, I survived. Even my suicide attempt I survived (obviously) but more than that, I persevered and overcame my demons and all my troubles. I’m fairly well-adjusted and my life has greatly improved and my only complaint is that there isn’t enough time in the day to do everything I want to do. But I look forward to each new day with enthusiasm, curiously, wonder, and grace. So keep reading and keep living.

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The next big thing.

Filed under: Losers. — Leave a comment
December 25, 2012

For this entry I decided to borrow a page from my friend Brad Covey, his blog is worth checking out, not only is he a longtime friend of mine, he’s also an aspiring writer, web designer and all around talented guy, who designed the cover for my upcoming book. So if you can please check him out here. http://designer.bradcovey.com/

Moving ever forward into that place where all dreams begin in a world where things go wrong and we never know why.

For this I’m borrowing a bit from Brad’s page. (No this isn’t plagiarism, he’s actually asked authors to do this in his blog, “The Next big thing” And I’m now accepting his challenge.)

“The Next Big Thing blog entry, Is a bit long in the making! I mean, I started this two weeks ago, wrote a bit on it last week, now I’m finally going through and finishing it. So if you’re an author please take the time and try this challenge, it’s not as easy as you may first believe.

What is the working title of your book?

The working title of my manuscript is Losers, something I feel strongly about from being a victim of child abuse and bullying myself. This book is follows my two protagonist, Kyle Reese, and Tiffany struggling to overcome their many obstacles and trials with the aid of their friends who face similar trials.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

Honestly, it came to me in a dream. I had started on working on a romantic love story, (So I can make Nichols’s Sparks eat his heart out) but every night I kept having the same dream. My characters wanted their story to be told, needed it be told.

What genre does your book fall under?
Present day.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Losers would need a very strong cast to pull off emotional driven story. I’m thinking either Dane Dehaan As Kyle Reese, Or Andrew Garfield, Mathew Fox as Robert Reese, Sandra Bullock As Miranda Reese, Paul Rudd As Mr. Remley, Brad Pitt as Sheriff Williams, Alex Russle As Zach Greeks, Thomas Mann as Derek Grober, Tiffany Williams will probably be the hardest to cast, just because she’s half native American. Other than the cast I mentioned, I would probability fill out the cast with relatively unknowns. But I would like to have actors who actually look to be the age their playing, not like almost every teen movie out there where everyone in High School looks like they’d have no problem going to a bar and buying a beer. Also on this note, I would like a cast that look like normal, every day people. I always get annoyed when I watch a movie about a school, where the entire cast look as if they could be models, which always takes me out of the movie, because it wasn’t how I remember high school.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?


 (This is going to be hard, and most likely a very long run on sentence.) Losers follows Kyle Reese a fifteen year old kid who moves to a new now and who’s already struggling to deal with and survive his abusive parents when he starts a new school, finding that he’s already the target of bullying, with his only solace being in 16 year old Tiffany Williams who’s a kindred spirit and with the aid of her two friends, they fight a certain strength in each other, together they stand against the perils that would otherwise destroy them.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I will probably be going the self-publishing rout because the ease of which will help get my story out there and with a little luck it could bring the attention of a few agencies.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
My manuscript is still a work in progress, and I have been working on and off on it for about a year now, I hope to have it done by mid-spring. I was hoping to have it finished but with working a full-time job and going to school, as well as keeping fit hadn’t left me with a lot of free time.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
I would think that my story is fairly original, or a original take on what I’m tackling as well the way I’m focusing the story to be very character driven with a explosive climax and the shocking resolution.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?
What inspired me? I would say this was a multi-faceted, first I dreamt about this story for several nights, then I started watching the news, reading about bullying, watching shows about it as well. So once I decided to write this book, I started talking to people, asking about their experience with school and if they ever been a victim of bullying, or simply hated or discriminated against. Also being a victim of child abuse where my mother used to beat me for putting my elbows on the table, then having to go to school and struggling just to be accepted and often finding myself being bullied or picked on instead. All too often had I felt completely alone and my only saving grace was the small group of friends I managed to find, or who found me. If it wasn’t for them I doubt I would have made it to where I am today.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
Losers deals with very real life situations of the darker side of life. Abuse, discrimination, school bullying and those who turn a blind eye to it, many believing the problem will solve itself. While others are simply afraid of getting involved, afraid that if they do, that they may find themselves being targeted just the same. Losers tells a very different story, that you never know what struggles someone else is going through, who hard it is for them to face simple and everyday challenges. No one really knows the courage it takes them to climb out of bed every morning and it doesn’t take a lot to really be a hero. All you have to do is just stand up for what’s right and show someone a small kindness, you’ll never know how far that kindness can go for someone, especially for someone who feels completely alone. But Losers is also a story of hope, of acceptance, how even in great darkness, there’s always a glimmer of light, of hope and friendship.
Thank you for checking out The Next Big Thing and hope to have more details soon for you about Losers.

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Tragedy..

Filed under: Life — Leave a comment
December 17, 2012

First I would like to apologize to my readers and fans, it’s been awhile since I made a new post, partly due to the fact that this lowly writer was battling strep. I did still write…granted all I did was work on my “Losers” Manuscript, which I now have to go over and revise. Because well, medication and being miserable and writing may not be the best way to write. Interesting, but still what little I did manage to write wasn’t anywhere near up to par to the level I usually like to write.

Then there was this tragedy that I’m sure we all heard about it and what about to say may sound cynical, cruel, or insensitive, (This means this is my opinion and only my opinion, if you don’t like hearing opinions you should probably stop reading…..now)

Okay, now this is why I believe this tragedy had happened, because of the media and the news reported it. To me the news media is a terrorist group; they spread fear and promote terror. Turn on the news and that’s all you see. They cover these horrific tragedies and every day, for weeks it becomes thee major topic that they focus on and cover from day to day. They display these poor and very disturbed lost souls like celebrities. Names like James Holmes, Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris, the list goes on and they all become household names. But I’m willing to bet not one person can name a single victim involved. The media had made these people famous and their despicable and gross acts are compared to one another as if it’s some sick game. They compare these killings and report how it had the second highest body count in our nation’s history which sets the bar for another twisted individual to try and outdo the previous. These same people would probably just off themselves in their parent’s basement, or in the privacy of their own bedroom if it weren’t for the media. But now, thanks to the media at large they sit and think how they can do something worse and be remembered as some sick, deplorable monster, instead of being quickly forgotten as the troubled and lost person that they are.
Then CNN talked about the shooting as if it was a ball game, talking about how if the body count held up, it would become the second deadliest shooting since Virginia Tech. They the networks plastered the shooters face on the news for hours, forever imprinting his image on our collective memories. I believe in these circumstances that the media should ignore and not report anything on the identity of these twisted individuals and if they must report on it, only report on the victims and their stories and completely omit the shooter’s identity entirely. But they won’t do this because it’s not sensational.  But they don’t do this, they news has to spread fear and terror and they do this by reporting on these events and the way they report them.

Even back with the tragic events back on 9-11 the news and media served to only fan the fear that was engulfing American’s. Causing people to attack or harass their neighbors and anyone who looked different, Indians, (From India) Arabs, people who were different and who’s only crime was wanting to come to America for a new life, who came here “legally” in hopes of achieving a better life. This is America, the land of opportunity and the people who were targeted had nothing to do with what happened.

Then I watch how people were on the news saying how afraid they were to travel, and the media fanned that fear. So now you have to go through endless security amounts of security just to get on a plane.

Then in the Batman shootings, people were saying how they were now afraid to go to a theater and enjoy a movie, followed by now, when I actually read an article about a woman being afraid to send her kids to school without an armed bodyguard. Then everyone wants to talk about fun control believing that to be a problem. When that is not a problem, not in the way many want to claim that it is. Criminals don’t abide the gun laws, they obtain firearms illegally, and they don’t follow the rules. Pointing fingers at gun control and jumping on that bandwagon only adds more fuel to the fire. Because all that does is make it more difficult for you, or I to obtain a firearm, which many consumers do buy for protection. If someone breaks into my home, I like the reassurance of having a firearm handy. Because for all I know the person breaking into my home may be carrying a weapon and may not care about my physical well-being.

So in this regard, I ask for everyone to turn off the news when you see this kind of reporting being done. Let them know by their ratings that we as a people find this kind of reporting unacceptable. So Instead of watching the news, take the time and be with your family, play some board games with loved ones, hug your kids, talk to your parents, visit your grandparents, become closer with your family. Value every moment you have with your friends and family. Then have a beer with a good friend, remember to laugh and don’t be afraid to show some kindness to a stranger, you’ll never know how much a small kindness may change someone’s day, or their life.

Then when all is said and done, donate to mental health research, turn off the news and remember, every day is a gift and every moment is precious, don’t take any of it for granted.

Thank you.

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It Ain’t the truth we chase

Filed under: Poetry — Leave a comment
December 6, 2012

I have no name for these open wounds,
Because on my own is all I’ve ever been,
I see the world from rusted tracks,
Carrying the memories of a distant past,
As I ride these rails without ever looking back,
For my life is all wrapped up in the day,
For there’s no past or future here,
No blinding light, or darkness left to fight,
Leaving nothing else to fear,
Because nothing else seems real,
So I follow these dreams and chase the truth,
And if I find my name’s no good,
I’ll fall out of line,

And I miss you,
But there’s no coming home,
There’s no going home,
And the sky becomes a sea of blue,
And I know there’s no going back,
And I speak true,
But everyone knows,
Everyone knows,
I can’t let you go…

I’ve seen more places than I can name,
When your tired it all looks the same,
Masked faces, a haunting masquerade,
All dancing in and out of line,
For it’s not the truth we all chase,
It’s the promise of a better place,
And I’ve been searching down a lie,
I can’t find the truth,
And I don’t know what it is,
Just empty towns and people passing by,
Nothing left to do, so I’ll take the lie,
And I still dream of you,
But there’s no going back,
Nothing left to pursue,
Just the sound of the train,
And I know there’s no coming home,
Because I have no name,
Just rusted tracks for me to roam,
Even as all the stars begin falling like rain,
As the sky grows starless to mask it’s pain,
And I’ve always known I wouldn’t be back,
I’ve always known what it is,
As the sky turns pitch black,
But it beats the alternative,
So I fall out of line,
And never look back,
And everyone knows,
Everyone knows,
I still think of you.

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Why I write.

Filed under: About me. — 3 Comments
December 5, 2012

-Sometimes, we must journey through an eternity of darkness and pain in order to find our true selves.”-J Cooper

Seriously, writing is hard, and I am occasionally crazy and sometimes I can be a bit spacey. I can normally be found staring into space, talking to myself, or acting out elaborate scenes almost as if I’m choreographing an epic play. Because sometimes I kind of am. When it comes to my writing, I tend to skip making your basic outline, and web, instead I simply begin writing little mini chapters, or (type being the more opportune word or if you simply want to be a jerk about it and call be a typist) I sometimes skip around and write summaries or even chapters I’ve already played out and planned in my head. So I guess you can say I’m a very unconventional writer.

Although before I even begin writing I often create character bios, background, making an entire history to shape and mold the characters I write about. Each character has his or her mini story, so before I even begin to write, I already have my characters in place, their motivations and reasons why they are the way they are. I often imagine what it would be like to be each one of my characters, or simply be the casual observer, passing my characters by along the street.

Then I usually tell myself my writing sucks and no one would ever read my crap. (It’s always good to keep a realistic grasp of the situation.) But I always dive into the story regardless, knowing that the characters have taken on a life of their own and want their stories to be heard, stories that need to be explored.

Once I’ve written or typed (if you still want to be a jerk and call me a typist) the equivalent of 30-40 pages, I usually read, or skim over it for mistakes, revisions before I feel comfortable enough to let someone else read it, at which point I become a twelve year boy, who just passed a note to a pretty girl in class, because I get all giddy with anticipation to hear their feedback, thoughts and to talk to them about my story. Because I love feedback both the positive and the negative, because I can always correct the negative and the good always assures me I’m on the right track.

But I write almost every day, including when I’m on vacation. Sometimes for ten minutes, sometimes for 2 hours, sometimes for 12 hours; most often something rational and in-between. I don’t have a daily quota. I just write however much I write, and my plan is always changeable. I don’t force myself to write if it’s not working. I try not to check email or do other distracting things, but I don’t succeed very often, and that’s okay, because small rests and distractions are part of the process and help get those brain juices flowing.

My ideas tend to start with characters in my head who are having a conversation– usually arguments, or find themselves being tested, be it their faith, relationships, their dreams, or just their lives. Although most of my stories come from my dreams, where I often become more of a passenger in someone else’s body, witnessing their triumphs, their failures, their victories and their defeats, and  I’m always there with them along their journey. But then I listen to my characters, they’re so angry sometimes, or sad, so introspective and they all talk to me, like ghosts from another life who wants their stories to be heard and I can’t disappoint them. They want the world to know who they are and why, to know what their fighting for, and what it is they want. There’s everything from hate and vengeance, to redemption and salvation, all the way to stories of all-encompassing and all powerful love. More importantly however these characters want to live!

And so it all starts to come together.

Characters, relationships, and feelings come first. Then the setting, plot, and so on, till the story begins forming, coming together and much like Frankenstein’s monster, begins taking on a life of its own, writing itself at that point. Which is also usually when my fingers struggle to keep up with everything flowing and racing to get out of my brain and there are parts of the plot I don’t know until I get to them in the book itself, and (breath) it’s then they happen and even I get surprised and feel the suspense building, and the relief…or sometimes the disappointment in the resolution. Because not every story can end well, or even on a high note. Some and the very best stories are often wrought with tragedy and pain, but more importantly growth.

My characters are similarly elusive. A conversation I’m writing may veer off course or get out of hand; I can intend a character to say something, but it doesn’t mean he or she will. Instead my characters often surprise me. And then I realize I was wrong about who it was they were, or I realized my character had been growing this whole time and I adjust my perceptions and stand aside as my characters grow, mature, or sometimes regress and withdraw.

What else can I tell you about my writing process?

I sit in an armchair.

I spend a lot of time staring into space.

I talk to myself….a lot

I make playlist for whatever story I’m writing and call it my soundtrack.

I count the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling.

I act out scenes to see and feel how they would play out, by imagining I’m them and every other character in the scene and thrust myself into their situation, studying every scenario and going over every outcome I can imagine. This sometimes even leads me to me writing a brief side story explaining the minor or supporting characters motives as well as telling their story as a whole.

I walk from the living room to the bedroom in search of something specific and by the time I get there I’ve forgotten what I was looking for and then I remind myself to break myself of the control the TV has over me and I try to sketch, or doodle something I see in my head until I forget whatever the heck it is that I’m doing, before I finally crack my knuckles and dive back into my writing.

When people knock on the door, I hide. When my phone rings, I yell, “Oh, who in the blazes is bothering me now?!” and don’t answer. But always check to see if they left me a nice little message.

Or when I’m stuck on a piece I call up a trusted friend explain a scene to them and ask for their thoughts, then throw out everything they say and come up with something completely different and new as I thank them for all their help and support right before hanging up on them in mid-sentence.

When I go for walks in the neighborhood I carry my Ipad and can often be seen exclaiming in triumph or scowling or laughing maniacally as I type frenziedly on it’s lovely keyboard before screaming out with vengeance, “Damn you autocorrect!” as I raise my fist to the heavens and shake it vigorlessly towards the sky.

Sometimes I worry that the house is going to burn down. This is why I keep my notebook in a fireproof, waterproof safe and have invested a small fortune in USB drives, portable hard drives, which I have scattered all over my house and place them inside my lovely safe. So when I go on vacation, I leave the key on top of the safe with a note for robbers asking them to please open the safe before deciding to steal it, because if they’d only open it, they’d see a picture of me, with a note pleading to them not to steal it, for I am a lowly writer and I will one day write a story that changes the world, because people will read again! And if they steal from me, I will find them and forever immortalize them in my next book, giving them every character flaw known to man, also explaining that I’m most likely broke and don’t keep any useful banking info on my computer, so there’s nothing really worth stealing anyway.

Before I had a fireproof, waterproof safe, I kept my notebook in a padded carrying case, which never left my side. Then Stephen King had told me that sometimes you’re too close and you just have to back away from your writing for a while– sometimes a long while and sometimes even longer than that. Things are a lot clearer after you’ve had some distance. Much like an ex-girlfriend who no matter how hard you tried making things work, the relationship simply falls apart and can’t be saved. But also like the rare ex, when she calls you up after a period of eleven months you begin to discover her all over again and remember why you had fallen in love with her in the first place. Which I’ll remind you, can cause a whole mess of other problems. But I digress…

I worry constantly about whatever book I’m currently writing. I worry about the wording, I worry about the themes, the plot as a whole, whether the characters seem to others the way they seem to me, whether the book is getting too long, whether my protagonist is likable, whether my fantasy world is consistent, whether I’ll be able to hold everything together, whether there’s even anything worth holding. There is never a moment when I don’t have something to worry about. I have learned however that this is just what it feels like to write a book. Most of the time, I can keep it from bothering me. You get good at ignoring the voices. Or giving them the attention that’s best for them: listening to them and laughing and giving them a hug, and saying, “Yes, I know you’re worried. It’s okay. Let’s go watch a pretty sunset and oh, let’s go get us a nice strawberry smoothie!”

I take my writing way too seriously. I can’t help it. I love it so much and writing is my life. Without I doubt I would have ever survived craziness of it all.

And writing is a strange activity, but humans are weird, right? A writer is an extreme type of a human being, we tend to over analyze everything, although we seem very good at reading people and noticing subtle plot changes, which by no means do we ever like it when it happens. I for one love and embrace change, while I also hate and fear change as well. But that’s just me and I’m a writer and writers are a little eccentric, a little weird and we’re all complex souls and I’m no exception. Because I also find that everything has its own soundtrack and whenever I write a new story I can be often be found making a playlist to coincide with my story, which helps me get into tune with my story and even helps with some much needed inspiration at times, and helps block out all the white noise after a long and arduous day of maintaining one’s sanity at their day job, along with all the little nuances that come with having a personal life.

So this is why I write and I hope I hadn’t bore you much, for I did try to be humorous because writing is supposed to be fun and should have some personality, and I think we can all agree that (Good) writing should inspire some kind of feeling, hope, love, fear, excitement or leaving you feel simply inspired.

-J Cooper.

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