This might come off as more of a rant than anything else, but for those of you who follow me who are readers, or writers, or editors, I believe you will find something worth reading here.

First, allow me to give you a bit of reasoning for this.  I was reading a completed book, fully published and all, and I noticed some glaring issues.  Now, when I say “glaring” I am not inferring that there were some minor errors detracting from the experience I like to enjoy as a reader.  I’m saying I had to stop reading it.  Regardless of how engrossing the story was, the issues pulled me out.

That being said, allow me to speak from the reader’s perspective first. 

There is nothing like getting lost in a book.  The wonder of a moment, or the horror of what the protagonist has to endure; perhaps, even, a life-changing event – and I’m not talking about the story, but how the story might shape my own life.  That being said, nothing pulls me from a story faster than an abundance of little things, or a horrible ending.  In the book I was reading, from the get go there was a problem with tense.  Hard to get drawn in when I’m seeing “are” “was” “is” and “were” all in the same sentence, or when there are commas where commas shouldn’t be, and a lack of commas where they surely should have been.  It wasn’t about the errors, but the amount of errors.

As the little problems start adding up, so too, does my disinterest.  If you, the author, cannot find the right people to help you, take the time.  Right now, indie authors get a bad rep from many avenues.  It’s as if we have to wade through the muck to find the gems.  Of course, the mainstream crap hasn’t been much kinder to us in recent years, which is why I often find myself re-reading the classics.  At least those are worth my time.  This goes along with something I learned a while back: when writing fantasy, I have found that unique fantastical names are cool, but we have to be cautious about it.  Names that are far too long or are impossible to pronounce, no matter how good the story might be, will pull us out, our suspension of disbelief halted as we seek out something we can dig into.

This leads us into my thoughts as a writer…

I know the struggles of a writer as well.  I understand notes, outlines, first drafts, second drafts, etc…  I know all too well the fact that the work going into these works of fiction or non-fiction, these works from within our mind, is intense and incredibly time consuming.  On top of all of this, odds are that only those closest to us will ever truly read and enjoy our work, as we struggle to find an audience in a prayer that we will be able to pay our bills one day without having to deal with the 9-5 grind.  Our realities and our dreams are often far too disparate for us to see any real hope of becoming the next J.K. Rowling, or GRRM.

However, I believe that my work should be able to speak for itself.  That my talents as a writer should be able to carry itself.  That if by some chance I could market myself well enough to gain interest, that interest would be rewarded with a good time lost in my words.  But that takes work, commitment.  It takes time and perseverance.  In addition to this, however, it also takes a bit of a strive for perfection.  We should be facing our goals with a determination to produce only the finest quality.

Why do we fall short?  Is it our stubbornness in not accepting criticism?  Maybe we depend on ourselves far too much to be able to see where our biggest faults lie, often in a struggle between what we want to do and who we allow into our inner circle, or mind for that matter.  We can word well, right?  So why do we need help?  And even for those of us who have multiple eyes on our works, things are still missed.  But small bits of mis-punctuation or typos can be acceptable as long there aren’t too many.  Even some minor line issues can be overlooked in a fantastic story.  The problem comes with the quantity found.

We need to park our collective egos, and not just ask for help, but accept it, no matter the form.

And, finally, thoughts from an editor…

My goal as a reader is to get lost in someone’s world.  My goal as a writer is to create such a world that others might get lost in it.  My goal as an editor is to help my client produce the best possible product – whether it’s a novel, short story, poem, or any number of technical documents or resumes.

I firmly believe that everyone has their own voice.  And if I cannot find a voice in their writing I will take the time to work with them so that they can find their story, told only in the way they can tell it.  With that said, however, I am certain to point out any and all issues, or potential issues, in their manuscripts.  There are various types of editing: proofreading, line editing, copy editing, content editing, developmental editing, among other types, and many of these overlap in meaning from person to person.  Finding a trusted, good editor can make all the difference between publishing a story and publishing a story that will be able to keep our readers engaged.

We should care as much about the manuscript as our client does.  Some of us might ask for a summary of the story in an effort to see how well the author actually knows their story, and also to understand how the story is supposed to unfold.  If an editor turns down your work because of too many problems, do not be dismayed, but fix these issues, unless you’re willing to pay your editor for the proofreading as well.  Personally, I can handle it all, but sometimes it looks as though the writer just sent us a first draft, without really trying to give us something to work with.  At this point, what you’re asking for is developmental editing, and that will end up very costly.  Use tools found in Word, or OpenOffice, or any other writing program you use.  There are tools such as Grammerly, or the Hemingway app.

If you want your editor to care about your story, please care enough to do the work as well…

Thanks for your time.

Robert

Icarus’ desire sought the sun
and wrought a father’s sorrow,
a dance with Fate might melt,
but what of the glory of the sun?

What sheer magnificence he saw.
How wonderful Icarus’ view –
that he could gaze upon the sun,
and indeed, the world, as he did?

What is the measure of strength? What is strength? What arbitrary lines have been drawn in the sand that tell me how or what or why?

I have spent much of my life in various forms of martial arts. Starting at four when my dad first suspected that I was being sexually molested, I was being trained, privately, by masters in these various forms. In my dad’s eyes, it would be best if I weren’t a victim, and the best way to not be a victim is to know how to defend oneself.

But while the majority of martial arts is internal, and can certainly help against those things that are not physical, at four this is not the purpose, nor is it the focus.

You see, it was the physical defense that meant more to my dad. A bookworm like me would most likely be considered physically weak by my peers, so what better way to protect me from that than by teaching me how to protect myself? This is the perception of strength with which I grew up. This is what strength meant to me for so long, and in many ways it isn’t wrong…it’s simply incomplete.

Physical strength is but one small aspect. When I joined the military, following in my father’s footsteps, he told me that it would all come down to heart. He made me understand that I was going to be trained to kill, to take the life of another human being, and that I must be okay with that if I am to serve the nation in such a capacity. He helped me realize that the physical was nothing compared to the ability to persevere in the face of adversity, that I had to have the strength to overcome the degradation, the yelling, the belittling. I was a prideful young man, confident in his intelligence, so I must park my ego.

This led me to discovering even more about life. Being physically strong is good, being able to defend myself was great, but the real strength lies within. It was the most important aspect of all the martial arts I’d taken over the years, and it was only barely being understood.

One day, I decided to face my demons, head-on. This led to a journey of self discovery that I am eternally grateful for. For I was able to become just a little bit better, I was able to grow into someone better than I had been. I was once a rage-filled individual fighting daily for the acceptance of those around me. I became a pacifist who was at peace with himself for the first time.

I am still a fighter. I still value intelligence above all else. But I also value the spirit, the heart of those around me. Strength, I have learned, is not about protecting myself against those who mean to wrong or harm me, it goes beyond that. It goes into the spirit. True strength is being able to look yourself in the mirror and actually like who you see looking back at you. True strength is celebrating the greatness in other around you without any need for validation for yourself. True strength is loving the unlovable. True strength is being able to withstand others trying to tear you down yet standing as firm as a mountain. It’s standing up for what you believe in when it isn’t popular or socially acceptable. True strength is often found in the outcast, the misfit, the broken, for they have found a way to continue on when so many would simply tap out.

I am a man who is prone to depression. And I am not alone – this is the important bit. For the time being, we are still standing, and many are fighting their fight alone, their strength waning. It is not a bad thing to lose heart, it is a bad thing to think that the only strength is that found in doing it alone, for the true weakness is found in not asking for help, as I had refused. Twice, I nearly killed myself. But I was lucky both times. First because of my grandmother who had died believing in me, and second because a friend saw the signs and ordered me to see someone…

Perhaps, sometimes in weakness we can find our strength as well. Lessons learned…

Thanks for reading.

Cast into darkness of darkness’ shadow,
Far from home, where heaven’s light could be found
Within my soul, and I within its bow,
Where the arc of the rainbow’s promise bound

My gently beating heart to Eden’s tree
Whose life was bestowed upon my dark ire,
From beyond the realm of Solitude’s sea
Across the depths of the ocean’s sapphire,

The fallen one, with wings of sorrow’s bite,
I was no more, joined only by shallow breath,
Alone with my sins and fears, a pitied sight,
For in failure, my only reward…death

And so it was, that I would be destroyed,
Until angels rescued this little boy…

The embrace of shadow. The darkness, I have found, is as comforting as it is frightening. There is a sense of deep loss, but also of pure release. It is a world of paradoxes, a world where the numbing cold of doubt and trepidation can become a warming comfort of realization and confidence. Where being sightless means we can finally see the truth.

The light, in stark contrast, is searing, burning into our flesh with eyes of purified judgment. It cares nothing for anything aside from its pure state, and that it should remain pure in all ways.

But humanity is not pure. We are a broken species, with a sense of self that is contingent upon experiences, and many have suffered greatly. I believe our hope in the light is mistaken, that the painfully blinding nature of light was never created to be kind; that the fearful nature of darkness is merely a social construct, and offers more comfort and truth than its counterpart.

Just some random thoughts early on a Monday morning…

Disclaimer: This post will most likely piss many off. If this is a touchy subject for you, and you lack objectivity in any way, move on.

This may be one of the most divisive posts I’ve written. Everyone who reads this will have their own opinion already formulated as to how bad racism is, or that perhaps it isn’t as much a problem as people seem to make out. Whatever take you have on it, we must not push this aside.

Webster’s Dictionary defines racism as: “a belief that race is the primary determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race.” With the definition as our basis, let’s take a look at this.

Many of us know about Hitler’s “superior” race, the Aryans. This is a sect that is still very much alive in the world today, filled with people who are filled with hatred for anyone who doesn’t have the same skin tone, or shaved head (a more recent development for some of those who define themselves as Aryan), or you fill in the blank. I’m sure you’ve seen them, or at the very least have heard of them. It’s the idea that they are superior that leads them to figuring out ways to set them apart, to show that they are better than those who may have color in their skin.

The Ku Klux Klan is another such sect. Started much earlier than the Aryan Brotherhood, this group of Democrats (at the time) were filled with resentment at the idea of freed blacks and were a terror group meant to incite fear and hatred for the black community. Theirs was as much a response to the changing government as it was to their superior ethos.

When it comes to subjects like slavery, we can go back to the beginning of recorded history and see that slavery has always been an institution. It still exists today, in terms of human trafficking and sex slaves throughout the world, quite prevalent in America today. But we’re not here to discuss slavery, we’re here to discuss racism. So let’s dive into this, shall we?

Racism is about one’s race. So let us just nip this one in the bud. While there are varying ethnicities, cultures, etc., there is one race. The human race. The idea of race is a social construct, and biologically, while there are differences between the different cultural and ethnic groups throughout the world, we are all still one race, one species. Aside from outward appearance – skin tone, nose shape, eye shape, hair – humans are basically identical to one another, with no discernable genetic differences. Certain diseases may be more prevalent to a certain group, but often those types of things are found to be due more to habitat, lifestyle and food available to them (which includes how they prepare their food, what types, etc).

Which brings us to the reality that what we have to combat is the social construct.

Let’s get personal for a second. I’m Hispanic. I was raised Hispanic in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood, in a predominantly Hispanic town and went to a school where many of my friends were Hispanic. But I also grew up where there were gangs and with the drugs and violence associated with those gangs being around me from early childhood. Were the gangs and their associated illegal activities because of the Hispanic neighborhood? Was the “race” to blame for a proclivity toward this kind of behavior? Or was it more systemic?

These things, and more, I sought to answer as I got older. What I found was that the Hispanics that made up that particular gang were Hispanics simply because of the dominance of that particular group, in that area. Also, social issues like poverty and a distinct lack of parents at home (both parents working long hours) helped to lead to a need for the youngsters to feel wanted, and this led to the gang’s growth. These young men and women could find work, often in dealing drugs, and could, at least for that fleeting moment, change the circumstances they found themselves in.

Countless studies have been conducted on the nature vs nurture aspects of sociology, and every legitimate study I’ve looked at over the years has found that nurture is far more important to the growth of the mind and body. In short, it’s not about your genetics as much as it is about how you’re raised, and in many cases, where. City or rural? Inner city or suburbs? Section 8 housing or a mansion? Wise parents or parents who just don’t give a damn? These are the things that matter.

Biologically speaking, it is genetic variation that produces the strongest offspring. As such, the idea of a superior race is ludicrous, at best.

I have seen in my lifetime that people tend to gravitate toward others who are like them, which makes sense. But how do they determine what makes another person similar to themselves? Often times, it is skin tone first, then personal history. We almost don’t realize we’re doing it, but we automatically segregate ourselves based on who we perceive is the best fit for us, and is most often based on what we see first. That instant judgment we cast.

Then, the more time we spend with these individuals, the more like them we will become. You see, we are nothing more than a product of our environment. We turn into the things we surround ourselves with the most. This is the beginning of the problems we see around us.

Why does racism exist? Because we classify ourselves. Because we find people who we believe are most like us and we become that person. Because then, we decide we want to belong, and turn into a person we may or may not like. I call this effect reverse racism.  It is important to distinguish what I’m saying here from the liberal take on reverse racism, citing it as simply another means of belittling an evident issue, detracting from the inherent problem we are currently dealing with. However, how else do we explain black groups who hate the whites for their skin color (they may claim “white privilege” but that’s not really it).

It’s odd. As I’ve watched the news and videos surrounding the Black Lives Matter movement, I’ve noticed something ironic. It’s an air of superiority these particular blacks seem to have around them, as though they are better than the whites who are nearby, in some cases attacking them simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

As I’ve said in previous posts, there is an idea that seems prevalent – that because my ancestry was slighted, so, too am I. This is wrong. I went on to make the point that we are nothing more than a cumulative sum of our choices. This is what is missing from the picture.

In 2008, the United States made history, electing its first African American president, ushering in hope and change for the United States. Except it was more of the same, and in those eight years of Obama’s term, he did some good as well as some not so good. But one thing that got exacerbated beyond all recognition was the topic of race. Obama was elected, in large part I think, because of his skin tone. Because so many were wanting to force the issue on America, to prove we had finally moved beyond our petty differences. A beautiful notion, to be sure, and I thought it was a nice symbol overall, even though I didn’t vote for Obama, and haven’t much cared for him as a president.

That being said, however, it should be noted that the racial divides and tensions, mirroring the political divides and tensions, have gotten really bad in the past eight years. Every bit of forward progress we had made up to that point seems to have been erased. And we did it to ourselves, through our own ignorance and stupidity.

There is no race. There is only us. The wrongs of the past are past. The wrongs of today, while present, are not what we make them out to be. We are prone to exaggeration, and because of that we make mountains out of mole hills, we make the issues more than they are. I don’t know, perhaps what we need is a little more perspective. Maybe what we need is less selfishness and a little more selflessness. Maybe we need to do is let go of our past, so we can make for ourselves a better future for us and our children.

We must never forget. But we cannot dwell.

One day, I would love for others to see us as I do. A tiny blue speck in a sea of stars and inky blackness. If the earth is literally nothing in the vastness of the universe, what then do we matter? As of right now, we are all we have. And right now, it seems we’re pretty set on stepping on each other and killing each other off in an attempt to be king of our nothing world. What matters, my friends, what truly matters, is not you, not me, but everything and everyone that surrounds us. Let us expand our minds, collectively, and rise above the petty nonsense that describes us best today.

I can only speak from personal experience here. But I imagine that for most writers, there is some kind of conduit or lens through which our stories – be they short stories, novels, poetry, etc. – are written through.

For me, that lens is through experiences in life. As I have grown over time into the man I am now, I have walked through more than a few hells, and faced more than a few demons. I believe it is the same for us all.

As I walk through an outline of what I want the story to be, or say, I think about the things that make for compelling storytelling. Difficulty, in nearly every possible way. Despair and hopelessness, a couple of friends who have found a permanent place in my life, really lead toward life-changing events. But only when the very depths of the darkness have been found can one understand the light. And that is where hope comes in.

These few elements, while simplistic in understanding, are what I have found make for the best stories, because understanding what these are is only the beginning, and the journey is filled varying shades of all of these, to varying degrees of complexity. The hero’s journey may lead to one becoming a hero…or to a hero falling from grace.

I think everyone has dealt with these issues in life. I don’t think the hells we endure are justified, ever, but they can make for knowing, on a deeper level, the very things that make us human, and even in fantasy we can apply these ideas, these ideals, the best and worst of those things we’ve been witness to, and out of these things we create a tale, woven through with elements of all.

I believe the truth behind the story is what makes the best stories. It is said that the author is hidden within their tale. Perhaps in one of the characters, or maybe in events that happen to the characters. This, to me, is what makes the reader hate or love these characters. I’ve found myself hating characters because they remind me of me, and all the worst of me, too.

So I guess what I’m trying to say here, is to remember that when you’re reading a book, a poem, or a story of any type, that you are reading someone’s life. Their time, their energy, and most importantly, elements of what made them who they are…

Thank you.

I wake up to the nightmare again. I can still see their faces, and I feel a mix of terror and anger, as though I was still that helpless young boy they took advantage of, and ruined.

Despair and ruination was all I knew. My memories will forever haunt me, but as I come to, I realize that it was all in the past, although telling that to my anger won’t calm me so quickly.

I grew up with rage and fear. None of which was made better by the actions of my loved ones surrounding me, save for my grandma, but then I lost her at the age of 11, so I found myself alone again.

Having dealt with PTSD since then, and no one really knowing what it was until more recently, I had to overcome my demons, or worse could happen. You see, I learned since then that if I were going to survive, I had to fight back. What I didn’t know or figure out until much later was: what am I fighting, and why does it matter that fight this fight?

My subsequent depressions told me something else. They reminded me that I was nothing. That I didn’t matter. That my soul was tainted, and beyond repair. That my fight was a selfish one, because my life was irrelevant. That I might as well do everyone a favor and just exit the world with whatever grace I may still have.

It would take me years, and many times very near suicide, to finally figure out that my depression was right.

Let me explain. I don’t matter. My life is just one among nearly 7 billion others. The earth would not miss me, and the universe cares even less. I’m insignificantly tiny, literally nothing, when considering the grandeur of the wonders that surround us.

But there is something that does matter. What matters is how I choose to perceive the world, and whether or not I choose to better it. What matters is how I treat my fellow human. What matters is everything around me.

Depression, when it creeps its ugly head, is about me. Joy, it turns out, is about everyone and everything that surrounds me. This does not, and cannot, negate depression or its effects, but for me, it gives me perspective as long as I can remind myself of these things. And if my words can give support or hope to those who have been where I have, then it was all worth it, and I would face my demons again…just to see you smile one more time.

Thanks for reading,

Robert

Dark, with depths unknown,
a well without a spring
lays patiently in wait
for summer rains that never come.

The brush, long since dried,
is frustrated, caught between
solemn stones and playful winds.

A pattern is seen within the sand
being blown about, a waltz with
decaying leaves flitting as
butterflies in broken synchronicity.

Her long hair partially hides her
face in strange wisps,
odd shadows forming as the sun
grasps hopelessly for more day,

lips curled at the precipice
…of a smile.

I am an introvert.

Apparently, I am part of approximately half of the world’s population.  Although there are varying degrees to which introversion takes hold.  I can’t say to which degree I am, but I can say that I really covet my alone time in order to recharge my batteries.

Lately, however, this has gotten harder and harder.  Even the simple public activities where I am not speaking with anyone has been draining.  The light in all this, however, is that there are a select few people who can help keep me going, mostly by just being the type of conversationalist I need in my day to day life.

Between family, work, sports and school, my days are packed, scheduled and all around don’t belong to me.  I really don’t know how much longer I can go before I disappear for a while.  Maybe I can find a quiet little hovel, bring my favorite book, and just sit down to enjoy.  I don’t require much, just some peace and quiet, maybe a glass of wine, and either a good book or some paper and a pen.

I grew up with extroverted parents and brothers.  I was the oddball out.  No one in my loud, obnoxious family could understand how I could just sit in my room and read all day, or play with my Legos, completely lost in another world of my own creation.  I remember being forced to go outside and play – I’d be out there for 10 minutes tops, and then I was back in my room.

Granted, there were other reasons for my hiding from the world, to be sure, but we won’t go into those things in this post.  My nature was simply to hide from it all, let the world pass me by while I enjoyed other worlds, even if only fantasy.  I still do this sometimes.

As I work on my stories, I find myself transported back in time, to when I was sitting on my bed, reading a good book, maybe Lord of the Rings, or the Chronicles of Narnia.  I picture myself in any one of those suspenseful moments, at the edge of my seat, excited and jumping out of my skin to see what’s going to happen next.  While I’m not that good of a writer, I do believe that this is where I’d like to be.

Being introspective, and seeing things from an outside perspective, even if it’s like looking at myself through a time lens, seems to help me grow.

I think in doing this, I have been able to maintain my childlike wonder.  My awe at the little things.  I remember freaking out a few years back because we were taught in grade school that plants “eat” light.  What I never realized until I was in the physics world was that plants literally catch photons…and for those of us who had never thought about that, and understand just how impossibly small a photon is…this is a huge deal.

I love the feeling of being able to be excited by something.  Even if I know the subject matter.  I love it when others share in my enthusiasm and we get even more excited over some mutual affectation.

What is maturity?  I fear maturity is an excuse to put aside the child within, and lose yourself to the hells of life.  Because of this, I live each day as though maturity is nothing more than an option.  Sure, I have my wife and daughters, and there comes responsibilities along with all of this, but that is simply a matter of growing older.  My hope is that I am able to foster and help maintain the same wonder and awe within my little girls.

As I’ve told my parents, I am happy with who I am, because it’s allowed me to keep or develop a part of me that so many tried to steal from me so early in my life.

But that tale is for another time.  Thanks for listening.