ASPIRING to Stop Aspiring

Are you an aspiring author? No, you're not. If you're a writer at all, then you're a writer. What makes a writer "aspiring" is a person who's planning on writing. A writer needs to write. A few words here, a few words there. It doesn't have to be on your WIP. The next time you eat out and you dine in, have a notebook with you (a pad of paper, though if you must your laptop). Have a pen handy, and just think about anything. If it helps, clear your mind and let randomness fill it. Is their customer near you who loves to hear himself speak, and makes you wish you charged the iPod before you left the house? If so write it down, then add a couple elements to it to make this person a character in a possible story. Use what you have to write.

We are writers; making word-sauce is what we do. No one ever said it had to be Stephen King, and even the King of horror bows to editors, his wife (also one of his editors non-officially) and the onslaught of criticism of his work. And as he says, "a professional is the amateur who didn't give up."

You don't have to write the next great American novel, or sell the screenplay that makes you copious amounts of money. Maybe you're in this for the big bucks, and that's fine, but if that's all writing is for you, then I have nothing for you. But if you write because you're a writer, then the content in which you write can be anything. Only worry about your content and the quality of it when you decide to submit it.

I have WIPS, most writers do. But I also have a story I'm editing that needs to be sent back, and a couple of short stories to finish. We writers have an ongoing pile of stories to write. And new ideas are always popping up. Write them down, and try to remember where you store them (unlike me who tends to forget which notepad, or which computer file has the deets that I'm looking for). Keep back ups of all computer documents, I use Dropbox, I have it on two computers; I save in public space so all I need is my password when I use a different computer. I use jump drives and back up to Google Docs. I have problems with Google Docs glitching up, but it does make for additional storage.

There's a lot that may go into writing, but most of it is about life habits, and mostly small ones at that. I take my book bag with me everywhere I go, and I keep a binder with folders and two notebooks inside with several pens. It's my mobile command desk. Along with a Kindle (with not just books but files I uploaded so I can work on drafts without internet), and when I remember to pack it my laptop.

You can also just keep it easy, have a pocket notepad, and a couple of pens (at least three) on your person. There is no "aspiring" to write. You just do it. Now, you aspire to be published, and aspire to improve on your craft, or aspire to be more like your favorite author; but that's completely different. Look at yourself in the mirror, and say, "Self, you're a writer." Or something like that. It was when I stopped calling myself an aspiring writer that I became a published writer. Aspiring makes it too easy to put things off, and if you say you're something then you have to prove it time and again. Your words on paper or computer is the proof you're a writer. Program your brain to believe. If you feel in your heart of hearts that you're a writer, then prove it. Now prove it again. I'm sorry, I only kind of believe you, prove it again… You are writer, bleed ink on those pages!

Keep on writing, make those lovely batches of word-sauce, and call yourself a writer. Or a Pen-Monkey (Chuck Wendig's label he coined), I like that one personally. Now go snuggle with your muse, play Pattie-Cake, whatever you and your muse do.

LEAVING Nemo (Nobody)

Author Dale Eldon

"I have a very strong feeling that the opposite of love is not hate - it's apathy. It's not giving a damn."~Leo Buscaglia

More and more people are becoming apathetic. For some, they just don’t see a reason to care. For others it’s a survival mechanism. By not caring they can live a happy life which is an oxymoron. They care only to live in bliss even at the sacrifice of things they care about.

Relationships, the world around them, anything that threatens their bliss. And when things happen where they might have to care, and understand, they crawl back inside of their hole. They push harder and harder to become a nobody, or as it is in Latin, a nemo.

It’s easier to move on and be happy when you don’t have to care about anything. The more you limit your emotions, the more you just exist without empathy or sympathy, the better your life is; well from this perspective.

But this is the epidemic of our modern society. Instead of reaching for God, or leaning on those who care about them, they work on not caring themselves. Which means they end up losing feeling for those or things they love.

Maybe it’s because I’m a writer, but then again I've always cared. Maybe it’s because I've always been a writer even before I picked up a pen. What I do know is that I care too much for those who do not. They’re incapable of understanding because they don’t care to. They’re unwilling to care about my perspective. And that’s okay, but to me apathy is death.

As a writer I care about a lot of things. I look at them as a child would. I care about people I love even when they become apathetic. I care about those I use to hate because really they’re only a version of me if I went down a different path. To be apathetic to them would mean I’d deserve the same in return. I don’t. If people don’t want to care, then that’s their problem. I can’t make their lives better for them, they have to do that. They’re adults, they have to want it. For those who claim that I have helped them, I couldn't have done so without their willingness. And they’re some of the best people I know.

I have a huge amount of respect and love for those who can pull themselves up, and carry on and do so with love and passion. Those very people I hold a level of understanding for more than they will ever realize; why? Because I care. Because I’m not apathetic. If I was I wouldn't be an important factor of their lives, and rightfully so.

I don’t want to be a nobody. My name’s not Nemo. And let me tell you apathetics out there something, without the few people who care about me, I’d be nothing. Which would make me a nobody. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to name call here, but look at it this way, if you don’t care about anything or anyone, then who are you? Why should you matter? What’s the point to anything in your life? Just think about it. I’d rather see people wake up and become a somebody than stay the way they are. People have the chance to shine; some of the worse have the brightest center. They just need to care.

And this isn't only the worse thing in the world, which it is, it’s even worse for us writers. We need to care. We need to love. I can write a book from the POV of a monster human or not, go so dark it makes your stomach churn, but that doesn't mean I don’t care. The reason I can write dark stories is because I do care. I recognize that they’re dark. If I didn't care then it wouldn't matter if they’re dark or not.

Love. Passion. Do it and repeat. Be fulfilled. Don’t be empty, don’t be a nobody. And if you are a nobody, if there's a faint hint of care in your heart, then do something about it. We can't change the world, but we can change ourselves.

MAKING MinceMeat Out of Lemons

Just some noobie-writer-advice from me to any other noobies out there. If you are like me, then you just might suffer from several plagues that infect your work.

It seems like I was born the red-headed-step-child, even though I have brown hair when I'm not sporting the bald look. All my life I have a bit slow on the uptake., lazy (this one is changeable), and somehow evoke animosity from others before I even have the chance to do something wrong. I'm easily distracted, and SUCK at math. I have more enemies than friends, and a low threshold for intentional stupidity. Yes I said I was born a little slow in the head, but I try not to be stupid (there's something to be said about persistence).

I'll be thirty-one next month, I said I wanted to be published by thirty, and though it's not the novel contract I always envisioned, I made my goal. And the editor who published a short story of mine along with the upcoming novella, SMELL OF THE DEAD, is wonderful to work with. Most of my life when I thought on the bright side, the dark Lovecraftian storm clouds of despair would swoop in and smother any hope of succeeding.

Some of these storms were inevitable, inescapable, one could even argue they were predestined (especially after learning how a close family member cut down early in her life had some of the problems with these said storms as I). And there are several of these storms I created and didn't know it.

We can be our worst enemy.

Point is, when it comes to living at the bottom of the barrel, I know what it's like.

When I was I born, instead of a silver spoon in my mouth, my parents went hungry at times so I could eat. Some of my favorite toys came out of garbage dumpsters. At the age of five I lost an aunt whom I was very attached to, due to murder.

Today, I'm a thirty-year-old McDonald's employee, with a dream of becoming a successful writer.

Right off the bat I'm branded a loser. Not only am I in my prime, working a crap-job that's the bane of my life, but I also live with my parents. Though I can tell you that it isn't to leech, to most ignorant people, I'm a freeloader. They have no understanding of my mother's health, the fact that my father who's almost seventy works part time (about four full months of the year) as a bus driver. And to boot, prices on everything continue to sky-rocket, I'm a babe in the woods in the land which I trudge towards in hopes of achieving my dream.

I've been writing off and on, in some form or another all of my life. When I was nine, I think, I wrote a book called, RUDOLF THE FLYING MAN. I don't remember how many pages it was, I didn't even have an editor, I'm not sure about the word count. I wrote it long hand, drew a very crude cover with Crayons, and stapled it together. I no longer have it, though I wish I did. As the years went on, I would write partial stories, mostly sci-fi, and some fan fiction of Star Wars and Star Trek. When I didn't like how an episode of one of my favorite TV shows ended, or a favorite movie, I would come up with better ideas, or possible sequels. To be honest they probably sucked. But there I was trying my best to be a writer, though I really didn't think of it that way. Some of these stories I would invent as I played with my action figures. Though I did waste so much time with playing, it at least kept the creative process going.

Around 2000, I really wanted to write a script. And yes, when I did, it sucked. At this point I didn't really have any writer friends to help me, and my dad who was a writer in his youth spent all of his criticism on my spelling, which sure it was relevant, but he wasn't a big help overall. I continued to try, and when a TV show called Mutant X came on, I got the idea for an X-Men style storyline called, THE MUTANTCY. This story was better than anything I had written, but it was still a far, far cry from anything publishable. After several pages of long hand, I gave up. How was I suppose to write a comic book storyline as a book? My mind hadn't figured it out yet.

I went back to a crime thriller I was working on around the same time called, THE GUARDIAN. This was the story where I got to kill the murderer of my late aunt, and though the character I based on myself ends up paying for it, I felt so gooooood writing his death. This story I have dissected, and will never be written. But it did give me a taste of what it was like to take what life gives you, and make mincemeat out of it.

Years later, I tried writing comic book scripts, even had a couple of artists working with me. But I was never able to get this story off of the ground. It was THE MUTANCY, only renamed as SHARDS. And though someday I want to write this one, this was another breaking point for me. I had no idea how to get this out in the published world, not to mention it was better for me that it didn't make it. Again, I gave up. I tried at it from time to time, but I couldn't stick with it.

I have had a lot of people over the years give me, “advice”. Not the kind I needed, like for writing. Instead it ranged from enemies telling me how I should live my life, to people who actually care telling what I should do, but it would have taken me away from my writing. And I refused to let that happen.

The reason I'm getting published now, is that I won't let life bury me in a mound lemons. I refuse to give up. Sure, I'm thirty-years-old, living with mommy and daddy, working a job that is responsible for serving pink-slime on a bun, and I have yet to make money at writing; but I am published, I will be signing a contract for my novella, SMELL OF THE DEAD, soon, and I have much, much more that I writing. You see, I'm bull-headed. Which can be a bad thing at times, lol, but it can also be good. The trick knowing how to use it.

I love my writer friends, and I love working with them. I always respect them, and do everything I can to help. First thing is, to allow yourself to be who you are. Now if you are the kind of person who is mean to others even when you're in a good mood, or maybe you just can't to be in a decent mood no matter how your life goes, then my advice doesn't apply to you. But if you feel like you are held back, that you can't quite be the person you want to be, and that person is decent, and caring, then I say be you! That's right, even everyone around makes your life hell, be you. If they can't accept you, that's their problem. Sure, they might be successful, maybe they could careless about your opinion of them, but they're ignorant. They think they got you all figured out. That they know you better than you do. And they seem to have it in their head that you can't thrive living your dream. You're a joke to them. Well guess what? They should be a joke to you.

Make mincemeat out of them. How? First off, know yourself. Know what you want, work at figuring out how t get there, and keep at it. The idiots will never go away, and odds are good no matter how well you do in life, they will always find a way to make you a loser in their minds. This isn't about them or their ignorance. This is about, and your craft. About finding you. This starts from within, folks. No quick fix here. You have to know yourself, your strengths, your weaknesses, and you write the best you can. The ignorant people who make life rough for you, use them in a story. Just change the name a little so you don't get sued. But seriously, do to them what you have imagined every time they make you miserable. Make them suffer in those pages. Never wrong a writer. Because you want to be a successful author, you have to believe in yourself, and call yourself a writer. Not a wanna-be, not an aspiring author, you are an author. You are a writer. Okay, so maybe you're not published yet. This like a baby who just started to crawl thinking, “why can't I run yet?” You're a babe in the woods, just like me. But, you'll grow.

I gave you a brief look at where I come from not to bore you, but to show you that anyone can make it. Sure, I haven't got out yet, but you know what, I will. I may live a life that is deemed “LOSER”, but I'm not a loser. I'm a lot of things some good, some not so good, but I know who I am. And if I was loser, I would have not have picked up the pen again. I would either end my life, or worse, choose to work fast food for the rest of my existence. Two things which I cannot do.

I. Am. A. Writer. Writers write like humans breath. We do it because it's who we are. The kicker is, we need to learn how to do it right. We need to be willing to take the time to learn, study, read a LOT, vary that reading. Help your fellow writers when you can. Or help people in general, helping others helps us to keep some semblance of sanity. Not to mention, the people you help now, might be able to help you later. Treat them how you want to be treated, but always maintain a backbone. You can be the sweetest human being alive, but never allow others to own you.

Your head, is your head. The more others control you, the more they invade your space. Your heart, is your heart. The more you hate, the more they own you. I know, this is something I'm still trying to master, but, keep at it. Be stubborn on this. If it helps, use the anger and hatred to your advantage. Use it when you write. Us writers write what we know. In some fashion or another. We might write some great stuff when we're happy, and we might write some great stuff when we're sad, and the same goes when we're ready to kill, and the biggest problem is that the characters we kill aren't the voodoo dolls we imagine them to be. But we keep at it, snicker at the calamity we put our enemies through, and odds are good they'll never know.

Maybe you think it's fate for you to fail. Well, I don't enough about fate to argue, but what I do know is, maybe it's fate for you to feel that way only say, ENOUGH! And be bull-headed enough to break free from these bonds. Hey, maybe this is a battle you get to fight for the rest of your life. Not all battles are meant to be won. Some you either lose, or keep fighting. But if you stop fighting, not only do you lose, but don't get anywhere. The more you fight, the better the odds of succeeding.

It's okay to cry, or to feel overwhelmed. Who wouldn't when life bears down like a ten-thousand megaton weight? But only do so enough to vent, don't let it dig its hooks into you. Don't let despair take you. Own it! Make that despair your pet monkey, and when that monkey gives you attitude, shove your steel-toe-butt-kickers up its chili-ring, and make it scream!

A writer is not made of glass.

We have to be strong! We have to be like Sam Jackson. Would he let life trump him? How about Chuck Norris? What would they do? The would make mincemeat out of adversity. And, a lot of that adversity, is needed to make us the people we are today. Though I know I could have done without some of it, we all could, but a lot of it we need.

A Phoenix is not significant until it is destroyed. It cannot rise from the ashes without first being turned to ash. Maybe it's fate that you own your destiny.

A writer does not allow him/he-she/herself to be swallowed in the void of life. They write. And write. And write. And write. And write.

Let the lemons come. Let them pelt us into the ground, and may God have mercy on their existence, because we won't.

And remember, it's always the darkest before the dawn...

Words, Love, and the Pursuit of Happiness

By Dale Eldon

 Authors and the writing that spawns to life from their fingertips are connected. Every author has a different take on how it works, but from my point of view, the author and the muse are simpatico.


The core element for good writing has to come from happiness. In order for the right words to appear, the love has to be at the center of the core.


In order for any decent writing to come from me, the muse and I have to be in sync. It is impossible for her and I to coexist if we are not in harmony. The life we share is symbiotic. Each needing the other to become more then we would be apart. A lot like a good marriage. The problem here, is that the muse is a part of my mind. Sure she gets fired up over external inspirations, but she is basically an alter ego. So when I am in a slump, usually so is she. We are that connected. No matter how much I try to be happy, or even if I am in a decent mood it just isn’t the same as being happy naturally. The muse craves the same things that I do. Love.


I love my family. I love my friends. But so often I feel like a drifter in the middle of the ocean. I am sprawled out in a life raft looking through pictures of better times as my body slowly dies of dehydration. Here I am surrounded by water, and I can’t drink any of it. That is how my life feels. I have plenty of reasons to be happy, but I still cannot have these reasons to embrace. They are like the water. I can see them, but I cannot touch them.


My muse withers with me. In symbiotic relationship, we need each other to survive. We are not just compatible, if that were the case, then we could leave the other and no damage would be done. We would just seek out a new partner. But like soul mates, we hinge on the other without draining ourselves. Together we are a force. The muse, however, cannot pull me out of the slump. As strong willed as she is, my emotions ultimately control her.


Its strange, a lot of the time I don’t realize just how far out in the vast aquatic desert I have drifted. The longer I am stranded, the worst my mental condition becomes. The brain parasite called, “self pity” slowly eats away at any hope of happiness. It then continues to make me jaded, and diminishes my zest for the wonders of life. The once happy-go-lucky me is now becoming an empty shell for this parasite to live.


As much as I may have going for me (as I have been told by supporters), I am still drifting in this raft. From time to time I will see a search and rescue chopper fly overhead, but usually they don’t see me. I try to get their attention, but it is useless. Then when all hope is lost I see an angel. So far every time an angel appears to me, she is only around for a short time. And every time she gives me a little strength to push on. And again, an angel has appeared to me. The purest to visit yet, and again I feel my soul being rejuvenated. There is never a guarantee if the angel will stick around. There are so many factors that have to work for her to. But this angel is different than the others. She is extra special. Her grace makes me forget the raft, the dehydration, the self-pity; suddenly I am reforged.


I don’t know how long this angel will stay with me. What I do know is, for every moment I have with her, I am that much more thankful for. Somehow this beautiful creation of God has opened something up in my mind that I cannot open on my own. Not even my muse can reach this area. My dear angel who doesn’t have to try, she is a natural at bringing me back to life. And when I am in her presence I the aquatic desert become a tropical paradise.


So, what have I learned? How have I changed?


I have learned that no matter how much I work on bettering myself, that I will never be the man I want or need to be on my own. I need my angel. Just like my muse, I need that simpatico relationship. For I alone cannot live without her. One person cannot live in a symbiotic relationship. It is impossible. Perhaps angels are suppose to come and go until one decides to stay. Maybe this angel is the one. Maybe not. Regardless, I am thankful for her. Even if she only here to wake me up and show me this side of life.


It is easy to forget who we are as depression eats away at our soul. And like any good parasite the self-pity is inconspicuous as it slowly destroys us. The words cannot flow without love, and without love there is not happiness.


For some writers this darkness works for them. And I am glad that they have that as a muse. But for a lot of us we need that love. It can appear in many forms. I talk of my angel who is a beautiful woman from another country with view point that is refreshing, and creative. She can child like, but still be adult. She is intelligent, and graceful. This someone I would love to get to know more, and spend as much time with her as God will allow. That for me is the love. I have a beautiful daughter who also inspires me, though at this point I am in a position where I can’t be there for her. And though she the most important thing in my life, I need to be able to be apart of hers. And I cannot do that in this raft.


A lot of us have our own problems. No one has a monopoly on suffering. With that said pain is something that unites us. The despair that becomes the bane of our existence, is with most writers. Just because we may have a different way of looking at life, doesn’t limit our despair. In a lot of ways it increases it. A lot of writers become more sensitive to the world around them, they have to if they want their characters to come life. Even if the author is writing a non-fiction title, they can get so wrapped up in a person that they are writing about that they can feel their pain. Writers are conduits of emotions, ideas, and philosophies. We absorb mindsets that we may not even agree with, we take in the world of others, understanding their world better then they might themselves.


It is important to find that love. To find that ballast. Maybe even several loves. Like children, spouse, and other family, God; just like a tanker having more than one anchor to hold it in place. Love is the ballast that keeps us steady, it is what drives us, and completes us. Even if we are without what we need most, we need to keep our eyes on it at all times.