Trespasser (Part VIII)

Posted on November 14, 2014 by R. Richardsson

As time is wont to do, Summer became Fall, Fall became Winter, and Winter became Spring once again. During these long months, the people of Bryer Street had become very accustomed to seeing their new neighbor, whom they came to know as Andy.

Andy was like ole Sammy D. in some ways. After his first steps into the sun, it was more and more common to see him out for an evening walk. At first, he would offer an awkward nod or smile as he passed. Sometimes he muttered a shaky “Hi” or “How ya doin today”, but unsure of how to follow-up, he would make a clumsy excuse and shuffle on.

He knew more about cars than any of the residents would have ever suspected, he looked more the type to specialize in some form of computer technology, and would occasionally remark a ‘spot on’ diagnosis of a problem based on the sound an engine was making.

He gained a bit of admiration amongst the men. It was nothing they spoke of openly, but whenever he passed, they greeted him a bit more honestly. The women were cordial, but their trust wasn’t to be earned so easily. They continued to watch him with wary eyes whenever he passed and their smiles only masked their true expressions as they studied his every move.

Andy was very much like Sammy, in that he quickly grew to be a fixture in the community. Everybody knew of him within hours of his first appearance. Each person had their own story to tell about the strange young man from up the street.

“He knows so much about cars. It’s like he’s got the gift…”

“How can he afford to pay for that house when he never leaves for work?”

“He’s good with the children. They seem to like him too…”

“He’s sick. That must be why he stays home all the time!”

There were many different stories about the strange, young, Andy From Up The Street. Some were darker than others and none were more creative than those of the wives, told on rainy days from behind the safety of their curtains. Others were hopeful, with such imagined histories that included untold fortunes or entrepreneurial genius.

Though they spoke of possibilities, no story could be so much farther from the truth. They spoke of vast fortunes, and while he did not possess such a thing, he did have enough money to satisfy his particular needs. They spoke of illness, and much like the pipe dreams of hidden wealth, this, too, was not completely true. Though he was ‘as fit as a fiddle’, as the previous owner of his house might have once said, there was a certain something about him that wasn’t quite right.

Andy From Up The Street, because his neighbors didn’t yet know his last name and they were coming to accept that the previous resident was truly gone, was indeed, very sick. There was an itching inside of him that occasionally needed scratched, a desire that had to be catered to, and it had been far too long since he had given in.

Trespasser (Part VII)

Posted on October 17, 2014 by R. Richardsson

Several days passed without further incident. Though put off by the anti-social behavior of their new neighbor, they weren’t yet willing to give up on him. Many discussions were held over the phone by the wives. The men stood in their garages, visiting over a beer and an open hood, contemplating the implications of what had transpired that day. All agreed that maybe it was just nerves. Maybe he was unused to his new surroundings and needed some time to adjust.

This seemed to prove true when, less than a week later they got their first good look at him.

He was short and somewhat on the thin side, some might even say scrawny, at what looked to be only five and a half feet with his weight barely into the triple digits. When he first appeared on his front porch, it was without flair, and had there not been at least one of the wives gossiping about him that morning, he would have gone unnoticed.

He stooped slightly as he walked and from a distance he might have been mistaken for a much more advanced age than he actually possessed. His steps were deliberate, one might even say methodical, and he seemed to be weighing the pale faces that watched him from their homes below. He could have been anybody’s teenage son, for his boyish features betrayed the appearance that distance had told.

His features were unremarkable. While he wasn’t pleasant to look upon, nor was he the opposite to behold as well. If it wasn’t for the newness of his presence, or for the fact that he was filling some pretty big shoes by moving into this particular house, they might have quickly forgotten all about him.

He stood with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his black slacks, occasionally rocking from heel to toe where he stood, seemingly enjoying the fresh cool breeze coming in from the north. Hanging from the upper body of his gangling frame, untucked and blowing lightly in the wind, was a white, and very wrinkled, dress shirt.

His hair hung limply over his face, obscuring most of his features but for a slice of the right side, and what did show was smiling ever so slightly. He knew they were watching. He had seen the moon-shaped face of the woman who had approached him with her husband. Even now, she attempted to hide behind the curtains of her kitchen window, her mouth excitedly jabbering into the receiver of her phone. There were two others as well, one watching from where she knelt as she picked weeds from her around her flower bed, and the other from where she sat on her front porch swing.

His teeth appeared from behind his lips and the latter curved upward, revealing a toothy grin that could easily put a wolf to shame, which in of itself wasn’t very far from the truth at all. Making no effort to hide himself, he formed an ‘O’ with his lips and tonelessly pushed out the notes to ‘Pop Goes The Weasel’ as he tucked his shirt into his slacks.

One by one, the faces turned away from their windows, back toward the flowers they should have been focused upon, or into a magazine that just happened to be sitting close by, all suddenly uncomfortable as they realized they were the ones being watched. When he came to the part of the verse that required a pop, instead of acknowledging the sound, he tightened his lips together and sucked in noisily as he blew a lewd kiss in their direction. It was all he could do but contain his laughter as those remaining in his line of sight squirmed uncomfortably, and it took every ounce of control to finish the last few notes as he turned to walk back into his new home.

A Writer’s Worst Enemy

Posted on September 29, 2014 by R. Richardsson

The title kind of jumps out at you, doesn’t it?

Most would immediately conclude that I’m talking about writer’s block, and sure! Why not? It’s a fairly popular excuse for when one isn’t able to get any work done. Whether it’s starting that fantastic project you’ve been dreaming about, or finishing the one that you’ve been working on for years, whenever something gets in the way it’s always that dreaded block.

You might notice that I labeled this as an excuse?

I don’t believe in writer’s block. It’s as mythical an ailment as is having a Brain Cloud. In the years that I have been writing, I have never sat before a blank paper, physical or electronic, and not been able to put any words on the screen.

Occasionally the story is a bit more difficult to draw out, but you can get around that. Whenever I feel like my keys aren’t clacking away fast enough I write about something different for awhile. Maybe it’s a scene that I’m fancying for another story, or perhaps I’ll just sit and describe something that’s in the room.

And, believe it or not, when that doesn’t work, I pick up my favorite book and read a few pages. It really does help to experience a story through another writer’s perspective!

I think it’s because your mind gets tired after a time. You have this wonderful story to tell, but before you can share it you have to formulate thousands of words into coherent sentences. It’s not always as easy at it sounds. Sometimes the words just flow, you’re in the zone and they are pouring from your soul. Others it’s a labor of love. The story is there, but you have to coax it out word for word. Either way, it takes hours, days, and months in order to make that happen.

Self publishers, such as myself, have to take it to a whole other level. Once the story is complete, only then does the true work begin. Ahead of us are several dozen, to hundreds, of hours more of editing, formatting for different platforms, book covers to be made, and more! But wait, that’s not all! Even when you have put down the pencil, when you have typed the last keystroke, and you have uploaded it and placed a tag on it, then do good times roll.

You see, because now you have to get your book out there. Simply having it for sale on Amazon, or Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, or whatever platform you have decided to go with, doesn’t mean that anyone is going to buy your book!

How is anyone going to buy something they’ve never heard about?

Marketing, Social Media, and Book Signings, these are all things that you have to continuously work on in order to remain relevant. You may have the greatest story out there, but how are you going to get sales if nobody has heard of them? You have to stay relevant, you have to BE relevant, because you are literally swimming in a sea of authors, writers, and entrepreneurs who have already found their niche in this particular market.

Oh, but how I digress!

This isn’t where I want to go with this particular post, so forgive me if I try and steer it toward the subject that prompted me to write today.

I don’t believe in writer’s block. I also labeled it as an excuse, and rightfully so.

Don’t you see? Writer’s block is what we fall back upon whenever we can’t see the reason of us not writing for what it really is. You’re not blocked, writer, you’re merely distracted. You’re thinking about your kids, your bills, or your next meal. Perhaps you’re tired, or maybe the weather outside is beautiful and you would rather be enjoying it?

There are a hundred thousand million excuses that you could put in front of your unfinished work, but when it all boils back down to it, it’s not the fault of some little beastie that you’ve given a title to. It’s a distraction that needs to be removed, it’s an indulgence that needs to be fulfilled, or it’s a tired mind that needs a few moments to rest.

I’ve had my own issues as of late to deal with, something a bit more personal than I’m proud to admit, but they’re something that have been crippling me over the last few weeks. And perhaps I’m overstepping my bounds here in the virtual world, but I don’t know what else to do about it at the moment. Writing is my form of self healing, and I think that if I am able to do this just right, I’ll feel a little better in the end?

I’ve been suffering a building sense of depression, an overwhelming sadness at times to things that would not have bothered me before. My emotions have been boiling, cooling, flooding, and ruling my day to day actions.

I put on a brave face each morning, (or in my case, night), before I go in to work at a place I have begun to loathe over the last few months. I enjoy what I do, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve also begun to see the other side of the veil. I have realized that no matter how good of an employee I am, no matter how many numbers I put out, I will never be appreciated for what I do. I have not since day one, and even though I have become the equivalent of three employees in experience, due to a recent pay increase for starting workers I am payed less than those who have just come off the streets. Even though my production tripled over my second year of service, I received a review less than that of what I did in the first.

It’s hard to put on a brave face at night any more when I would rather be at home creating. In my books and stories, I know that my work is enjoyed and appreciated. I know that people look forward to seeing me in the form of my next project,

When I am at home, my time is consumed with balancing my writing and keeping my house up and running. Some days run smoothly, but having a three year old who needs constant attention, on top of everyday household chores, makes those days few and far between.

I don’t sleep more than twelve hours during the week. Because my wife works and my three oldest are in school, I must also take care of their needs, lunches for the next day, dinner, and keeping everyone happy until she gets home. Some days are fairly early, but with her business, those, too, are few and far between. Often times, she doesn’t come home until late and I am going to work on only a couple of hours sleep I stole early on in the day.

I have been doing this for a couple of years now, but it’s getting harder to see how I am going to do it for much longer.

I’m finding myself more deeply affected by things than I used to be. In particular, and this is the distraction that has slowed my writing as of late, I have been mourning the loss of a character whom I have gotten to know over the last seven years. Because this character is for a popular TV show, and not all of you may have seen the episode yet, I won’t go into any details about it only to say that there was no need for the producers to kill him off.

It seems silly, but the more I think about it, the more I realize how much it hits home for me. This character was a good friend in the series, someone I enjoyed seeing on a week to week basis, as well as someone I could see myself knowing on a personal level.

There isn’t anyone like that in my life anymore. There hasn’t been for several years now. It wasn’t by choice, I once had several people whom I called family, but in one cold decision they turned their backs on me over something that was just as much their fault as it was my own. Since then, I haven’t let anyone get as close to me as ‘they’ once were, not even a fraction as much.

Now, my only friends are either those I create, or those I visit in another story.

Sure, I have my wife. She’s my best friend, the love of my life. I have my children, but I am their authority figure and teacher first. It’s not the same thing. One night a month, she goes out for a few hours with her girl friends and I can’t help but feel a bit jealous, a bit sad, and a bit lonely.

Because of our schedules, I rarely see her anymore. Maybe for a few minutes throughout the week and because the weekends are so jam-packed with activity, every free moment that we do have it spent in competition of the children’s attention.

Some days I feel as if the weight of the world is bearing down on me. No, that’s not quite right. It’s more like I have been suddenly teleported to the bottom of the ocean, and several million tons of water are crushing in on me. Some days it’s hard to breath. It’s hard to look into your eyes and say; “Yeah, everything’s good.”

It’s not, I can tell you with the utmost confidence that it definitely is not.

I’m working hard to make it better. Everyday that passes is spent working on making the life that I want to have. But, how much longer do I have to wait? What more do I have to do in order to finally get it? How the fuck am I going to get out of this mountain of debt that’s drowning me?

*sighs*

All questions I have no answers to.

So I keep going. I put on my uniform, and I go into to a job where no matter how good I am, I am nothing more than an expendable resource.

You can’t quite tell, but I’m rolling my eyes ~~in excitement~~ over the new uniform policy…

I come home and hope that I can get at least three thousand words written through all the distractions ahead of me. I continue to practice good housekeeping with my social media, finding public settings to showcase my work and whatever else I have to do in order to stay relevant, and I make it happen.

You see, in writing this and talking a little about myself, I wanted to show to you that a writer’s worst enemy is always his or herself. By showing you my own weakness, I have lifted the veil to something that isn’t as mystical as it sounds. There is no such thing as writer’s block, only a crack in the armor we call willpower, and which we allow ourselves to focus on way too much for our own good.

I’ve only shared a tiny sliver of the pain and frustrations I’m feeling. There is so much more to my story, but you needn’t concern yourselves with that. Just by sharing what little that I have, I’m already feeling a little better. I’ve broken through my distraction and I can feel the words a-comin’. Soon, I will look over this long rambling article, edit it so that it’s at least a little presentable, and then send it on to you. From there? Well, I guess it’s on to something completely different!

See what I did there? I’m putting on my brave face.