My Life, As Written

 I’m not sure how many people will actually read this.  I don’t have that many followers anymore, but that’s mostly my own fault. I don’t really post much anymore, and I don’t write enough.  Not that I ever had that many fans to begin with, but I haven’t done enough to keep them.

 I find myself at a point, as I near my 42^nd birthday, where life is a special kind of hell, one tailored just for me.  It’s not the sort that other people would find horrific, and I in no way diminish the plights and hardships of others who suffer, but as of late I find myself feeling like a ghost without an identity, cursed in this existence as someone who doesn’t even know who he his or where he is going.  I’ve lost all the important elements that defined me, and find myself a shell, going through the motions each day, struggling internally to find meaning and push forward for those few who depend on me.  I don’t like where this is going.

 Lately, my life has been like one of these modern “reboot” series, where the original premise and plotlines have been corrupted by writers who want to screw with canon and twist with the characters because they have different visions of what the show should be, or they want to push some narrative.  Things don’t make sense, and the story arc is falling apart.  And much like a fictional character, I don’t feel like I am in charge of anything.  I’m just experiencing the story as it unfolds.  I react, but I only do so because that’s what I’m written to do. I feel because that’s what my body is programmed to do.  I suffer because I live a life that doesn’t feel like mine, and I can’t change it.

 I’ve always felt like an outsider, and never truly felt like I belonged, but now I don’t even feel like I belong in my own skin.  My entire life feels like this alien existence, like I Quantum Leaped into this body and I don’t know what I’m supposed to fix.  I look in the mirror and I don’t see myself.  To be fair, I don’t know who I’m looking for, but I know that reflection isn’t it.  Nothing seems right.

 I don’t know how to explain this cursed existence.  There are times I’ve felt like it’s some kind of cosmic punishment, or lesson.  But how things have gotten me to this place, I can’t reconcile without some external forces.  Atheistic materialists wouldn’t understand and just call me crazy, but there are whole hunks of my life that I cannot take credit for.  There are times where I wasn’t me, decisions I didn’t make, places I didn’t go, yet here I am.

 Perhaps a meddling angel manipulated my life, or demonic influence at the darkest times, or maybe it was aliens (yes, it’s always aliens).  Then there are times it feels like a ghost of some past life has steered me here and there.  Throughout it all, there has always been an overpowering force blocking me from achieving my goals, and when that isn’t enough, they rewrite the script to achieve whatever they want.

 A lot of fantasy and science fiction writers have posited the notion that all life is just someone else’s writing.  Heinlein’s latter works come to mind, where he said that everything we know is just a story written by someone else in another reality.  Philosophers throughout the years have debated such wild concepts, and asked whether we actually have free will, or if God predetermines everything and we just are puppets imagining that we’re in control.  I look back at things that have happened, and in all cases I see it is both. We have free will, but only so long as it fits what the Power wants us to do.

 Yet, I don’t understand why I feel so out of place, if this is supposed to be where I was directed.  I can’t reconcile what has happened or where I am with the willful actions of the God I believe in.  He wouldn’t do this to me, but if he did, he wouldn’t leave me thinking this way about it.  If He wanted to manipulate me, it wouldn’t be perceived.  He would have created me to be it, and then it wouldn’t be a problem.  So why do I feel like my very existence is a mistake?  Like over time the writers of my life have gotten bored and lazy and thrown stuff together, so now I’m suffering through ridiculous plot holes, trying to find a way out.

 All I know for certain; this isn’t my life, but I’m a prisoner to it.

 I know everything I’ve said sounds crazy, and more than a few mental health professionals would deem me worthy of an institution, but I’m saying it anyway.  Partly because it’s a coping mechanism, partly a quest to understand what’s happening, and finally, because it needs to be said.

 So, here I am, just wondering why...

 

Stupid Knees

 My life as of late has been unnerving.  With much in the way of family strife and physical hardships, 2021 has definitely been the most painful year of my life.  I’d like to say I’m nearly out of the woods, but it just seems like as soon as I start to feel that way, something new comes up.

The latest problem I am facing is recurring knee injuries.  A couple of months ago, I had a bout of patellar tendinitis in my left knee, and now I fear I’m dealing with a torn meniscus in my right.  The past week has been painful, and I’m currently waiting to see if bed rest and anti-inflammatories will allow it to heal (doctor’s orders).  I don’t know if I’ll be healed enough to work on Monday, and that is scary, as I’m close to broke, and I can’t afford to lose much more time.  People are counting on me, but my body is causing me to let them down.  I don’t know how I can deal with this.

I know a lot of people are understanding, but there’s only so much I can falter before they lose faith in me and consider me unreliable.

My physical body performs strenuous tasks that are beyond the norm for most people, and as I’m getting older it seems my super powers are waning.  I’m still capable most of the time, but I have to be careful not to go too far.  Yet, the annoying thing is, my physical problems don’t arise from anything particularly straining; they crop up unexpectedly when I’m not in Hercules mode.  It’s frustrating!  I’ll be walking on my day off and suddenly my knee will start hurting.  What the hell?

So here I am, lying in bed, wishing I could be working on something, but just waiting to see if I can even walk tomorrow.  Have I not suffered enough for one year?  Can I please get a good break?

Where I Am Now

 I'm loath to write about myself these days, because to be perfectly honest, it's painful.  The last few years have taken a toll on me, and the past six months have tested and tortured me.  Some of it I brought on myself with poor decisions and allowing myself to be manipulated, though much of it has been beyond my control.

Each day is still a trial.  I am anxious and sad, but I never have the chance to work on it because there's a constant series of events that keep getting in the way, and I'm too busy trying to address everyone else's problems.

I get triggered all the time by people and what they say and how they say it, but I have to suck it up or let it go.  That's what a lot of people would say a man is supposed to do, and it's what those of us who don't live in ivy-league, rose-tinted luxury have no alternative but to do, but it can suck having to ignore my own emotional needs.  The people who care about me don't realize the full extent of what I'm going through, but most people don't care at all.

Exactly when can I stop hurting?  When do my mental needs become a priority.

I still have a family that keeps me going, but they all have issues that I'm dealing with.  My youngest daughter has a mental disorder that requires that she have constant supervision, my son has had issues with substance abuse, and my middle daughter has bouts of depression and anxiety.  My father is elderly and back to being a workaholic, but he is willing to help, though he gives a bit of attitude and gets pissy about it sometimes.  That in itself isn't helpful when I feel bad enough asking for help.  And on top of that, I have a serious, live-in girlfriend who has her own emotional problems from an abusive childhood.

I feel like I'm writing way too much, but I have to do something to get this garbage off my chest.

Physically, I'm not doing as well, either.  I hide how sick I feel, and I'm not sure how much of it is just psychosomatic and what is actually illness.  I've been feeling weaker than normal, exhausted, achy, and I've been forgetting things.  My left knee has been a concern but the doctors said it was just patellar tendinitis.  I've felt my heart rate and blood pressure going up which concerns me.  I get headaches frequently, and sometimes "aura" headaches, where I see a glow which leaves me unable to see for a few minutes (though this is nothing new and I've had them on and off for my entire adult life).

So forgive me if I'm getting a little tired of playing with the puzzle pieces of my life and wondering when I'll get a break.  I'm still here, and I'm doing my best, but I need people to help me and stop beating me down.  In time, I might finally get back to a place where I can enjoy living, though right now I have to wait, and work to make sure others can find some enjoyment out of my continued existence.

Moving Along

Here's just a quick note for those of you who follow the blog, or run across it in the near future.  I'm having some technical difficulties with Facebook.  For some reason, they block all links to this blog, classifying it as "spam" and as a lot of networking happens on FB that is a major hindrance for me and for Martinus Publishing.  Repeated requests to fix this have been completely ignored, and nobody will even address this issue.

Therefore, as there is no way for me to share links to this blog on one of the biggest networking sites, I'm afraid there is no option but to move.  I will be setting up a new blog shortly, one that Facebook will hopefully not block as "spam."  I will share a link as soon as I have one, though it may be a few days or weeks before I find the right location.  In the meantime, all the old posts will remain here, for those of you who want to sample my wit and wisdom of the past.

Modern day censorship is a growing problem, and I am wary of Facebook's new algorithms, where innocuous content can be summarily blocked for undisclosed reasons.  I assume that some troll(s) decided to flag my blog as spam in complaints at some point, and that somebody at Facebook chose to simply block all links to it rather than investigate.  Though, nobody will actually respond to me, so I have no idea why they're blocking, other than I sometimes get a message saying my link is blocked because it is "spam."  Half the time, they just say it "violates their community guidelines," with no explanation how, other than a link to their "no spam, no porn, no hate-speech" page, which doesn't address any specifics, but just lays out their basic rules, none of which my blog violates.  That is, unless they want to say I can't tell people about Martinus Publishing books and where to buy them.  If that makes my blog spam, than the entire internet is nothing but spam!

Yes, I am a little angry about this, but I'll just have to move along, and hope they don't throw another roadblock in front of me too soon.

Have I Given Up Writing?

I have a few spare minutes, so I felt compelled to write a blog post, the first in a long while.  It used to be a daily thing, and topics would be so plentiful that I had to pick and choose which I would write first.  Now I have fallen out of the habit so badly.  It is rare that I have the time to tackle any serious writing, and it leaves me wondering if I truly have given up.



It has been years since I wrote prolifically.  To be fair, I can no longer call this a slump, but full blown abstinence.  Life took me for a ride, and drove me out of the art of storytelling.  I am now left wondering if I will ever find my way back.



Time is something I don't have anymore.  At least, not the quantity and quality that I require to produce worthy material.  I'm not in the right state of mind to craft stories.  Writing is something that should be enjoyable.  Yet, for me, it has become a source of stress, a grim specter of my past.  What was once a recreational exercise has devolved into a bitter reminder of failure and disappointment.  I can't say my divorce 4 years ago was the ultimate impetus, but it was certainly an overbearing weight.  I wouldn't call it the last nail in the coffin of my writing career, but possibly one of the first.  The shock and heartbreak accelerated and amplified my apathy toward writing, and the lack of time that occurred as I suddenly had four children to raise without a wife assured that I couldn't continue at that time, even if I'd wanted to.



Today, I'm in a much better place than I was in 2015.  I am happily remarried, my children are growing up little by little, and I am hopeful that I may actually have more free time again someday.  It is still very difficult to write.  I have so much work to do that isn't literary in nature, and I tend to wonder if I'll ever get caught up.  My father started building our house before I was born, and now that he has grown old I am taking on the task of completing it.  It is no exaggeration to say I have enough work ahead of me to keep five men busy for a year, but there is only one of me and I have no money to spend on additional laborers.  The winters that I used to "have off" to write are now an endless line of home projects.



So, the question remains, have I given up writing?  Answer:  I'm not sure.



The stories that used to burn in my soul are still there.  I think of all those tales that remain unfinished, the characters and universes that want to be explored.  I think of Zachary McCain and John Rage, and the half-written sequel to The Rogue Investigations.  I think of my West of the Warlock series, and the unpublished fourth book in the series, and its incomplete fifth volume conclusion.  I think of the unreleased fourth volume in the Virtual Saga that explores Morgan Asher's life after the catastrophic events in The Guns of Mars, and where I could take him beyond that.  I think of new characters and new series that I have not even penned yet!  Yes, I still think of it all the time, but with everything else going on in my life, it seems less important.



Whenever I think of getting back into writing, I look at everything I have going on, and I end up having to set it to the back burner.  Priorities are a bitch, but they're necessary.  I can't waste time writing books that nobody wants to read when I have firewood to cut and split, or my daughter needs a bedroom designed, or my son needs bookshelves, or my wife and I need an expanded bedroom… not to mention when I have to make money once the weather finally warms up again.



So while I can't say that I have definitively given up my writing, life itself has imprisoned my writing muse, you might say.  I lack the necessary elements to create great works of fiction.  Just a couple of things could spur me back into the habit, but right now it's not happening.  My dreams must sleep, while reality keeps me in a depressing grip of personal responsibility.  I can't say it's a hard life; at least not as hard as it could be.



I just thought one or two of you might actually like to read about this… one or two…

Forbidden News!

It has been far too long since I posted to the blog.  Life is busier than ever, but it is getting better.  The past month, I have been courting the true love of my life, and it may seem a bit hasty, but on Thanksgiving day we got engaged.  There will be more time to discuss that later, but rest assured I have finally found happiness.  So, please bear with me if I don’t have as much time for writing at the moment (I also still have 4 children to raise, as well as many work projects to take up my time).

Now, the news many of you came looking for.  The Forbidden! anthology is still being put together.  I am pleased to say that I’ve accepted a few stories for the collection, but the vast majority remain under consideration, and they will until January, when I will make the final cuts and acceptances.  We have a lot of good stories waiting, and to make sure I have room for the best of the best, I might as well wait until the last subs come in this month.  I’m sorry for those of you who have been waiting since July-August.  I expect it’ll be worth the wait.

As we wait for the final submissions and the forthcoming acceptances, here is the final cover art for the anthology, illustrated by the very talented Christine Leonardi:

If I don’t get back to you beforehand, I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!  Keep reading, and check out Martinus Publishing books for great gift ideas!

The Worlds of Bruno Lombardi (and Other Stuff)

Wow, the summer just flew right by.  This has been another hectic year for me, and for Martinus Publishing.  Altered Europa has done well, and without giving away too much at this time, I’m in the early planning stages for a new Alternate History anthology (expect to read more about that toward the end of the year).

Yesterday, The Worlds of Bruno Lombardi was released.  You can get your copy here right now!  Of all the writers I’ve encountered during my tenure as an editor, Bruno is by far one of the most imaginative and entertaining.  He’s one of those little known talents that should get more exposure, so I encourage everyone to grab a copy of this short story collection.  It’s only $2.99, and it contains several of his best pieces, including 3 never before published stories!  Really, go check it out right now.  Don’t worry, I’ll wait...

Okay, moving on with the blog, I’m currently in the middle of putting together “Forbidden,” a collection of stories about things that are banned or denied, generally by society or government, but some stories will also focus on forbidden acts that are merely against the rules of certain individuals or dieties.  Yet again, I preface this by saying this is not a collection of “sexual taboos” or anything like that.  It seems that any time you ask for submissions about something that’s “forbidden” the first thing that people think about is sex.  No, I will not publish your rape or incest fantasies.  Yuck!  But those of you who want to write about something that isn’t X-Rated, here is the submission page: MartinusPublishing Submission Guidelines.

I apologize to those of you who have not heard back from me yet about your “forbidden” submission.  I have a pile of stories for this one, and picking the best from them is proving difficult.  Plus, I still haven’t read half of them, because of my busy schedule.  When I’m not working my regular contractor job, I’m taking care of four kids and trying to do a million home improvement projects before winter strikes (and people wonder why I don’t have time to go out on a date).

So, that’s about it for right now.  Submit your stories, read Bruno’s stories, and come back to this blog to keep updated.

Why I Write What I Write

Now that I'm starting to write again, I don't know what I'm going to work on.  So far, I've only been going over my past work, reading through 50,000 words of an incomplete novel I wrote 6 years ago.  It holds promise, but I'm not quite feeling it.  That thrill of the storyline and love of the characters isn't there, and I'm left wondering if I can get the emotional stimulation necessary to finish it.

I may have to find something else to write, or just keep trying to get interested.

In order to write anything, it has to be something that I want to write.  That's the way it has always worked for me.  Writing is about me telling a story that I enjoy, exploring things that draw me in as the creator, revealing the worlds inside my mind in a way that satisfies that creative part of me.  It gives me purpose, and fuels the creative process.  If I can't get into the story, if my mind doesn't care about what's going on, then I find it exceedingly difficult to proceed.

This is of course not the method that all writers use.  I've read so many "advice" columns from people saying that to be a writer you have to write whatever will pay, take whatever work in the publishing industry you can get, and if you keep grinding away inside the machine you'll someday get your reward and "be allowed" to write what you want.  That's all well and good for some, but it's not for me.

Another common occurrence that I've run into over the years is friends and family who like to suggest that I "write what sells."  I know they're only trying to help, but it serves no purpose and can get annoying, as trying to dismiss their advice feels like talking to a brick wall.  They're so sure if I write "something else" that I'll be a big success.  Whether it's my father telling me to write about weirdoes in the woods, or friends suggesting I write anything from "serious mainstream fiction" to "teen chick-lit," it's not going to happen.  It wouldn't increase my chances of fame and fortune to write it, and because I'd hate doing it I would end up with a totally unmarketable piece of pulp nobody would ever want to read.

With writing, I'm not one to "climb the ladder," or "play the game."  It's not that I don't respect that approach.  It's just not me.  In my case, doing that would suck the life out of me, and writing would become a job that I didn't enjoy.  The creative flames inside me would die, and I'd be a horrid hack, writing words just to make money with no pleasure or fulfillment.  So, I have learned that the only way I can write is on my own terms.  If this means I will fail to gain an appreciable audience, then so be it.  To gain a million readers and lose my soul would be worse than having a handful of people reading what I want them to enjoy.

So, going forth in 2017, I will seek to create something new that others will enjoy.  It's all I can do, and so I will strive to accomplish that yet again.

Martin's 2017 Goals and Dreams

Happy New Year!  Yes, I should be writing fiction right now, but I'm a bit distracted, and I'm thinking I'll do something that I have rarely done, because I often think its pointless, tacky, or otherwise a set-up for disappointment and failure.  I'm going to put forth a list of New Year's "resolutions," to see where I want to be a year from now.

I list these as "Goals and Dreams," because that's what they are.  I don't have any illusions, and know that I will fall short on some of these, but that's what these lists are all about. More than anything, they're us "dreaming."  We look at our lives and wonder what could be better.  Getting there is the hard part, and while most if not all are possible with proper planning and effort, much of the time we are just dreaming when we make up these resolutions.  I'll be honest and say these are just what I would like to do, but acknowledge that I'll probably let life get the better of me.

1:  Write a new novel.  This should be an easy one for me.  I won National Novel Writing Month each year I attempted it, and even before I discovered NaNoWriMo I once wrote a 100k novel in 3 weeks.  The quality of these speedy works are no less than those novels that took me months to finish, so it isn't pace so much as feel that propels me.  When I am in the writing zone and know where I'm going with a concept, I can move quickly with skill.  When I don't feel what I'm writing, it can drag on, and get bogged down.  Regardless, I want to write another books this year.  I just need to find the inspiration.

2:  Lose 20 pounds.  Isn't this one on most people's list?  I've always been fat, and I'm getting older and tired of the extra pounds.  If I drop 20 pounds this year, I'll be healthier and happier.  I could lose more than 20, but this is a reasonable goal, one that I cannot guarantee I'll achieve, but at least this way I have a chance.

3:  Have a meaningful relationship.  Yes, it's been almost 2 years since my wife walked out the door, and June will mark 2 years since we were officially divorced.  I'm still not sure if I'm ready to put myself out there, but this year I dream of having a meaningful relationship.  At the end of 2017, I hope to share with the world great news that I have somebody to love.  Though, please, nobody try to set me up.

4:  Get my 1954 Chevy Bel-Air on the road.  Okay, here's the easy one.  I've spent 5 years fiddling with this old car, and at long last it's on the verge of being road-worthy.  The windshield replacement ought to be completed very soon, and then it should be just a matter of waiting for spring.  I'm not going to be stupid and drive it around with salt on the road, but if I'm lucky, we'll be salt-free by April and I'll finally be behind the wheel of this beautiful project that has sucked up so much time and money.  It won't be a show car, but it'll be a gorgeous driver.

Is that all I can come up with?  It's not a really long list, is it?  I am a little disappointed that I am not dreaming bigger.  There was a time I would have aimed to write 2 or 3 novels in a year, or dream of getting West of the Warlock turned into a television series.  Ah, but I'm trying to set reasonable goals, and ones that are more in my control.  There are plenty of things I can wish for in 2017, but many of those are not within my power.  I can't expect to publish a Best Seller, or to get a Studio contract.  Those I can dream about, but it's up to more than me for those to happen.

Maybe I should strive to write more blog posts this year.  Yes, that's #5:  Write at least 1 blog post per week.  There.  Now my list is complete.  Here's to having a great 2017!

PS:  If you feel like reading this year, pick up one of these books:  Martinus Publishing.

My Life's Meaning

The last two years have been the most tumultuous of times for me, though much of it has merely been in my head.  Life hasn't been all that bad lately, though I've felt depressed and unfulfilled.  So recently I started reflecting on my existence, and seeking to answer that ever-present question, why am I so miserable?  The answer, as it turns out, is as simple as it is complex.

I am a writer.

The last two years, I haven't written anything.  As my marriage began to fall apart, I lost interest in my fiction, and stopped writing altogether, but that's the one thing that truly empowers me.  It is my God-given talent, one that I have viewed as both a blessing and a curse.  I am a writer, and I cannot live without that distinction.

This answer should have come to me sooner, and maybe it did, but I ignored it.  I wanted to escape my destiny, and forsake my gift.  I blamed my "obsession" with writing for the destruction of my marriage, and then I found my free time depleted, having to raise 4 kids without a wife.  So, I forgot myself, and abandoned the only thing that I ever wanted to be.

There were times in the past that I almost gave up on my writing.  Back in 2006, I was ready to call it quits, but the next year rolled around and I got Virtual Wiles published (albeit by what turned out to be one of the world's worst publishing outfits).  After that, I discovered "self-publishing," and released Prisoner of Time and The Rogue Investigations, which I still wish would sell more, as they're really fantastic works.  Then The Guns of Mars made semi-finalist in the second Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest, which led to its publication by Pill Hill Press a year later.  Everything was on the up and up, and when Hall Brothers Entertainment asked me to write a full-length novel based on my Dwarf at High Noon short story, I was on top of my game, feeling I was finally on the brink of being a professional writer.  I threw down West of the Warlock, and it impressed them so much that I was contracted to write 2 more books in the series, which I did.

Then, things slid downhill again.

First, Pill Hill Press closed up shop, leaving the Guns of Mars out of print.  GOM hadn't sold that well, despite solid reviews, and PHP's closure put it to rest for a time (I later republished it under my own company, but little attention has been paid to it).  I thank Jessy Marie Roberts for running Pill Hill Press and releasing the Guns of Mars, and I hope that someday she (and her husband, Alva Roberts) get back in the greater publishing industry, as they're both talented writers.

While that was a disappointing blow to my career, the worst had to be the subsequent closure of Hall Brothers Entertainment, less than a month later.  Right before the second West of the Warlock novel, The Curse of Selwood, was due to be released, HBE shut down, and I found myself with nothing in print outside of my self-published books.

In response to these publishers closing, I fought back by starting my own small press, Martinus Publishing.  The final impetus for my starting this press was the fact that I had a multi-author anthology in the works.  With the success of West of the Warlock, I'd decided to expand a little, and came up with the idea of assembling and editing a "time travel anthology."  My proofreading skills were quite good, and I had a vision, so I pitched the idea of this collection to the Hall Brothers, who were supportive and excited about it.  I had half of the stories for TheTemporal Element accepted for publication when HBE closed shop, and rather than disappoint the contributors and abandon my project, I pressed forward under my own banner.

Becoming the editor of a small press had its rewards and its hardships.  At first, it was all fun and exciting.  I got to release stories from fellow authors that I really enjoyed, and I could release my own works under the auspices of a small publisher, rather than have them be blatantly self-published.  Yet, it was so much fun that I overloaded myself.  I came up with numerous anthology ideas and took in overwhelming numbers of submissions that took up much of my free time, leaving me little time for any writing of my own.

When I announced my plans to start Martinus Publishing, A.C. Hall gave me some great advice.  He told me I could either be a great writer or a great editor, but it would be hard to be both.  I knew he was right, but at the time I felt I had no choice.  My books had largely been commercial flops, and with nothing left in print I felt that I had failed as a writer.  I decided that I could serve better as an editor, and perhaps find success there.

A year went by, and Martinus Publishing had limited success with its first couple of anthologies.  Overall, it was breaking even, and I felt satisfied, even as my writing continued to dwindle.  I threw together a novel during National Novel Writing Month in November 2013, but after that it was all bits and pieces, and revisions to previous works.  3 years ago, that's the last time I truly wrote any significant fiction.

Spring of 2014 saw the release of Altered America, and it outperformed my wildest expectations.  It was a hit for Martinus Publishing, until nitpickers and critics threw it negative reviews.  I still consider it a success, even if it wasn't what half the reviewers wanted it to be.

From there, everything was a downward slide.  Subsequent Martinus Publishing releases were met with poor sales, and as my personal life became more turbulent I found it difficult to keep up with my editing responsibilities, let alone get any writing done.  By the time my marriage ended in early 2015, I was ready to give up.  I would have shut down Martinus Publishing, but I refused to disappoint my fellow writers.  I didn't want them to feel the way I felt when Pill Hill Press and Hall Brothers Entertainment closed.  I didn't want to let them down, and see their dreams of publication diminished.  And deep down, I knew I'd be sorry, too.  I'd be admitting failure again, and affirming it by shutting up shop.

I'm just too stubborn to know when to quit.

This past year was difficult for me, as I struggled to find meaning to it all.  People tend to say that my kids ought to be enough, that they are the purpose I should be living for.  I feel guilty, sometimes ashamed, to say that that doesn't work for me.  As much as I love my kids, and as much as I'll do anything for them, they just aren't enough to give my life meaning.  I have been selfless and sacrificed so much lately that it has brought me to mental misery.  I cannot go on denying myself.

A few days ago, I wrote a blog post, reflecting on my existence, and for the first time I felt alive again.  After that, I wrote more, starting with some personal ruminations that may or may not see the light of day sometime, and then I began looking back over some of my past projects, seeking to rekindle the creative fires.  At long last, I am creeping out of depression and feeling like I have a purpose again, that I can move forward and I have something to look forward to.  For the first time in years, I have hope, and all it took was for me to wake up and realize the truth, a simple truth that I had abandoned.

I am a writer.

This isn't a choice for me, and it isn't some paltry dream.  It is all that I am.  When I don't write, I hurt.  I fall into despair, and lose sight of everything.  I stop caring, and nothing is interesting.  When I am not writing, I am nothing and nobody.  I am simply existing, and that is a very bad thing, indeed.

So, what does this revelation mean for the future?  It means that I have to reset my priorities, and do what is right for me, something I haven't done in a long time.  I need to find the time to write, and I need to find more ways to promote my published works.  I have to try again, which is all anyone can ever do.

I can't promise I'll succeed, and I know when I have commercial flops and rejections that I'll hurt.  Again and again I will hurt, but if I do not even try I'm already dead.  I have to keep striving for the mark, because writing is my life, and if you're reading this, then you are giving my life meaning.  Thank you for taking the time to read these words.  I'll be writing more of them soon.

Here's hoping for a happy 2017 for all of us!

My Existence in 2016

As 2016 nears its end, I find myself writing a blog post for the first time in so long.  It's hard these days to find the time, but harder still to find the will.  It has been nearly 2 years since my wife left, and as much as I'm over her, I am still uncertain about where to go from here.

Totally random picture of me...

 

I haven't written a single word of fiction in the last two years.  I keep thinking I should, and on rare occasion I've glanced over some of my past works, wondering if I can do it again, but then I run out of time or desire.  It's hard writing for myself anymore, as everything I do is for someone else.  I find myself plagued with selflessness, always seeking to make others in my life happy, and I rarely do what would please myself.

I'm not saying that my life is horrible.  Many people would kill for the life I've got, but that doesn't make it satisfying.  Every life has its trials, its ups and downs.  Right now, I'm stuck in a rut, but I don't know how to escape, or if I want to escape.  Is it really so bad here?  Maybe I should just settle for what I have, and be happy with what I've got.  My dreams are asleep, and I don't know if I can get excited enough to wake them.

I can hear my handful of readers screaming in their heads right now, saying I shouldn't give up, or that I've got to get up and fight anew.  I hear you.  The handful of people who truly enjoy my fiction.  The lingering sparks that seek to ignite the fumes left inside my creative fuel tank.  I fear the tears may have me waterlogged, though.

Don't give up on me.

I don't wish to sound pathetic, and I don't need anymore sympathy.  I'm only seeking to figure things out, come to terms with myself, and maybe work up the courage to move on.  That's why I'm writing today.

To be fair, I feel miserable so often because I do not know what I want to do.  So many things I care about don't feel right, so when it comes to watching a show or playing a game, I simply don't.  When it comes to having fun, I let everyone else in my life decide what to do, because they can have fun doing what they want to do, but I don't feel good doing what I want to do.  Does that make any sense?  I can't enjoy what I like, so I let others do what they like, even when I hate it, because what's the point in making them feel disappointed having to do what I like to do, when I don't even get any satisfaction out of it?  No sense in them suffering too.  They don't like what I like, and I can't force them, but there's no fun for me if they don't like it.  So I've lost much of the entertainment that defined me for much of my life.  Strange, pathetic, ridiculous; whatever.

Now, I understand there are people out there who appreciate the things I like, the kind of books and shows that I enjoy, but that's not the point.  I don't feel like being with those distant friends, let alone complete strangers.  I was uncomfortable around people before my divorce.  Now I've ended up cutting myself off from just about everyone, but that doesn't bother me so much.  It's the fact that I'm alien to those who are closest to me, and I can't change that.

I probably shouldn't post this to my blog, because I can't see that it'll serve much purpose other than to make people less interested in reading my ramblings...  What the hell.  I've tried to write something for months, and this is the first time I've been able to get anything down, so I have to start somewhere.  If I don't get it out, I'll just end up keeping it all to myself like I have been, and there will be no more words.  I will never work things out, never be able to decide where I'm going, if I keep it off the page.  The written word has been my avenue for personal exploration all my life, and writing it just for myself isn't good enough.  It's why I'm having such a hard time, because putting down words, knowing that only I will ever read them, seems pointless.  If I ever want to write anything of substance again, it must be put out there for others to read, because the words cannot end with me.

I hope to write more in the near future, but I have no idea what that'll be.

Sharing My Favorite Things...

Here it is, the second day of spring, and it's snowing.  What do you expect for Maine?  So, today I find myself a bit under the weather, both figuratively and literally, as my throat is sore and I'm feeling a bit flushed.  It's a dreary day all around.  What better time to ramble on about myself?

I know a few of you still read this blog, though I don't post nearly enough to expect a dedicated following.  While I'm slowing coming out of my post-divorce rut, I still have a long way to go.  You don't get over something like that overnight, but there is light at the end of the tunnel.  Mind you, it may still be a few years before I'm truly myself again.

In life, I am sometimes seen as standoffish, or distant.  It comes from my introverted personality, which is a core part of who I am, and not something I can turn on and off. For the longest time, I am kept to myself.  Though at times I am able to expose bits and pieces of myself through writing or online exposure, it is not so easy to put myself out there, or share what lurks inside my heart.

Going into my personal life, there are times I have found it particularly uncomfortable, scary even, to reveal myself, my like and dislikes, my favorite things; that which I most enjoy.  Or rather, I find it difficult to share what I like with those who are closest to me.  With strangers?  Sure, I can say I like xyz.  But when it comes to those who are important to me, with those I love the most, there are times I am afraid to share.

I remember when I was growing up, I would sometimes feel embarrassed to share what I was doing with my parents.  I would shut off the television or record player when they came around.  I would pause a video game and turn the screen off, so as not to be asked what it was I was watching or doing.  I wasn't even doing anything they'd find objectionable; I just felt silly letting them know.  Don't ask me why.

In later life, as I grew up and got married and had kids, I started to feel a little more willing to open up.  I shared my activities with my wife, though in many cases she wouldn't enjoy what I was doing.  After we had kids, she lost interest in the seemingly insignificant things that I enjoyed, though she never really cared that I did them, except on occasion when she'd say they were either boring or stupid.  It didn't hurt me at the time, because I grew accustomed to doing things by myself again—and so the television programs I loved the most and the games I liked to play, and the hobbies and projects I played around with all ended up being done in private, away from prying eyes.  I can't count the hours I spent in my office watching Doctor Who or Stargate, or some other damn thing when I didn't feel like writing.  Or the hours I spent working on my cars out in the yard.  Or the time I spent working on watches, or guns.  Or the odd hour I spent playing some "boring" video game like Sid Meier's Civilization.

I won't complain that my ex-wife drifted away from me.  That's all over now.  But I find that I still have a problem sharing my life with certain people.  It may seem stupid, but the shows I watch, the games I play, the stuff I do for fun; it's all an integral part of who I am, and sharing that can be scary, especially when the person you're sharing it with is important to you, and you want to spend time with them, and it can hurt when they say "I can't get into that."  If they say it enough, it ends up being a rejection of who I am, and so I return to my familiar pattern of hiding and doing things by myself.

Okay, maybe I'm getting a bit carried away here, but I'm feeling feverish, so cut me some slack.

Overall, I am a sensitive fool, who keeps everything to himself because he doesn't want anyone's rejection to hurt him.  It's just who I am.

Yeah, so the point of all this comes down to something quite simple, and only really applicable to those close to me.  It is an effort for me to share things.  Something as trivial as a song, or a movie.  So, when I take this leap, to share something that I enjoy, please try to realize how big a move that is on my part, how much I'm putting myself out there.  Understand that my wanting to do something with you is special, as I'm someone who has spent a lifetime enjoying things alone.  Please know how rare you are, if you have the opportunity to have me ask you to sit down and watch something with me, and humor me if it's not something you're accustomed to, as I have done for those few people who are important to me.  I remember many shows I would never have watched, if not for my kids or ex-wife, or someone else special to me, who wanted to share.  That's what relationships are all about.  Sharing.  Because what's the point of being with people who are so alien in their tastes that they can't tolerate each other's favorite things?

Damn it, I really feel like watching Doctor Who about now...

My Busy Life

I can't believe it's been so long since I wrote a blog post, but my life has been busier than ever.  I'm sorry I haven't been more considerate of my online readers and fans, but it has been one hell of a year for me.  Some days hellish, others oddly ordinary, and still altogether fulfilling.  That's how I'd describe it.

So, anyone who knows me (or paid attention to previous blog posts) knows that my marriage ended this year.  The divorce was finalized in June, leaving me with full custody of 4 children.  Raising them is taking up a lot of my time, and I am not sorry in the least.  They are the largest reason for my being, and if taking care of them means sacrificing that's the way it goes.  So, time I used to spend writing or editing is currently being redirected elsewhere.

The other reason I haven't been online blogging is because of work.  Not only have I had to still work and make money, but I have major home renovations underway.  Below are a few pictures of where I'm currently at with regard to my latest project.

Entering the addition.

The unfinished shell of what will be the room for my youngest daughter, Lois.

Stairs I built myself, from scratch.

"The Loft," which will be occupied by my oldest daughter, Sylvia.

This antique push-button switch panel will control the lights for Sylvia's loft room.

Going down...

My father started this one last year.  A section of old roof needed to be replaced, and with 4 kids there was a growing need for more space, so my father decided to build this new section onto this end of the house.  He built most of the shell 2 years ago, and I helped him put the roof on it.  After that, it sat, unfinished with a tarp for one wall, until I finally got off my ass and decided to finish it.  It's a major undertaking, and I expect I'll be most of the winter finishing the interior, but the end result will be separate rooms for 2 of my daughters and a full bathroom.  There are plenty of projects beyond this, so I'm not sure which will take up my time after that.

So, between working on the house and raising 4 children, I'm finding it difficult to keep up with my writing and editing.  Martinus Publishing is still alive, but I'm afraid I don't have the time to do it justice.  I'm not giving up.  I'm not shutting down, but it may be some time before I can really get back to it.  I'm way behind with the last 3 anthologies I have in the pipeline, and unless some miracle happens I may have to cancel one or two of them.  I am committed to getting We Were Heroes out, though it's looking like a early 2016 release.  I haven't even started editing on The Secret Life of Ghosts, and I've had several authors pull out because of the time delay.

When it comes to Martinus Publishing, I can't afford to hire help.  The last few anthologies haven't made back their publication expenses, so there's no financial incentive behind it.  I do it for the love of writing, the love of writers, for the love of fiction.  It's a hard and lonely road at times, and being the sole proprietor means that it's all on me.  I don't have a staff to cover my ass when I'm too busy with life to deal with editing.  So I have to just muddle through.

What does 2016 have in store for me?  Who knows?  I'm praying for better days, and I'm optimistic that the worst is currently behind me... at least, one can certainly hope.

Merry Christmas!

Who I Am (Part 1: Fundamentals)

Last year about this time, I posited the question to myself, "Who wants to know me?"  It was the name of a blog post that I never finished, but one that the events of the last few months have compelled me to complete, with a more succinct title.  There really is no telling what this will accomplish, but when it comes down to it, the only way to connect with readers, or other people in general, is to put yourself out there to be known.  I don't know if this will gain me any new fans, but at this point there's nowhere to go but up.  So, at the risk of alienating one of my 5 remaining readers, here goes...

The Introvert:  The first thing anyone should realize when getting to know me is that I am quite the introvert.  I am quiet and shy, observant and private.  I tend to keep to myself because strangers simply make me uncomfortable.  I could never be "the life of the party" or the boisterous entertainer up on stage, or that outgoing charmer introducing himself to random people.  This is likely my greatest handicap when it comes to interpersonal relationships.  It takes time for me to get comfortable with people, and I also don't always get comfortable with people, depending on who they are and how they behave.  I'm never the one to make the first step, either, and tend to avoid conversation with unfamiliar people, because it's awkward for me.

The Moralist:  The other thing that tends to hinder my social interactions is something I rarely speak about, because it is very personal and also tends to alienate just about everyone.  I have an inborn sense of morality, something that you can't learn in Sunday School or from mortal education.  I can't explain why, other than to say I was simply born with a hyperactive sense of right and wrong, which tends to invade the "gray" area that most people tend to tread.  I believe in keeping my mind clear, untouched by drugs or alcohol, I keep my body free from piercings and tattoos, and I find sexual promiscuity is disturbing (this is one reason my pending divorce is so distressing.  I still find it hard to imagine being sexual with anyone besides my wife, even though she has left me and is shacked up with another man.  Okay, perhaps a bit too much information, but this is all about who I am, after all.  And part of that is the fact that I always believed I would never have more than one sexual partner, ever.  Now I just feel sickened inside.  Perhaps I'll simply remain chaste the rest of my days).  As I was saying, the morality I follow is not derived from a religion of man, but from my own internal feelings.  Most people do things that creep me out, so I don't get that close to them.  I don't mean to say that they're wrong to do it, but I can't help what I feel, and I feel downright uncomfortable by a lot of things that people tend to call "normal."  Yes, I'm the weird one.

The Inherent Libertarian Conflict:  Checking the other side of the moral equation, I also tend to hold to many libertarian beliefs.  Despite my own morality, and inherent feeling that a lot of the stuff people do makes me sick to my soul, I still hold to the belief that people have the right to choose for themselves.  If they wish to enjoy themselves in ways that I don't enjoy or I find unpleasant to behold, then that is their prerogative, so long as they keep it to themselves and don't try to foist it upon me or anyone else who isn't interested in their lifestyle choices.  Yet this then falls to the question of how much are others affected, and what is permissible when it comes to self-harm.  It is all well and good to say a man can have his drink or toke, but we must also look to those he affects by taking that drink or smoke.  Most obviously, we need drunk driving laws to protect everyone, just as one example, but there's more than that.  There is a cause and effect to everything, and for each "responsible" drug addict or drunk, there are countless people affected by their actions in adverse ways.  It is a sociological quandary to question the impact of libertarianism upon society, while the opposite is also troubling.  You can't deny people freedom, but how do you justify the inadvertent harm they do to others?  The psychological poisoning of youth, the depreciation of productivity, the decay of civil society itself?  Damned if you do, damned if you don't.  That is where I am always at war with myself.  The greater good, and who can you save?  This also contributes to my anonymity; I often avoid getting involved with people, so I do not risk incurring their wrath when my overactive morality tries to butt into their lives.  Which leads me to...

The Hero Complex:  I've spent much of my life as an idealist.  I have fought for what I deemed to be right, and sought to better the world around me.  I try to help those who earnestly seek my assistance when I am actually capable of providing aid, though it's rare that anyone does due to my private nature.  Most people don't get close enough to know me well enough to ask, and fewer still fall in the purview of my moral imperatives to benefit from my wisdom.  So, basically, I wish I could save the world, but nobody wants me to, so I am coming to that point in life where I don't want to bother trying anymore.  I've been bitten so many times trying to do the right thing that I grow weary of sticking my neck out.  I'm sorry for those I have failed, and damn those who would damn me!

The Observer:  The plus side to my natural introversion is the ability to observe.  I pay attention to those around me.  I'm a great listener, and I have a knack for reading people.  I would have made a good psychiatrist, as I'm able to understand people's feeling, behaviors, and motivations, which comes in handy for my writing.  Though, it can also add to my introversion, as I can tell why people behave the way they do, and it can be disturbing as well.

The Alien:  When it comes down to it, all of my inherent feelings, my spiritualism, my instincts; they leave me feeling very alien among the sea of humanity.  Each day feels more and more like an anthropological expedition, where I am the outsider living among beings who are physiologically similar to me, but hardly the same.  I understand mankind, yet I so often feel separate, for I just don't think or feel the way human animals tend to.  I'm just plain different, and in the end that's the biggest thing that keeps people from knowing who I am, for how can they relate to me?

Okay, now that I've exposed a part of my soul to the world, I can sit back and relax, knowing that most people won't care, and even fewer will truly comprehend.  I commend those few of you out there who bother to give me more than a passing glance, and I thank those of you who will remain to consider me a friend, despite my intolerant weirdness.  This is merely scratching the surface, but it's the foundation of knowing me that so few people have ever even tried to see.