Lose Your Head

*Title from Lose Your Head by London Grammar

I haven't been blogging in forever. Nobody really reads this blog, but that should make it more fun for me, not less: frankly I'm here for me, doing this for me. It keeps me on-focus and keeps me feeling like I have some momentum behind me. It helps me orient myself and remember what my goals are. Honestly, I know it's all about vlogging on Youtube/Twitch these days, but I'm never going to stop writing/blogging.

It may be retro, but whatever, retro used to be cool. I used to love reading Amanda Hocking's blog back in the day. Writers write, so it makes more sense for us to blog than vlog. I do love a lot of authortube, though, don't get me wrong. Liselle Sambury and Katie Wisemer and Kate Cavanaugh, Alexa Donne, stuff like that. They're great.

I just also love blogging. Even though I don't read any other blogs any more. But somebody needs to become a blogger icon and bring it back. I miss the vibes, I'm waiting for my blogger messiah. In the meantime I'm gonna keep writing.

I've been trying and failing to focus on this project...

I wrote my book Things We Sat At Midnight wayyyy back in 2014 or 2015. I don't remember which. I'm 99% sure it was 2015, but I've been sure and still been wrong before. What I DO remember is I wrote it in one day and I was stoned as fuck. I edited it and put it out that same day, too. Back then I was so obsessed with speed and proving I could churn things out quickly and have a pipeline of content like a traditional publishing house did. I was eighteen and I felt like I had so much to prove.

Now, looking back at it at 27, I think any self-publisher trying to keep up with, let alone compete with traditional publishers is wasting their time and their potential. It doesn't need to be proven anyway: most trad-pub authors put out one book a year while many self-pubbed authors are out here putting out like four books a year.

I just want to keep writing. That's my idea of success: words on a page.

I used to be able to leap into another world, now I have trouble getting outside of my own head and engaging with stories. I'm fighting to reconnect with that side of my creativity, my love of reading and writing that was all-encompassing and felt so natural. I miss it a lot.

It's harder to escape the world now. I was so idealistic when I started writing, and now I feel guilty for engaging in fantasy while other people are being bombed, or killed, or violated. I miss my old self, I miss my old friends, I miss the world of 2011, 2012, 2013, when I felt nature was alive, the future was bright and hopeful, and I was young and full of promise, on the brink of my dreams.

Now every moment of joy or escapism feels fought-for and hard-won. And feels laced with guilt, shame.

I am slowly editing and rewriting Things We Saw At Midnight, feeling nostalgic for older, simpler times and vibes. I'm particularly working hard on the story Just Another Ordinary Monday, which is being re-named Worldspeak and heavily rewritten/expanded. It's been a hell of a job so far.

The story needs a lot more editing and improvement than I thought it would, but it's okay. I'm having fun despite the challenge. But I'm coming out of some writer's block and thinking things through. Rereading. Editing. Taking stock. I forgot how much I love/need/want/require outlines. And I do. Require outlines.

Discovery writing is fun, but so unreliable.

From Just Another Ordinary Monday Morning >to> Worldspeak, this story is going from short story to novella, which means a lot is getting expanded, several characters are getting more to do, and the stuff that was there needs significant re-writing too, so lots is changing, and it's been intimidating, but I think I'm slowly getting a grasp on it. So here's to finishing this story as soon as possible so I can share it with somebody, anybody!

Bella Dog

 The other day I posted some pics of our new puppies Henry & Luna, but back in October we lost our old dog Bella. She had an impacted/infected womb and it was going to rupture, she was so old and weak we were all afraid surgery would kill her anyway, and made the choice to put her down because her womb rupturing was inevitable and would be a very painful death. Instead she went to sleep very peacefully with us holding her, petting her, telling her how much we loved her.

We made sure Bella had a very good final day where we spoiled her with lots of love and treats. The truth is though that was every day, she was my best friend and we did everything together. I miss her every day, but I was looking through some of the pictures I took on her final day and seeing that even on that day she was happy and there was love and contentment in her eyes is everything to me.

I figured I would share a few photos I took that day of us together and her final walk. I look like a mess because I was having a full-on nervous breakdown on one of the worst days of my life, but that's to be expected. I have a lot more but these ones are the ones I wanted to share today:

I'll never stop loving or missing Bella, but I know our other dogs and relatives on the other side are watching out for each other and waiting for us to come home, and in the meantime I hold on to every happy and painful memory, and the ones like in these photos, that have a touch of both.

I Want To Tell You About My Grandparents

All of my grandparents are gone now, which is a really weird feeling. I never really knew my grandfathers, in fact I only met one of them. But my grandmothers were such a huge part of my life, and it feels weird that I haven't talked about them much here, because it just feels painful and hard. But now I think I am at a place where I can talk about them from a place of happiness and wonder at the fact that I got to meet these beautiful people and share so many moments with them in life.

Like a lot of kids, my parents were always busy working, they both had nine-to-five jobs that were physically demanding, and they were overworked and underpaid, so I got left with my grandparents a lot while my brother who was older was allowed to run around with his friends or go to after-school programs. I had no problem with this, because I was antisocial and I liked my grandmothers both better than I liked other kids my age and my friends at school. Even as an eleven year old boy, I had the personality of a woman in her late fifties. What can I say, some things never change.

My grandpa Al died before I was born, when my father was about seven or eight, I think. After he died my Nanny Better had a nervous breakdown; she grew up an orphan in the Canadian foster care system and had bounced around from group home to orphanage to foster home, etc, from what I've been told, and she ended up sending both my uncles to live with our great aunt Lillian, while my father, who apparently had intense behavioral issues, was sent to live in a boys home for a few years. At some point, Betty got her life together, she bought an apartment building and turned the bottom floor into a commercial space, opening a convenience store with her girlfriend Josie, who we grew up knowing as aunt Josie, because I guess everybody thought we were too young to understand that Grandma was dating a woman, lol. That convenience store is still there, in fact I went there a lot growing up after they'd sold it. It's called Sam's now and it has been since the eighties or mid-nineties, at least. In the early two-thousands my Nanny Tony, who lived a few doors down, would send me there with spare change and I'd buy Miami Cakes and pizza pockets galore before going back to her place to watch unhealthy amounts of TeleToon.

Anyway, Betty eventually ended up selling the store and becoming a librarian of all things. She loved books, but not as much as she loved cats and cigarettes. I have fond memories of listening to Stephen King audiobooks on tape at her and Josie's apartment in the West Side, in the dark, while trying to fall asleep, at like seven years old. I was traumatized. Baby's First Audiobook!

Nanny and Josie lived together for years, even after they broke up. The last time I saw them together was in 2015; I blogged about it on this blog, actually, if you go back to summer 2015, it's when I got my first tattoo with my cousin Amelia. I remember that summer so fondly, we went swimming and saw a truck back into the water and get stuck, we went to Dixie Lee and got decent greasy chicken and iced green tea, we walked every night with Josie and her sisters. Nanny and Josie had moved to Josie's hometown at that point so she could be with her family, I think they moved around 2013 or so. Amelia visited them dozens of times, but I'd only ever gone that once.

A short time after that trip Nanny Betty was moved back to our city, into a home, as her condition deteriorated and her dementia got worse. I'm ashamed to admit it, and it's a big regret for me, but I never went to see her while she was in the home for the last three years of her life; I was afraid, because I knew my father and I are probably both going to get dementia one day, it's like a family curse, and my father is already showing signs. I knew from Amelia and other relatives that she often didn't know who they were, that she often didn't know where or when she was. I couldn't see her like that, and the idea of it sent me into an anxiety attack every time, so my parents tried to shield me from the questioning and prodding of the rest of our family to the best of their ability.

Everybody tells me I'm like my uncle John, Betty's son, Amelia's father, because we both love reading and books, and we're both writers, and the truth is I think I'm like him because we're both like her. It comes from her, the love of books and stories, and police procedural dramas. She babysat me for years in elementary and middle school and she was always watching some form of CSI or Criminal Minds.

Nanny Betty always had a cat calendar on every surface, and cat plushies, and cat figurines, and more, and one of the keepsakes I have from her is a tiny cat statue on my bookshelf, it's white and blue and very elegant looking, even though I'm sure she bought it at a local dollar store sometime around like 2004.

On the other side of the family, there's my mom's parents. I only met her father once, when I was very young. He wasn't close with anybody in the family, and when my parents got married years and years ago they sent him money for a plane ticket and a hotel but he never came. My mom talked to him on the phone occasionally, but I never had much interest in him. He died a few years ago and my mom found out he'd had more kids and she has a half-brother and half-sister out there, who she's had a little contact with here and there.

Her mother, though, my Nanny Tony, was a HUGE part of my life. Nanny Betty and Josie always favored Amelia and my brother Brandon over me, which was very hurtful as a kid. I felt like I was the odd one out in the family who nobody wanted. But Nanny Tony clearly favored me, to the point where I truly believe I was her favorite person in the world. She died very suddenly when I was eleven, and my last words to her, a few weeks before that, were 'I love you' which brings me a lot of comfort even now that I'm an adult.

I would go to Nanny Tony's almost every weekend, Friday to Sunday. Amelia's maternal grandmother Lillian lived right down the street, so if she went to her place we could both hang out and play as much as we wanted, which was amazing.

Nanny Tony made the best scrambled eggs I've ever had in my life, and I always demanded she make them for me. I still try to make them like she did and I always fail. She loved Christmas movies and romantic comedies, and her house was a hub of activity, there was always several friends and family members coming and going, at all hours. If I slept in on the couch too long the living room got so crowded people would sit on my legs and wake me up. When my parents got into a bad argument my mom would storm out and take me and my brother to her place. We went there every holiday, and I remember one year on Easter she and my uncle Chicken, who passed away last year of a heart infection, put on the horror movie Boogeyman. Traumatized my dumb ass for life. Watching it now doesn't do anything for me though, it's so corny in retrospect.

Nanny Tony also smoked like a chimney. Her and Nanny Betty would sometimes meet up at the bingo parlor and were bingo buddies for years before they had a falling out and turned icy with each other. (Drama, drama!)

My mom took on Nanny Tony's personality trait of wanting to feed everybody all the time, although at this point I don't know if it's really a personality trait or a genetic disposition Greeks have towards hospitality and wanting to force-feed people. Both of them can cook a good damn meal. My mom is vegetarian and eats a mostly vegan diet now, but she still cooks meat dishes for my dad and I sometimes, like last night she cooked an amazing ham for us.

I have very fond memories of running in and out of the kitchen while Mom and Nanny Tony cooked family dinner, and how various cousins and uncles and family friends and whoever they were all dating at the time would come over to eat with us. Everybody loved her. At her funeral they printed out cards with her portrait and the caption 'Queen of Duke Street' which seems pretty damn accurate to me. I used to sit with her on her front stoop all morning, watching people pass by, and more than half of them inevitably stopped to say hi and chat with her.

I'm going to hop off now, since I think I've successfully conveyed how awesome these women were. They formed who I am and who I'll always be, and I'm eternally grateful I got to know them.

The Importance of Spider-Man

All I've been doing for the past few days is play Spider-Man for the PS4 and waiting for my new laptop to come in the mail. It's here now, and it's very fancy, and I'm using it to catch up on NaNoWriMo, and, yes, writing Spider-Man fanfic. I'm only human.

I grew up on Spidey. I know most of us did, but still; when my dad was a kid in the seventies and eighties he would dress up as Spider-Man and climb on top of his roof to amuse his friends. When my brother and I were growing up in the late nineties and early two-thousands, we had cool Spider-Man pajamas and toys and gadgets like mini web-shooters that shot silly string all over the house and effectively turned our mother homicidal. We watched the Sam Raimi trilogy all the time. Toby isn't my favorite Spider-Man, or even my favorite movie Spider-Man, but he was still fantastic, even though those movies got corny sometimes.

I have a very clear memory of going to a birthday party at some kids house when I was like, eight or nine--I still have no idea who this kid was, if he was my friend or my brother's, or just the kid of one of our Dad's friends who we got shoved into spending time with, although I think that was it.

My brother was a social butterfly, and I was sadly not. I didn't fit in with any of the kids my age, and I was shy and I felt weird and out of place. I didn't know any of the kids at that party, but I remember they put on one of those movies for us, I think it was Spider-Man 2, and we all sat in the basement watching it while we waited for this kid's older brother and his mom to tell us who had won this contest earlier in the night, one of those where you have to guess how many jelly beans there are in a big glass jar full of them. I don't remember what number I guessed exactly, but I was right; I remember halfway through the movie I had to go pee so I went upstairs, and on my way back down I overheard the brother asking his mom how many beans were in there, and she replied with my guess, I had somehow gotten it exactly right, I don't know how, but I knew I'd won before anyone else knew I'd won. The prize, of course, was the huge jar of jelly beans. My brother didn't usually like me, but he sure liked me that day, when he got to stuff his face with my winnings. I just remember watching the rest of Spider-Man and feeling very proud of myself.

I remember another time when I was around eleven or so, my neighbor Megan's little dog ran away, and my friend Brandon and I (not to be confused with my brother Brandon, because of course there have to be multiple Brandons running around just to keep things interesting) and I went out looking for it. We found the thing, and when we brought him home, Megan's mom was so happy she bought us both a box of Spider-Man gummy candies as a reward. I shared mine with my dad.

I don't know why I love Spidey so much, or maybe I do, honestly; maybe it's because he's a superhero whose alter-ego is just as easy to root for as his hero persona is.

Clark Kent is just pretending to be a nerd with glasses, he's a hot, buff alien who doesn't really have that many confidence issues. I know he's a DC hero, but bear with me. Wonder Woman, another DC hero, is a literal fucking Amazonian princess. Even on the Marvel side of things, it's like, Tony Stark is a hot rich playboy asshole most of the time. Black Widow is a kick-ass Russian spy. Northstar is a fucking famous figure skater.

So, yeah, they're cool, interesting heroes, but they're not relatable to most of us.

Men, women, white folks, black folk, straight folk, gay folk, we all relate to Peter Parker because he actually IS that nerd with glasses, he's not pretending, it's not an act. He's just a nice dorky kid from New York who usually lives at home with his family, or if he lives alone is super overdue on rent, he's into nerdy shit like photography and science. He's a dork. He's a real underdog. We all see ourselves in him.

And when Peter puts on that mask, he's not shedding his fake Peter persona, he's not becoming somebody else, because Spider-Man is actually a part of Peter, he's Peter unleashed. He has no reason to be shy or hold himself back under that mask, and the real him comes out, the funny, charming, playful part of himself he's sometimes too shy or awkward to let out in real, daily life. When other heroes shed their normal clothes and slap on spandex, they're not really putting on a costume, they're taking one-off; the hero persona is the real them, and the alter-ego almost becomes an act half the time. (Depending on the writer, obviously. I'm not shitting on all other heroes, but it's obvious that they often lack something Peter Parker has that makes people respond to him on a much more crazy, fanatical level of fandom...) Peter Parker is Peter Parker, whether he's wearing flannel or spandex, and that's what makes him so special, he doesn't become a completely different person between personas, he just becomes more himself.

I'm not sure why I feel the need to say all this. I just love Spider-Man I guess. I know it will probably never happen, or at least not for years, because, you know, Tom Holland and Marvel-Sony and Into The Spiderverse, there's just a lot going on with this property right now, so I think it would muddy the waters a bit too much, but SOMEDAY I'd like a Spider-Man TV show. A nice 45-mins-per-episode TV show with an ensemble cast, following Peter from becoming Spider-Man to meeting Miles Morales and becoming a mentor to him, giving MJ a Jessica Jones P.I. type slant (minus the mean personality and alcoholism, because I'm pretty sure Jess has those trademarked) and more. I'd love an ensemble cast drama in this world, with these characters, is what I'm saying. It was a TV show way back in the day, it could be again.

I also want a bi Peter Parker, though, so I'm probably just throwing shit out there. That leaked Sony email basically said "Spider-Man can never be gay or the anti-SJWS will riot!" so it's probably ruled out. And they're right, I mean, anti-SJWS hate Holdo from Star Wars because they're convinced having pink hair makes you lesbian (I think the director or writer did pull a JKR, Dumbledore type deal with her, but it's not in the text so fuck them, it's not canon) and they ignore all of Rey's character development to call her a Mary Sue feminazi bitch while upholding Padme and Mara Jade, a flat, boring static character and a literal overpowered Mary Sue as more well-written alternatives, so people are basically insane and will riot whenever any form of minority is in their fiction these days, sadly. I get it.

Spider-Man being gay or bi would sent the internet into a tailspin, and I kind of want to see it because I'm a shit-disturber and I think it would be funny.

But also because, come on, Peter Parker is bi as fuck. He's had weird sexual tension Flash Thompson and Eddie Brock several times throughout his comics runs and various other forms of media. He's got weird vibes with his best friend Harry. I don't know, I just don't buy that Peter is 100% straight. I do buy that he's 100% pure-hearted and a total dork, though, which is why he's the best superhero. He makes nerds and dorks believe in themselves and he's funny. And he represents the twinks. And the twunks. And that's why Spider-Man is so damn important.

If I was a huge blockbuster, top-selling YA author who could land gigs like these superhero novels people like Margaret Sthol and Leigh Bardugo and SJ Maas are getting, I'd want to write a Spider-Man trilogy. I'd probably be Kevin Fiege's slave for life if he or someone, anyone, at Marvel, would let me at this property.

Alas, I'll be restrained to the realm of fanfic and daydreaming, but I'll still love Spider-Man as long as I live.

The First Day of School: A Summary

So yesterday was my first day of school. I have to admit, I've been anxious about this for weeks. The end of summer was getting closer and I had no idea if I would be back in school daily or on the same program I'd been on last year, which was one where I basically home-schooled myself. I had to meet with the principal yesterday to figure out what would be happening.

I think a lot of people are surprised to find out I'm still in high school, and that always surprises me. It shouldn't, honestly, because I'm too old to still be in high school, so the assumption makes sense - but I'm not used to people taking me seriously enough to not immediately assume I'm an adult imposter. So why am I in high school? I failed two grades, among other things. I don't know how I failed grade one, so don't ask - I don't even know how it was possible, but it happened. In grade six I started skipping school a bunch, and had to repeat the year. I kept skipping after that, but it didn't get me in academic trouble until high school.

Anyway, I'm supposed to graduate this year. And I'm hoping I'll have all of my credits by the end of the first semester, so I won't even have to do this for the entire year - just half. But in order to accomplish that I needed to get on packages - the aforementioned home-schooling program - so I could work at my own pace and earn as many credits as possible.

The day started at 4:30am. I woke up in the dark, sweating, with my heart racing. I'd had another one of those serial killer dreams. I seem to be fixated on this idea this week, and I keep dreaming about it. It's because I watch too much Scream the tv show and eating cold pizza before I go to sleep, but it's giving me thrilling dreams and fantastic ideas, so I'm not complaining. Except for the whole awake at 4am part.

I was nervous as soon as I woke up. If I didn't get packages then I'd be spending the entire year in stuffy public school classrooms, the ones with the pastel painted cement block walls and desks with plastic 'wood finish' veneer. I was also nervous because if I did have to do that, it would be my last time ever being in high school - and if I get packages then that last time has already past. And that makes me sort of sad.

Public school raised me as much as my parents did. The reading corner in Ms. Genge's first grade class, trips to the library down the hall in her third grade class later on. I can remember my first crush - which, surprisingly enough, was on a girl - in Ms. Hachey's fourth grade home room. I remember pumpkin carving in the gym of my first middle school in grade 6, both times around, remember getting sent to the office for snapping at teachers, remember the first time someone told me I was their friend and I really believed them. I can remember ignoring our teacher lecturing us in social studies in the sixth grade so we could talk about Twilight and New Moon, and I can remember how after the longest detention of my life the same teacher who'd given it to me told me she thought I had what it took to be successful.

I remember my home room teacher in the second attempt at sixth grade, Mrs. Holden, lending me books and talking about my interests with me after class while I helped stack chairs - not because she had to, but because she was genuinely interested in talking with her students. I remember a teacher in the seventh grade giving me ten dollars to buy a cd at a school event, and I remember the first teacher who ever snapped at another student for using a gay slur, because one of his classmates could be gay. One of the first people who ever really made me believe I was talented and clever was my ninth grade English teacher, and I can still remember the vice principal of my high school keeping bins of snack bars and pastries and instant ramen just inside the door of his office so kids could grab a snack. I can remember spending music class holed up in the book room across the hall or the empty auditorium upstairs, pretending to learn guitar while we spent the entire hour talking, becoming friends.

This school system has been my home for 13 years now, and it will be that and a half by the end of this semester. It's a lot to say goodbye to, no matter how it ended.

I ended up sandwiched in the principal's office with him and a girl I've been friends with since the second grade, and we both ended up getting packages. So that's it, I sat in a high school classroom for the last time the first semester of the eleventh grade, and now I'm never gonna sit in one again.

I'll never eat lunch in the cafeteria again - or, more realistically, trudge uptown through snow for off-campus takeout - and I'll never spend break between each class gossiping in the chaos of a crowded hallway, or skip a class to go for coffee or hide out in the basement hallway near the pool, where everything smells like chlorine.

I'm strangely sad about it. And I'm excited, too, because now I can focus on work and graduating and writing. It's just odd to leave such a big chunk of my life behind. It helped me become who I was and learn a lot about the world, and it's sort of melancholy to watch it all slip away, even if I'm elated at the thought of a new chapter starting. And a new chapter is starting. Because I'm free by the end of this year. I can move wherever I want. I can do whatever I want. I can pursue my career without having to sacrifice time to school or other commitments that are forced on me. I'm, y'know, an adult.

And hey, the rest of the day was pretty good, too: I spent a lot of it sitting in the grass at the public park smoking with friends, but I also spent some time at an old playground called Rainbow Park that I love, and I got to hang out with some people I haven't seen in months because of life getting in the way.

So yeah, I don't know. It was wild, and nostalgic, and I'm a bit torn up about the fact that it's the last first day of my high school years. I'm a bit sad that it's my last first day with the friends I've been with since elementary school.

I'm set to spent an entire semester sitting around in my pajamas, mainlining coffees, writing, and squeezing in episodes of America's Next Top Model in-between bouts of obsessive school work. So I have a lot to do, and I'm gonna go get started, but I just needed to observe this strange sequence called time for a minute.