Showing posts with label Passion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Passion. Show all posts

Monday, April 28, 2025

Selling Your Soul

VERSE 1

You sold your soul for some paper and metal

Digital transactions from lawsuits you settled

All you have left is a mediocre shell

And a special seat for you waiting in hell

Your spirit was once so colorful and bright

Before you fell off hard after turning right

Your road to heaven was paved with blood

Your so-called “truth bombs” were only duds

 

VERSE 2

When I give my soul to the left

I get a return on what I invest

The stories of underdogs just like myself

Told in the form of books on my shelf

Songs, art, movies, and more

Keep me from becoming a bootlicking whore

I grew and matured, I learned from the best

Who cares about results on a standardized test?

 

VERSE 3

Crushing dreams is what keeps you alive

Heaven forbid that creativity thrives

They should sell their souls for a pizza party

In a corporate office packed like sardines

Into cubicles more like trash compactors

That’s how you see them, they suppress detractors

Power corrupts, it’s an insatiable hunger

Feed the addiction while the artists suffer

 

VERSE 4

Why hire meat sacks when robots are cheaper?

Why use your brain when your pockets are deeper?

Why relate to another human being?

When outer beauty is all that you’re seeing?

Beauty fades and so does common sense

Those who enable you are not your friends

They carry knives in search of a back

Slip up just a little and they’re on the attack

They run away with your big money sack

Another soulless wonder, you’re left with jack

“Capitalism breeds innovation” they say

Yet it’s the same old shit every damn day

Saturday, January 16, 2021

Characters Without Aspirations

 If somebody is living a “normal” life, it’s seen as a positive. If somebody is living an “average” life, it’s seen indifferently. However…if somebody is living a “mediocre” life, then shame on that person. Normal, average, and mediocre all have the same meaning, yet their connotations are different across each word. Normal and average characters are relatable, but mediocre ones are looked down up with disgust. But when a critic is talking about a mediocre character, they’re not usually talking about the character’s upbringing, education, or work life. Mediocrity often means the character has no ambitions, dreams, or aspirations. Three-dimensional characters are the best kind and a character cannot be three-dimensional without at least one feasible goal or lifelong dream. That’s what we’ve been taught as writers because that’s what makes a story interesting to begin with.


But is that always the case? Do characters HAVE to have big dreams and aspirations? Commonsense would dictate that a character-driven story would mean having the MC pursue an end game. But what if the character had no dreams or aspirations at all? Sounds pretty boring, doesn’t it? Until you dig a little deeper into why that is. Maybe the character is so depressed that he can’t see a future for himself. Maybe he’s older and subscribes to the “don’t follow your passion” rhetoric that conservatives of his generation like to preach. Maybe he’s a younger child who’s been brainwashed by the school system into believing that STEM jobs are the only kind that matter. With the latter case, the brainwashed child in question has a goal, but not the one he originally intended. Does that count? Not if he’s going through the motions.


Mediocrity isn’t fun to read about, but the reasons behind it can be. In fact, the reasons alone could turn an otherwise dull character into someone to root for. Maybe the goal is to break the cycle of mediocrity and become his own person. Maybe the goal is to murder the people responsible for creating his dull situation. Wait a minute. Did that get a little too extreme for you? Is it really reasonable for a mundane character to go around stabbing people to death if they forced him into a life of boredom? Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Either way, you’ve got a compelling story on your hand. 


Conformity through brainwashing or creative suppression can be a powerful thing. That’s why millennials and Gen Z people tend to dislike Mike Rowe, because he’s using his platform to encourage capitalistic conformity. Conforming to society will make you more presentable in the eyes of the CEO’s writing your checks. Okay, Boomer, enough is enough.


While most people do want to break the chains of capitalism and tell Mike Rowe to suck a big fat one, there are legitimate slackers in society. I’m sure you, my lovely audience, have gone to school with a few of these guys. They don’t do homework. They spend their time in class shooting spitballs and fucking around. They mouth off to the teacher when they’re receiving genuine criticism. While these students don’t make up an entire generation nor can they not be saved, they do exist and they can often be interesting characters to read about. 


It’s easy to tell this lackadaisical student to “get a job” and “stop screwing around”. But have you ever been inside the mind of one of these students? Maybe the sour attitude is a cover-up for suppressed trauma. Maybe he doesn’t feel like there’s any hope for him after all. Or maybe he just wants to play videogames and fuck the world. Even the latter of those choices can be made into three-dimensional character work if an author knows what the hell he’s doing.


You’re probably reading all of this and are digging into the recesses of your mind trying to find examples of mediocre characters that are fun to read about. You want to find the difference between being lost in a dream due to aspirations and lost in a dream because he doesn’t want to wake up and face the world. Not a book, per se, but the 1994 comedy Clerks is a good example of this. Dante works at the Quick Stop Convenience Store and has no plans of bettering his life, yet he constantly complains about the situation he’s in. His friend Randal works at RST Video Store and doesn’t mind slacking off every once and a while as long as he gets to anger the customers. 


Two mediocre workers, different clashing mindsets. They have little goals here and there. Dante wants to get back together with his ex-girlfriend Caitlin while still dating a superior woman in Veronica. He wants to play hockey on the rooftop. He wants to go to a funeral to say goodbye to one of his exes. But are any of these goals really going to get him out of his depressive funk? No fucking way. Even if he somehow achieves these goals, he’ll go right back to where he was the next day: tedium and shitty customers. Dante and Randal have painfully ordinary lives, yet Clerks is considered a cult classic and Kevin Smith’s best movie of all time.


But if you’re going to intentionally write a mediocre character and have him lead the charge, his uncaring attitude should mesh well with his environment. If the character is a humanoid dragon barbarian fighting for his life in a dark fantasy kingdom with demons, devils, and zombies chewing on his flesh, that MC cannot afford to be mediocre for even a second. Yes, Gary-Stus exist, but in a fantasy or sci-fi setting, they’re frowned upon. Speculative fiction is known for having colorful worlds where the author’s imagination runs wild. Crystal castles in the sky, fireball magic spells, temptress witches, electromantic dragons, sneaky goblins, they’ve got it all! If a character is mediocre in an above-average setting, then that’s a problem.


But…what if a character is mediocre in a BELOW-average setting? What if the fantasy world has turned to absolute shit and the character gives into his urges to give up all hope? It doesn’t even have to be a nuclear apocalypse, no, no, no. It could be worldwide blight. It could be constant darkness. It could be monsters and zombies overrunning everything. Or it could be an actual world of shit, because there’s nowhere else to go to the bathroom. Losing hope and giving up easily would be perfectly understandable in a below-average hellscape. At that point, the character has two choices: give up entirely and submit to the Lovecraftian negativity, or find smaller goals to achieve if only to make life a little more bearable than it was before.


By choosing the latter of those two scenarios, your characters cease to be mediocre. An example of this is a 2009 movie called Zombieland. As the title would suggest, zombies have taken over the world and are chewing on humans like bubblegum. Fuck hope, because it’ll never come back no matter how many shotgun shells are popped off at these undead cannibals. The world will never return to its normal state. So what do the characters do? They cope. They don’t solve everything. They cope. Woody Harrelson’s character wants to find Twinkies and eat them like he was a zombie himself. The two girls in the zombie-escaping team want to go to a theme park and party it up. The main character? He just wants to see his family again. By having these little goals to keep them company in an otherwise shitty world, a run-of-the-mill comedy has become a three-dimensional story that deserves all the praise it gets.


In case it wasn’t apparent by now, mediocrity itself isn’t good or bad (that’s the very definition of the word). It’s what an author does with it that counts the most. Hell, it can even apply to real life, even in a nonconformist setting. It doesn’t have to be all about brainwashing and Boomerisms. Sometimes those big dreams aren’t what they appear to be when examined further. I had lots of dreams when I was younger, but didn’t realize how damaging those pursuits will be until I grew older. I wanted to be a pro-wrestler, but that would involve exhausting exercise, injuries, tedious travel, and bullying from the higher ups. I wanted to be a heavy metal singer, but that would also involve tedious travel, along with clashing egos, heavy criticism, potential drug and alcohol use, meaningless sex, and yes, sometimes injuries. I wanted to be a screenwriter, but that would involve traveling to Hollywood and potentially being molested by Harvey Weinstein or someone just like him. 


After all of those options, the one I decided was least detrimental to both my mental and physical health was the life of an author. I can still indulge in my creative fantasies. I can still tell Mike Rowe to get fucked. I can still be a productive person. And above all else, no injuries! Have you ever heard about an author who broke his neck while typing a novel? No, and you never will. Maybe mental injuries could be more prevalent with worldwide criticism and general trolling, but that’s not enough to keep me from pursing my dreams of being an author. I live a normal life without submitting to mediocrity. I guess I could be a three-dimensional character in someone’s novel. Or I could just do a complete self-insert, one of the two.

Sunday, March 22, 2020

My Opinion Is the Only One That Matters


VERSE 1
I’m the one who eats the burgers
You’re the one who’s the burden
I’m the one who eats the fries
You’re the one who spews the lies
I’m the one who swallows the pills
You don’t pay my fucking bills
You don’t have a say in this
‘Cause all you do is rip the piss

CHORUS 1
You can plead your case to the judge
My opinion is the only one that matters
My stubborn ass won’t even budge
My opinion is the only one that matters

VERSE 2
I’m the one who dreams my dreams
OK Boomer, my choice of memes
I’m the one who follows my passion
You’re the one who’s out of fashion
I’m the one who loves the world
You’re the one who rapes the girls
You don’t get to choose my destiny
Conformity is my worst enemy

CHORUS 2
You can bang your gavel all you need
My opinion is the only one that matters
Scream at me until your throat bleeds
My opinion is the only one that matters

BRIDGE
Why should I trust you anyways?
Who invited you to forever stay?
Why should I believe in your rhetoric?
You don’t believe in my betterment
You’ve always wanted complete control
You’ve got an iron fist and a heart so cold
Got a million ideas of what I should be
Yet the only one who matters is me

CHORUS 3
You can send a SWAT team to my home
My opinion is the only one that matters
You can leave me in a prison cell all alone
My opinion is the only one that matters
You can fry my ass in the electric chair
My opinion is the only one that matters
You can do it all because you deeply care
My opinion is the only one that matters

Wednesday, January 24, 2018

"A Carlin Home Companion" by Kelly Carlin

BOOK TITLE: A Carlin Home Companion: Growing Up with George
AUTHOR: Kelly Carlin
YEAR: 2015
GENRE: Nonfiction
SUBGENRE: Memoir
GRADE: Extra Credit

Growing up as the daughter of legendary comedian George Carlin presented itself with some unique challenges as well as heartfelt moments for Kelly. Whether she helped her parents through drug addictions, they helped her through toxic romances, or she forced herself to confront her parents’ deaths and become her own creative beacon, Kelly Carlin’s life story was never short on exciting and sorrowful milestones. Her love of comedy, creativity, music, and life in general was shaped and influenced by the wonderful father and friend known as George Carlin. Even today, Kelly doesn’t take anything for granted and knows how precious life really is. She knows better than anybody that laughter heals all wounds and there’s nothing wrong with a good cry every now and then.

In the late 90’s, Kelly’s mother passed away due to cancer complications. In 2008, she lost George as well. The way Kelly describes the emotional trauma of losing her loved ones is the biggest reason I’m giving this book an extra credit grade. Whenever she feels pain, you feel it too. Even if your own parents are alive and well, Kelly’s writing makes you aware that nothing lasts forever. She shed many tears and suffered plenty of panic attacks during this moment of coping. If you as the reader cried along with her, I wouldn’t blame you one bit. In fact, I’d probably give you a big old teddy bear hug to ease some of your pain. Dealing with death never gets any easier as time goes by, but with Kelly’s wisdom and George’s comedy, you’ll never feel alone in this world.

Another part of this book that makes me feel for Kelly is the way in which she describes her various romantic relationships and how they’ve soured badly over time. The worst offenders in this case were a high school class clown named Terry and a coked up loser named Andrew Sutton. These two former lovers put Kelly through enough pain and suffering to scar her for life, which doesn’t make dealing with dead parents in the future any less torturous. I cringed when I read about all the times Kelly refused to break things off with her lovers, because I wanted her to have a happy life without disgusting people ruining it for her. Fortunately, she did find a husband who was actually worthy of her love. His name is Bob McCall and he’s the luckiest dude on planet earth.

And finally, I want to touch briefly on Kelly’s need to break free from her parents’ shadows and become her own person. She still loves them with all of her shattered heart, but when it’s time to spread your wings and fly, you’ve got to do it. George constantly challenged her comfort zone through his comedy routines and wise parenting (drug addiction aside). While the comfort zone is a beautiful place, nothing ever grows there. Kelly took a while to find her creative footing, but when she did, she accomplished so much whether it was becoming a licensed therapist, a performing artist, a writer, or anything else she damn well wanted to be. Readers can learn a lot from her life story and hopefully what they learn will propel them to new heights. Yes, it’s scary at first as Kelly will attest, but conquering those fears will only make you stronger.


Whether you’re a devout fan of George Carlin or a lover of literature in general, Kelly Carlin’s memoir will bring you to the edge and back again with her tales of growing up with one of the greatest comedians of all time. Despite all of the hardships and heartaches, Kelly made it through life a much stronger person than she was in her younger years. George wasn’t a perfect father (then again, who is?), but he was the only one she’d ever known and life would be boring without that influence. This is a tale of love and inspiration. Pick up a copy today!

Sunday, May 7, 2017

Angel of Chehalis

VERSE 1
In the city of burning crosses
We’ve suffered so many losses
In the town of blind-eye bosses
We were figuring out the causes
But you were the one constant
As I laid down watching for comets
Could you be the Angel of Chehalis?
Would stealing your kiss be tasteless?

CHORUS
You made me believe in love
When I gave up and had enough
You brought me out of the dark
Angel of Chehalis, take my heart

VERSE 2
You flew away in the dead of night
Deprived this city of your radiant light
I carried my burden with all my might
It’s my cross to bear, no love to share
I walked the earth, but saw no sign
Of the angel from the burning ley line
Are you still the Angel of Chehalis?
Or has this damn city left you jaded?

CHORUS
You made me believe in love
When I gave up and had enough
You brought me out of the dark
Angel of Chehalis, take my heart

VERSE 3
Finding heaven in the strangest places
Finding angels in the saddest faces
Finding the living in permanent stasis
Finding the dead lonely and wasted
In the city of burning crosses
I walk away and cut my losses
Until we meet again, Angel of Chehalis
Until this world is a photograph faded

EXTENDED CHORUS
You made me believe in love
When I gave up and had enough
You brought me out of the dark
Angel of Chehalis, take my heart
Take my body, take my soul
Take my mind, take total control
Fill the chasms and the black holes

Why must this memory take its toll?

Saturday, May 6, 2017

Believe

Believe in the beauty of rock bottom failure
Believe you can cross rough waters like a sailor
Believe this world is yours for the taking
Believe in the beauty of the art you’re making
Believe your heart is made of pure gold
Believe you can crush the lies you are told
Believe your soul can never be sold
Believe the fire inside can never go cold
Believe in your own battle-tested story
Believe normalcy is so damn boring
Believe conformity is never the answer
Believe indifference is the ultimate cancer
Believe passion is more powerful than a pistol
Believe true love is stronger than a missile
If you know something in your heart to be true
Sitting back and watching isn’t the thing to do
You have a voice; it’s time to make your choice
Make a bold statement or just make some noise
Believe in your power to shake the landscape
Look beyond the train wrecks and bad days
Believe in your power to never give up
Despite the many days that just might suck
Believe the end is only the beginning

Believe this is truly a life worth living

Friday, November 25, 2016

Nothing

VERSE 1
A bikini selfie is worth more than true art
Gigantic tits are worth more than pure heart
Attention is currency worth more than gold
True love is distant, not close enough to hold
Favorites and likes have become so trite
To even those with the true creative might
Shallow values have come to mean something
Yet underneath it all, there’s all but nothing

CHORUS 1
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human body made of paper mache
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human mind to shape like clay
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human spirit to be taken away
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A worthless story for another day

VERSE 2
A bold faced lie in a suit and tie
Will bring you to financial highs
A little fairytale going off the rail
Will serve you with papers in the mail
Free speech: silenced with duct tape
Free thought: silenced with mind rape
A big bank account has come to mean something
Underneath it all, you’ve got absolutely nothing

CHORUS 2
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human life made of chips and wires
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human love with no passionate fires
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human story for the funeral pyre
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
A human body far past retired

VERSE 3
What good is power when it’s used for evil?
What good is love when it isn’t for the people?
What good is money when it’s wastefully spent?
What good is anger when you’re not hell-bent?
What good is attraction when you’re just a fraction?
A former shell of a man who burst into action?
Questions and answers should both mean something
But when there’s something to seek, we find nothing

CHORUS 3
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
Robotic body with a putty face
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
Robotic logic so full of disgrace
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
Robotic motherboard all but fried
Nothing! Nothing! Nothing!
Robotic judgment as national pride

FINAL BRIDGE
There really is no dark side of the moon
But it’s where our heroes will go very soon
The artists, the geniuses, everyone in between

Our final generation is what we have seen

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Pull You Under

Spencer Henry spent what seemed like hours at his apartment staring angrily at a photo of himself. His cheeks were trembling. His eyes were burning and watery. Every muscle in his body tensed up. The picture he held in his hand was taken at the age of 21, when life was beautiful and happy. At age 40, all he felt was the fiery sensation building in his belly.

“I hate you,” he finally said to the picture. He said it again. And again. With every repetition came more fire and volume in his throaty voice. He said it so many times that his hot breath started to resemble that of a dragon. He couldn’t care less how thin the walls in his apartment were. He didn’t care how many warnings he got from the superintendent. There wasn’t a whole lot about life that Spencer cared about. Just rage. More and more rage.

“I’ll pull you under, motherfucker!” he suddenly screamed before punching the glass-encased photo. Punching glass probably wasn’t the wisest move of Spencer’s life, but a middle-aged man’s wisdom went away a long time ago when the hateful dialogue poured from his mouth like snake’s venom.

The shattered glass cut deep into Spencer’s fingers, splattering blood all over his carpet. The screams were much louder and more barbaric, but this time it was out of mind-blowing pain. He wrapped his hand in his burgundy polo shirt, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop. It kept pouring like a raging river and all Spencer could do about it was kneel to the ground and wait for help to arrive. Someone must have heard him and dialed 911 by now. The walls were thinner than a Catholic wafer sometimes.

The last few minutes of Spencer Henry’s consciousness were spent bleeding all over the floor and adding tears and snot to this hodgepodge of emotional fluids. Fading to darkness was probably the best thing that could have happened to him at this point. He wouldn’t have to think those hateful thoughts of himself any longer.

But the thing about being rescued by first responders was that the patient eventually had to wake up. The fuzzy brown and white-haired Spencer awakened slowly and painfully while wearing a paper thin hospital gown. He had wires and tubes going into his body as he lay there on a semi-comfortable bed. His previously bloody hand was covered thickly in white gauze and showed no distinction between fingers, like a mitten of sorts.

“I’m glad to see you awake, Mr. Henry. We thought we’d lost you there for a minute. I’m Dr. Josie Cosgrave. I was in charge of your hand surgery.” The good doctor sat at the edge of Spencer’s bed with a hunched over posture and her chin on her arms. Her pose suggested that she wanted to talk about more than just a few stitches or some medication. The look on her darkly-complexioned face suggested something far more serious. “Is there a reason why you punched a picture of yourself, Mr. Henry?”

He let out a sigh and shrugged his shoulders before saying, “I’m just a little stressed out right now.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” said Josie with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “There’s just one problem. People who are just a little stressed out don’t unleash a Mike Tyson assault on a piece of glass. They also don’t cry incessantly and fight the same EMT’s who are trying to load them into the ambulance.”

“Wait a minute…I did all of that?” asked a weary Spencer.

“All that and more,” answered Josie. She meandered over to the side of her patient’s bed and held his good hand in a semi-affectionate way. “Something’s bothering you, Mr. Henry. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out one way or another. The answer just might determine if you need psychological counseling or not.”

“Yeah, like my insurance is going to cover that,” said Spencer while throwing his bad hand in the air sarcastically. “Oh wait, I forgot. I don’t have insurance. People who fry fish in the afternoon and write crappy novels at night don’t have that kind of luxury.”

“So is that why you’re so angry at yourself?” asked Josie. “Because you’re pissed off about how life has treated you?”

“What a mind,” said Spencer with even more sarcasm in his voice.

“You don’t have to be a wise-ass with me, Mr. Henry. I’m not your enemy here. I’m your friend. Yes, the hospital bill is going to be expensive, but I personally didn’t take this job as a doctor for a paycheck. It took it because that’s what I love to do. I love helping people like you get through their worst moments.”

Spencer shook his head and smiled unconvincingly when he said, “That’s it, huh? That’s the answer to my problems? Just love what I do and do what I love?” Silence overtook the room before it was broken with a sad sigh. “I really thought I could do it. I thought writing a novel and getting my name out there would give me a comfortable life. I thought I’d be a rock star by now. My novel, ‘Pull You Under’, has been edited countless times by countless people. God knows how many drafts I’ve got.”

Instead of interrupting the flow of the conversation, Dr. Josie Cosgrave squeezed Spencer’s good hand and gave him a look of concern. She didn’t want to talk at that moment, just listen. And damn, did Spencer have a lot to say.

“And then…just when I think I’m finally getting a big break…” A solitary tear rolled down his cheek. “Those asshole editors take their rubber stamp and brand my manuscript with the word ‘reject’ in beg red letters. Reject! That’s what I am to these people! I’ve spent the last ten years sending in that novel and all I ever got was a mouthful of battered fish and French fries for lunch! Every damn day! Every day, another fucking stamp! How many more times are they going to do it?! Why can’t they just say ‘yes’ for the first time in their lives?! Three fucking letters, one fucking word! Yes! Yes! Yeeeeeeeees!!”

The rage has finally boiled over for Spencer Henry. He ripped his good hand from Dr. Cosgrave’s clutches and tried to rip at the bandages and stitches in his hand. Josie tried to pin the furious man’s arms down, but he was much too powerful for her and shoved her to the floor. The man was so pissed off that he started foaming at the mouth with saliva. He was determined to rip his hand to shreds and put an end to his lackluster writing career forever.

Once again, the power of his fiery vocal cords brought help when he needed it the most. Dr. Cosgrave got up again and along with a team of blue scrubs nurses who just came rushing in held Spencer’s tensed up arms down. He put up a wilder fight than a raging bull being lead to the slaughter. Nurses were shoved backwards and more foam poured from Spencer’s mouth.

In one quick motion, Josie stabbed Spencer in the arm and pumped his bloodstream full of sedatives. He fought like a rabid wolverine for a few more seconds and then slowly, but surely descended into darkness once more. By the time he was knocked out, the spittle on his chin looked like he had a Santa Claus beard. The nurses all breathed sighs of relief while Dr. Cosgrave took a napkin and wiped the spittle off.

Spencer Henry didn’t wake up for another hour or so. When he did, his head was pounding and his jaw felt like he’d taken one of his own right hooks. His vision was blurry, mostly from the tears he shed, but it was eventually restored to where he saw Dr. Cosgrave at the foot of his bed again along with a team of nurses in the background.

“Truth is, Mr. Henry,” said Josie in a much more stern voice. “The writing business isn’t all frills and gimmicks. Rejection is common even for the most popular authors who are drowning in a sea of revised drafts. They have a name for going through that kind of hell: it’s called paying your dues. I know you felt like you’ve paid yours with one hundred percent interest, but you have no idea how much further you have to climb.”

“I…I didn’t mean to scare you guys like that,” said Spencer with a weak voice.

“I’m sure you didn’t, Mr. Henry,” said Josie with her arms tensed at her sides. “But we all know why you did it. You did it for the same reason that me and my nurses have: because you feel underappreciated. You’ve paid your dues time and time again. Well, guess what? So have we. So has anyone else who’s ever had a career. We as a society are all in this together. The sooner you let us into your world, the better off you’ll be. Whether you’re a writer, a doctor, a construction worker, a teacher, or otherwise, the struggle and the stress are both real. How will you respond to yours, Mr. Henry? Are you going to give up and flat line in that bed of yours? Or are you going to keep on fighting this endless war? We’ll fight for your life, but only if you fight for yours too.”

Spencer let out a deep sigh and said, “I want to keep going on. I want to believe there’s something out there for me. I just don’t know what it is and how I’ll get there.”

“That’s the beautiful thing about life: you don’t have to know, because it’s not laid out for you. You have to make your own destiny. Your medical chart says you’re 40 years old, but your life is far from over, my friend,” said Josie. She let her words resonate with Spencer for a minute and then she continued. “I’ve been saying that shit for a long ass time now. Some of my patients believed it, some of them didn’t. Those who believed it became successful in their lives or at least happy with what they’ve got. Those who didn’t believe it eventually grew up to be stored in our morgue’s body lockers.”

Spencer tried to calm himself with some basic breathing techniques as he thought about what the good doctor said to him. Was she right? She could be. But she could also be someone collecting more money than a professional fish fryer. Either way, it didn’t matter. The pissed off author was now calm enough to make his decision in his 40 year old crossroads. “Does anybody here know of a good editor I can hire?”

“Not off the top of my head,” said Josie with a satisfied smile. “But I can look it up for you.” As she pulled out her smart phone and did a Google search, Spencer relaxed into his pillow and let out a deep breath, thinking at last that he was on the right path once again.