To a third grader, she is a big, loud, bossy woman. By trade she was a math teacher, the epitome of evil to most kids of that age. She made you do things like multiply big numbers in your head while you were riding in the car with her. I’m not talking about the ones you knew. She wanted the ones you always counted on your fingers and still got wrong. Like 7×9. What superhuman can do that in their head on the way to school?

Aunt Mary also had management in her blood. What did she manage, you ask? Everything. Everything she came in contact with. She was one of those people that spoke with authority. To give you a very embarrassing but real example, she has been known to tell the greeter at Wal-Mart exactly what she needs and stand there until it was brought to her.  Why would they do that, you ask? Because even strangers know you don’t mess around with Aunt Mary.

Because of her position at school and her house’s proximity to mine, I rode with her almost every morning of first through fifth grade. It was a horrifying period in my early life.

Even though she was never ready when I got there, I had to be at her house at the crack of dawn. What did I do with the extra time? Eat breakfast? Watch tv? Drift back into sleep? Of course not! Aunt Mary was not the type to let a child sit on their hands when there was work to be done!

I pushed vacuums that were taller than me across carpets. I filled dog bowls. I raked yards. I carried ridiculously large bags of graded papers to the car.  I answered endless arrays of questions about the well being of everyone in my immediate family. 

I even had to walk across the yard to an old dilapidated tool shed to feed the outside cats. A tool shed that I was sure contained every monster you can possibly imagine. Every time I had to do it I would pour the food and then run back to the house like a starving cheetah after a wounded gazelle.  The thought of it gives me chills even now.

The story I bring you today, however, occurred after leaving the house.  We were on the way to school, talking about family or grades or maybe math, when Aunt Mary noticed she needed to get some fuel. Never one to slow her progress long enough for something as trivial as gas, we were often riding with the needle on or near the ‘E’. Even at that age I was paranoid about running out.

We pulled over at a Texaco, and I grinned at the thought of a moment’s reprieve from her barrage of questions.  Surely she wouldn’t expect a child like myself to pump gas in the cold weather. Especially not when I had never done such a thing in my life. I nuzzled back in the seat and dismissed the thought.

“Doug. Get out and pump the gas.”

You can imagine my surprise. As I said before, there’s no saying no, but I made the mistake of babbling something about having never pumped gas and not knowing how to do it. She quickly assured me that I would be doing it this time and that I could do it if I just got out and started. There wasn’t much to it, afterall, if you had a ‘lick of common sense.’

So there I was, in the middle of what seemed like a blizzard at the time, holding a nozzle that weighed half as much as I did in both hands. Right about when my teeth started chattering, Aunt Mary hopped out the van and declared that she would be right back. I suppose she was going in to pay for the gas, but all I could think was ‘why am I freezing my butt off if you were going to get out anyway?’

But I continued to squeeze the little handle and smell the fumes. The tank was just about chin level for me, so I’m sure it smelled pretty strong.

At this point, let me remind you that this was my first time pumping gas. I suppose the thought never crossed my mind that you should stop at some point. If it did, I didn’t pay it much attention.

Aunt Mary was still inside, probably teaching the clerk a thing or two about how to be a good clerk, when the handle clicked and jumped out of my hands. I thought maybe I was just cold and wasn’t applying enough pressure, so I pulled it back up.

Although I don’t remember now, I’m sure from recent experience it clicked a few more times and I just kept pulling it up. What I do remember, very clearly, is gas spraying out of the opening and onto me. It hit me in the chest, ran down onto my pants, and puddled beneath the van. It was around this time  I thought it would probably be a good idea to stop pumping.

Just then, from around the van, came Aunt Mary. Imagine the sight: me wide-eyed and soaked in gasoline, still holding the nozzle while gas dripped down the side of the van. She said something like “my God!” and hurriedly stabbed at the stains with those brown paper towels they have at gas stations.

Because we always left late, there was no time for a trip back home to change. Instead, Aunt Mary assured me we would call my older sister to bring me some clothes on her way to school. (As an aside: my older sister attended the same school as me, even though she was several grades ahead. She had just started driving at the time, but had already developed her tendency to sleep until no earlier than five minutes before the absolute last minute to leave. She couldn’t be bothered with taking me to school everyday.)

And so, arriving at school soaked and reeking of gasoline, I was hurried to the office for Aunt Mary to make the phone call. I remember a few people asking ‘what’s that smell’ and crinkling their noses, and I also remember a very coarse statement to my sister that she would get up right then and find me something else to wear.

Next, I was lead quickly (always quickly with her) to a small room on the main hall. It was the Assistant Principal’s Office, but he wasn’t due in until much later that day. She shuffled me inside and said ‘Now, Beth is bringing you some clothes. Just get those off and then come to my room when you get changed so I can take you to your class.” With that, she shut the door and joined the steady stream of students wandering the hall.

Either I didn’t contemplate the order of events she outlined, or the only thing I heard was to take my clothes off. Either way, the first thing I did when the door closed was strip down to my birthday suit. Then, I took a seat in the leather chair facing the door (which opened to the main hall) and awaited my sister. Somehow it didn’t seem like a bad idea at the time.

I suppose I expected my sister to open the door discretely and slip inside with my clothes. Unfortunately, that’s not what happened. Upon arriving at school, she proceeded to meet up with her normal group of friends (several of whom I had secret crushes on, of course) and made way for the office where I was waiting. Waiting, that is, in the nude.

Not only did she not open the door discretely, she swung it on its hinges with enthusiasm.  She and her group of friends stood just outside the doorway. Beyond them, a packed hallway of high-schoolers shuffling their way to class.

And there I was, perched on a leather chair, kicking my feet, as naked as a jaybird.

Blood rushed into my cheeks and the temperature in the room hit about 150 degrees. I covered myself with a flurry of movement that Jackie Chan would have a hard time reproducing. My sister and her friends had a nice laugh, none of them being decent enough to shut the door.

Finally, she tossed the bag of clothes at me and swung the door shut.  The rest of the day followed without significant incident, other than my being vaguely aware that several of the high schoolers got a show on their way to homeroom that morning.

One thing is certain, however. I’ve only overfilled a vehicle once.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love social media just as much as the next guy. As you can see to your right, I’m a frequent tweeter tweet-head twitterer twip twit user of twitter. I have those updates posting to my facebook account, and now they also display to the few people I might’ve missed on Google Buzz. If you want to know what I like to read, you can check out my shared items on Google Reader, or the list of books I’m reading and have read on Shelfari. Maybe you want to hire me? You can see my professional information on LinkedIn. I also blog semi-regularly if you’re interested in my thoughts. Occasionally I even talk to people in real life!

What I’m getting at is the openness we now have with each other in the social media context.  A week ago, after an emotional Wednesday night service with the youth group at my church, the youth pastor and I were talking about how open the teenagers are now versus when I was in the youth group (only about 7 years ago). He said “I think part of it is they are so open about their life now on Facebook and everything else that nothing is sacred anymore.” That statement didn’t have a big impact on me at first, but it’s been on my mind ever since.

I’ve been thinking about how much communication has changed. I’ve been thinking about letters. Once, that was the medium of choice. For instance, a large portion of the new testament in the Holy Bible were letters written by Paul. Or, to give a more modern day example, reclusive author J.D. Salinger’s letters to a friend were just unsealed and are being prepared for public viewing by anxious fans. Many other authors of classic fame were letter writers.

But what about our letters today? We’re trimming communication as much as possible. Even e-mails are too long. We send texts or tweets containing broken English that we’ve all taught ourselves to understand. “Lol, wut?” is now an acceptable statement. Even my Mom sends me texts now, replacing words like ‘you’ with the quicker, easier ‘u’ equivalent.

This rapid development has me thinking about the future. Twenty years from now, are we still going to be teaching children to write with a pen? Or will we replace the ‘dotted-center-line’ tablets with big lettered keyboards? Are fifth graders going to be turning in book reports, or will they be e-mailing the teacher a link to their vlog discussing it on youtube?

More importantly, what about the writers of the future? Will they have letters that survive ten, twenty or hundreds of years like their predecessors? Will they contain any insights to their lives that weren’t immediately available from their blogs? Or will the great essays from the writers of the next century be written in 140 characters or less?

The game was about as much as you could ask from a group of sweating kids who were sure they were being scouted for the Atlanta Braves. There was trash talking, there was base stealing, and there were several wild swings that came nowhere close to touching the ball.

When it was my turn to play catcher I squatted behind the ‘plate’ with a giddy excitement. A friend of mine was up to bat, and neither of us saw a problem with his standing so close to me that his knees could rest on my shoulders.

I put my ‘glove’ up (read: two cupped hands) after giving a signal for a pitch that neither me nor the pitcher understood. The pitcher reeled back and let it fly. The batter swung with every bit of power a third grader can produce. The result was a thundering blow that carried the ball to a spot on the ground no further than 8 feet from home ‘plate.’

In his excitement, the batter swung backward to release the bat. On this backswing he connected with another object. Unfortunately, this object was my head.

Once the little stars and birdies cleared from my vision, I was assisted to my feet by a teacher who had promptly ended our game.  I don’t really have any memory of this teacher, but I know that she next escorted me to the building that held the high school classrooms and office.

During our trek down this hallway the teacher rambled about safety and taking care of myself and some other things I wasn’t really interested in. The edges around my world must’ve still been a little fuzzy, because I was veering slowly to the right like a car with no driver. Every so often the teacher would pause her ranting and snatch me back to her side.

When we were about halfway to the office I had wandered all the way to the right side of the hall while the teacher’s attention was diverted. I believe at this point we were passing the chemistry lab, because I seem to remember a gas smell. Either way, I was just about to pass a big heavy door so close that my arm would’ve brushed it.

But, before I got to the door, another teacher burst through it like Usain Bolt at the Olympics. I was in the immediate path of this swinging nightmare and my reflexes were too slow to compensate. I think I must’ve been leaning head first because my forehead functioned as a doorstop. I ended up lying on my back in the hallway, spread eagle as if I were preparing to make a snow angel.

I don’t think the sprinter even noticed, and if they did I must not have been conscious of it. The next thing I remember is the gasping teacher dragging me to my feet and frantically apologizing.

We completed the trip to the Office hand in hand, and not surprisingly I don’t remember much after that. There was a nurse shining a light in my eyes and a talk about letting someone know if I got sleepy. Then I got sent back to class. Yes, that’s right, class. I think back then if you were squirting blood from your ears they would’ve stuck some gauze in and told you to get back to work. Kids get sent home these days if they drink out of their juice cups too fast.

So that was the day that I probably lost some of the common sense my wife is always talking about. I just think about what it must’ve been like for my mom when I came home and said “yeah school was good, I just got knocked out with a baseball bat and a swinging door. Can I have some doritos?”

First off, it’s sleek and light. I was surprised and impressed when I took it out of the box and plugged it in for its first charge. It sort of reminded me of a data padd from Star Trek. For one glorious moment I was Geordi La Forge, reading the specifications on a Klingon attack cruiser to Captain Picard. Only I wasn’t La Forge at all, I was still Doug, and I was reading the user’s guide. (Which you have access to on the Kindle itself, not surprisingly.) It just has that new tech look to it that gadgetphiles love.

Speaking of that first charge, it took about 2 hours and the battery has yet to dip below half power in two weeks! I keep my wireless connectivity turned off unless I’m shopping for a book or looking something up on the internet, though, so you might see a different measure if you keep the wireless on. And yes, you read that right, you have wireless 3G access to the internet anywhere you go for the best price of all – free!

Now, I must say, the internet access is somewhat limited. It’s the same type of browser you have on web-capable cell phones, so videos and flash animations aren’t going to display properly. But, if you’re driving through the middle of Kansas and you suddenly need to ask google about the ingredients to fruit salad you can do it right there on the interstate free of charge. Or you can check your mail, or your flight schedule, etc.

The display itself won’t sear your retinas like bright computer screens, either. It’s a totally different kind of display that uses electronic paper, which is easy to see, easy to read, and green.

You can shop for new books on amazon wherever and whenever you want, and if you buy one (usually about 10 bucks – but some are free) you can have it at your fingertips in as little as 60 seconds. Zoom zoom! At my house, which is so far in the country you have to pass more than one combine and my neighbor has a donkey, I was able to download a book in a little over a minute with only 2 bars of service.

It’s easy to use. My wife’s grandmother got one for Christmas also, and she is successfully navigating it on her own. Isn’t that the ultimate benchmark for usability? If Granny can do it, you can do it!

Too tired or lazy to actually read? Driving and don’t want to risk grave bodily injury to yourself or another? The Kindle will read to you (as long as the book supports it) for as long as you want it to.

Ever come across a word you’re not familiar with while reading and been too lazy to look it up? The Kindle has a built in dictionary, which you can use while reading by just navigating to the word that’s giving you trouble. Next time you’ll be ready for ‘antidisestablishmentarianism.’

In short, the Kindle is easy, inexpensive (in the long run), and fun. I love mine. In fact, I was reading two paper books when I got it and haven’t picked them up since. Like I said before, to be a good writer you have to be a good reader. Picking up a Kindle could certainly help.

The Carolina Panthers, my favorite professional football team, also finds themselves in a 0-2 situation. I’ve noticed that when I have a good season, they have a good season, and when I have a bad season so do they. Maybe we mimic each other due to the fact that I own one of their players (Steve Smith), or maybe it’s some weird coincidence. Even so, last year I had a dominating regular season (like them) and lost in the first round of the playoffs (again, like them). It’s a little freaky.

In other news, I’m reading Shutter Island after the recommendation of a friend I consider an apt literary influence. By literary influence I mean a friend who provides sound recommendations and is available for good, in-depth discussion. Back to Shutter Island, though, and its author Dennis Lehane. May I say for the record that the man is a fantastic writer. Until picking up this volume I had never heard of him (despite his NYT Bestseller Mystic River) but I can promise you he’s now on my envy list. The prose is crisp, concise and descriptive. I’ve flown most of the way through the book and plan to read Mystic River next. Well done Mr. Lehane.

I’ve found an joined a local writer’s group, and although I’ve only been to one meeting so far I can venture to say I enjoy it and look forward to the next meeting. Now I just have to get to the critiques due for that meeting… oh yeah…

As far as writing goes, I’m working on the sci-fi novel I started during NaNoWriMo last year, and editing several other previous projects. The writers in my group will be the first eyes to see the opening chapter of this novel beside my own.

Some other updates since my last blog:

I’ve reduced my simming presence to a single simm, mainly due to the lack of time I’ve had to commit to it.  I do not discount my previous comments on the importance of simming if you are a writer, but in the same regard I cannot hold positions that I’m unable to fulfill.

I’m pondering a re-working of this site’s look and feel. I think it would be a good time to change gears and get a new look going. While I’d still like to focus on writing, I’d also like to do more general blogging as well.

I’m working on reading more of the good and less of the bad (figuratively speaking). I’ve decided to switch my normal reading material – popular fiction with guys like Stephen King – out with the classics. Starting with Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates, an excellent read, and now continuing with the near finished Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut. Vonnegut’s ‘A man without a country’ is next on the list. I’m open to suggestions on the lineup afterward.

I’m silently building a heavy anticipation for the start of football season – both professional and college – and I’m ready to start updating my nerdiriffic stats on the killer bees.

I think that’s close to the end of the list. I still want to do the reviews, but right now the priority is editing on the joint novel project and some other stories that have been left in the basket a little too long. Stay tuned for more.

So I picked out a good thinking rock and I pondered, with one hand under my chin and my other arm draped across my knee. I sat that way for a while, just thinking and staring at the ground. Then it hit me.

“Book reviews of books you should’ve already read.” Thinner by two words, sleeker, shinier. But it still didn’t have that something, that oomph that makes you want to park and read through my thoughts on some classics. I needed something better. Something catchier.

“The best of the frequently reviewed.” Different, new, still a little bland.

“My reviews of books you already reviewed.” This one was a little underground, kind of urban artist almost. Presumptuous and pompous. Like I use a mac and write in the corners of coffee shops.

“Reviews of the frequently reviewed.” I like it. I can hear James Lipton reading this as one of my early works and several audience members clapping quietly. He’d look at me with that stone-faced glare as I take a sip of water out of a coffee mug, and then calmly ask “Where did your inspiration come from?” Then I would, of course, begin some wildly romantic and entirely fictional account of my childhood. Something involving the death of a dog and the conquering of a bully. The only problem with this vision is I’m not an actor. I’m simply assuming that by the time this all happens, they’ve hired Lipton for the spin off “Inside the Writer’s Portfolio.”

Anyway, back to the title. With all its charm, I still didn’t think the latter had everything a catchy series title needed. There was no pizazz, no zest, no BAM factor. What I needed was a chrome grill for this hot rod. Some sparkle right up there in the front.

Which word did I pick?

How about ‘new?’ It has everything. Freshness, hipness, ‘cool’-ness. Everybody loves new. “I want new shoes, a new car. A new house, a new job. New clothes, new friends.” Everything is better new, right?

So try this line on for size, and take in that luxurious new title smell.

“New Reviews of the frequently reviewed.”

Wow. Check this space for the first installment, coming soon.

I started classes over at Gotham Writers again, which is always a good thing because it gets me writing and it forces me to set aside time for reading, reviewing and studying the craft. The problem is I have two classes this time and the workload is heavier than I was expecting. 

In short, I have one to two free nights per week that I can devote to classwork and enough work to last three or four nights. Mostly, this work involves reading. Reading assigned stories and novels, reading lectures from my noble instructors and reading the work of my peers. 

Stephen King once said something like “if you want to be a writer you need to do two things: read a lot and write a lot.”  Several other great writers have made similar statements about reading. If you’re learning, studying, and attempting to perfect a craft – shouldn’t you observe successful practitioners of the craft?

I think reading is perhaps one of the best things a writer can do, and likewise, I think we should do it in excess. Musicians are almost never people that occasionally listen to music;  they are passionate about all sorts of music and spend great deals of time immersing themselves in the music of others. 

Artists observe, study, gain inspiration from and respect the work of their peers. We as writers should follow suit. Our creative passion is prose, and so we should immerse ourselves in prose. Not just any prose, mind you, but the kind of prose we wish to write ourselves.

I think if you want to be a great short story writer, you should study great short stories. If you want to write a captivating novel, you should study captivating novels. And if you want to write a steamy romance – well then read up on some steamy romance.

It’s not a complicated idea, but the more good stuff we read the better our stuff will become. The more quality writing you take in, the more likely you are to draw from it when composing your own.

I get inspiration from all sorts of places. I get inspired when I read work from other writers. I get inspired when I’m in the shower or driving down the road or grocery shopping. I get inspired when I’m walking around in a book store. I get inspired when I’m dreaming.

I think inspiration is what drives us as writers. I think that’s when the magic happens. And it really is a sort of magic. We sit down and we write and we get to that place where the words are just spewing from somewhere we can’t even put our finger on and then when we step back we’re in awe at this beautiful creation and we can’t believe it’s not already sitting on the bestseller shelf at Walgreens. Then, later, we come back to that same piece and we scowl and we turn our head like someone has stepped in behind us and thrown up all over it. Inspiration clouds us, and yet, it’s where we get the raw material from.

Everything you read will tell you not to wait until you’re inspired to write, that if you wait until then, you’ll never finish anything. I couldn’t disagree more. I’m telling you write when you’re inspired, edit when you’re not.

Which leads to editing. I hate editing. Editing, revision and re-writing are the ‘work’ part of being a writer. We all like to think that once you make it you can type up anything you want and the publisher will take care of the rest while you’re fanned with giant leaves and beautiful servants massage your toes. Editing lacks inspiration.

Unfortunately, even when you’re famous, you still have to revise. All writers have been given the ten commandments by Mr. Strunk and Mr. White that tell us to be ruthless with our precious words. Cut, slash, maul and destroy. I would rather watch grass grow than edit one of my stories – which may be why they are still my stories and not some publisher’s.

I think I was spoiled by simming and, to a lesser extent, blogging. In both places, the words are unedited, unharmed, fresh and raw. Straight from my head to yours in the brilliance of inspiration while dozens of fireflies are lit all at once and spinning in a swarm. But later, when the fireflies go out and recede to wherever they hide, I need to put my helmet on and slash at the overgrown bush I planted until a well-pruned flower is all that remains. All of us need to do that.

I don’t blog about what I’m doing everyday or what my pants status is, I blog when I’m inspired to share something about this craft I strive to learn more about. The result is like a live singer. Sometimes it’s pretty close to the recorded (edited) version of a great song, sometimes it isn’t.

I thought about how personal of a connection this one was. It deals with the thought I often have of finding my Father or visiting with him even though the last time I saw him was almost 7 years ago.

This isn’t the first time an idea struck me in this manner – on the contrary it happens quite often. I think it’s something that happens to a great many writers. I know that the popular story from Stephanie Meyer of Twilight fame is that she awoke from a dream about the first book and set out to write it. That dream has certainly done well for her.

I remember when I took a Psychology class in college, the Professor said dreams were, scientifically speaking, neurons in the brain firing randomly as we slept. The ‘dream’ itself a mere ’story’ the brain was weaving to make sense of the random images. So I thought this morning, as writers, do we inherently have a more active imagination and in turn dream more vividly?

Or, is it simply the fact that because we write we look for some sort of story even in the most obscure of our dreams? Is it that we are seeking for a story and we’ll use inspiration in any form we can get? I think maybe all of these are true.

That is, I think each and every writer’s inspiration and ideas come from very unique places at very unique times. I think it’s the same way with the visual and performing arts as well. I have a friend who composes music (at least part of the time) by playing it on his piano and letting his computer record the notes for him. That’s pure inspiration, from that clearing with the muse creature I told you about a while back.

So maybe my dream was a visit from my muse – a bite hard enough for me to remember it well after I woke up. Or maybe it was just a random firing of neurons that I’m trying to make meaning of myself. Either way, I’m dieing to write the story and that’s all that matters.