Category: Writing

  • Welcome Back, CUNY! (And some others, too)

    Not sure what is going on, but for almost two years now, at the start of the college semesters, I have a huge uptick in “referrers” coming from CUNY, The City University of New York. (At leasts that what the stats provided from WordPress says…) And these CUNY referrers are looking at only one blog post:

    Short Story Review: “Colorin Colorado” by Camille Bordas

    This is not a complaint, REPETE, this is not a complaint…

    Now, I get all this traffic from the CUNY referrers, but no one leaves a comment, or gives a like, or does anything. I appreciate the traffic; it keeps my numbers up, and one day, I just might earn a dollar from ad revenue.

    Speaking of traffic, thank you to the people he keep reading the ALGOT blogs, and the Face in the Mirror short story review! You are keeping this site alive.

    This is for all of you, but especially the CUNY people…

  • Road Trip Thoughts, Part Two (Unedited)

    When I woke up Saturday morning, the first thing I did was text the wife to see how she was doing. She was happy to report that the medication had started to take effect, and she was feeling much better. Maybe she could have made the trip, but out of caution, I knew we had made the right call to have her stay home.

    I cleaned up and went down to the lobby for my complementary free breakfast. To my surprise, at 8am, the lobby was packed, and not to be rude, packed with retirees. There must have been some gathering happening that weekend because a good number of the men all had the same t-shirt on, though there weren’t any words identifying what organization they belonged to.

    Seeing these older people, I wondered what type of retired guy I will be like. Having witnessed my grandfather and father’s retirements, what I observed is that they weren’t very social. They had hobbies and read all the time, but neither of them belonged to some “group” that did things. They were solitary men, and as I thought about it, that seemed correct for me as well. But maybe I would travel. Go from one budget hotel to another; seeing America in a very comfortable and affordable way. Staying right off the highway, and not venturing into town.

    I checked out, and fueled up the car. I sat in the parking lot and called the wife. She confirmed that she was feeling better, and we were both excited about having the kid back. We didn’t talk for too long; the wife still needed to rest, and I was excited to pick up the kid.

    I was only an hour and a half from the camp, and the drive was a peaceful, leisurely one that took me up into the Appalachian Mountains. I was anxious to see my daughter, yet there was this feeling that kept creeping over me – a feeling that I wasn’t living up to some standard that I had in my head of the type of father I need to be. It was failure. I felt like I have been failing as a dad, not giving my daughter what she needs to be a strong woman in this world. I have no idea where this thought was coming from, why at that moment of driving to pick her up that I felt that I wasn’t doing my job as a dad.

    Too much time alone with my thoughts can be dangerous. Honestly, I couldn’t remember when the last time I had almost two days alone to myself. Without someone to talk to, I descended into my thoughts, and I’m not very kind to myself. I have been working on that; being kinder to myself. Telling myself that these negative thoughts aren’t very helpful. I will be kinder to myself, and not so critical. Not that I do that, but I have been thinking about making this change.

    The camp is off a little single lane road. There was a check point where I had to show my ID, verifying that I was the kid’s father. But I was fifteen minutes early, so they had me pull into a small parking lot to wait my turn. Now, this was the worst part – so close to getting the kid. I was ready for her to be dirty, and smell bad because it was an outdoor camp, and she was free to be dirty and smelly, and have the best time as possible. I was sure her hair would be wild and tangled, and she would be taller, and tan, and happier and more confident than she’s been in a long time. I was getting excited about how great of a time she had had.

    Then we were given the all clear, and it was time for us parents to get our kids. What that really meant was that we all got our cars to line up and slowly drive into camp. And the excitement kept building in me.

    And this was another moment in my life where I was taken aback by my emotions. I thought I knew what I would feel, but what I felt was stronger and more sweeping than I knew I had in me. I was going to burst – bust in tears, laughter, scream – something was going to give way. I was barely holding on, only slightly in control of my emotions. The last time I felt like this was when I found out about my mother’s cancer diagnosis – and I was angry, and depressed, forlorn, and hopeless – and at any whim, I was overcome and I wasn’t able to control myself. And I just felt, and it came pouring out of me, just a river (a flood) of emotions and feeling – a raw live wire. At least this time, sitting in my car, waiting my turn to get my daughter, it was joy happiness and love that were bursting to come out.

    See, you’re not supposed to get out of your car when you get your kid from this camp. Pick up there is like an assembly line, which makes sense. They greet you at the first stop, then you get your kids trunk at the next stop, and the final stop is that you kid jumps into your car, and then you are on your way. Hence why you stay in your car.

    When I got to the “get you kid” stop, I hopped out of my car, and was quickly yelled at by the councilors to get back in. Oops. The kid jumped into the car and asked, “Where’s the dog?” I didn’t get a “Hi, Dad” or nothing. She didn’t even ask for her mother. So, the dog was the big winner. Anyway, I enplaned to the kid that mom was sick, and I left the dog with her. The kid said I could have still brought the dog.

    I drove out of camp, but first I pulled back into the waiting parking lot. I got out of the car, and told the kid to do the same, because I was hugging my daughter, damn it! I was going to hug the stinky, wild haired, mosquito bitten, summer tanned kid that I love more than love itself. I just wanted to hug her. “I missed you,” I said to her, with a catch in my throat.

    “I love you, dad” She said back. And then added, “Are we on a father/daughter adventure?”

    “Yes, we are.” My heart exploded a little, for I was in this moment. Keenly aware that this was a memory, an experience, I was creating; one that I would think back on, hold on to, remind myself of when life gets hard. A new core memory for me.

  • Road Trip Thoughts, Part One (Unedited)

    This has been a very hectic two weeks in my life. It was supposed to be relaxing and fun, but ending up being more taxing than I wanted, and it has left me rethinking where I am going and what I am doing with my life.

    To explain; the kid had been at sleep away camp, and we needed to go and pick her up.

    Won’t lie, it’s exciting to have the kid go away for a couple of weeks. Not that me and the wife did anything crazy. (We did repaint our bedroom. Whoa!) But it is nice to have some time just the two of us, to remember that we did have a life before becoming parents, and that we do like spending time together. The other fun part is that about three or four days before we head out to pick up the kid, we start heartbreakingly missing the kid like a bunch of sad puppies. More than once I found myself saying that I just want my kid back.

    The drive down south to get the kid is also the last Act of Summer in our household, as she starts school a week after we pick her up. So, this is a read trip that me and the wife look forward to.

    Except this year the wife go sick on the Wednesday night before we were to leave on Friday. No matter how much we wished, and tried, she wasn’t going to be well enough to travel. I was going to have to do this on my own.

    It has been over twenty years since I was alone on a car trip. Twenty years ago, I’d fill the car with gas, buy a Coke and a pack of cigarettes, grab my cd’s and head out. No cigarettes this time around, and I grabbed a water, and no cd’s as I made a playlist on Spotify, but it was pretty much the same. But lonelier. I liked listening to my music, but there wasn’t anyone to talk to. Just me, thinking about everything that I had happened in the last several years.

    Thought a lot about my mom’s death, and how I find myself getting angry at her now, and that makes me feel guilty as her son. I thought about my failures as a father, and not doing the best job at being a good provider for the kid. I feel secure in my marriage, I worry sometimes that we should be doing better at buying a home, or saving for the kid’s college, or retirement. I’m almost fifty, and will I ever be being gainfully employed? Is this writing thing just a delusion, and I am avoiding being responsible?

    And then I saw that I was passing close to the Antietam Battlefield. I’m a Civil War buff, when will I ever be alone again to explore this in my full nerd-out glory? Odds are never.

    So, I headed to the Battlefield. I still had a kid to pick up, so I promised myself that I was only going to stay for an hour. With limited time, I thought it best to head to the part of the battle I was most curious about, which was the Bloody Lane section. Oh, and it was like one hundred degrees outside. I always have a feeling of uneasy eeriness when I visit battlefields, because now they are all pastoral, and silent with very few people around – and I know as I walk that this was a place where thousands of men died, in horrible ways. That so much pain and suffering happened where I was walking. But there is also the grim understanding that a place like this is what allows me to live in the country I proudly call home. It was a humbling place to be, somber in its reality.

    True to my word, I kept it to an hour, and was back on the road.

    I made it to my hotel, a nice, newly built, budget friendly place. It was nice and clean, and I’m not a very fancy guy, so it was great for me. There was a burrito place within walking distance of the hotel, so dinner was fast. I called the wife to check on her, and fell asleep looking forward to seeing the kid in the morning.

  • Weird

    Funny how one well placed word can unravel a person. The right word, said at the right time can cut to the core of someone, revealing what they fear most. And once that word is out there, being applied to that person, no matter how they try to defend or deflect, that word sticks to them.

    And “weird” was that word yesterday – just slicing through so much MAGA bravado, and leaving grasping Alpha Men with nothing to say except, basically, “I’m not weird! You’re weird!” But it was too late, damage was done.

    And the “weird” label hit MAGA Men at their most vulnerable spot – questioning if their world view was actually normal. The MAGA reaction says to me that most of them, MAGA Alpha Bros that is, know deep down what they are saying and believing in, is abnormal, if not outright weird. I can hear them thinking; “The shit that Trump says; it is weird.” “Maybe I am the weird one, but not in the outsider who’s cool kind’a weird; just the bad weird.”

    What I find most ironic is that this used to be a Trump skill. You know, he’d find that one word that encapsulates his opponent; “Lying” “Sleepy” “Cheating” “Meatball” “Little.” I hate to admit it, but Trump was really good at it. He would throw out a name, it would stick, and no matter how hard they try, that label stuck, and Trump would repeat it, over and over and over and over…

    So, the tables have turned. The bullies are being bullied by words. Poetic justice is just the tip of the cliches I can use here.

    I doubt that “weird” will live beyond this week’s news cycle.

    But it has been fun to watch.

  • A Typo in the First Sentence

    There is one continuous issue of mine, which befuddles and frustrates my life as a writer; typos. More specifically, my inability to proofread and catch my typos.

    One of the best Christmas presents I received was a toy typewriter when I was ten years old. I quickly set about writing stories, and trying my hand at creating a newspaper. No matter how hard I tried, I could never produce any copy that didn’t have some sort of mistake in it, which my older brothers loved to point out. Even in the age of early word processors, my teachers would have a field day pointing out my typos, adding snarky advice how if I slowed down and proofread better, than I could have earned a higher grade. I am sure that any of you, who have spent any time reading this blog, have seen my many, and I mean many, typos that proliferate my posts. I do try to correct these mistakes when I do a reread of a post, but normally, I don’t go back and look at my old blogs.

    But I have been trying to get better. Especially when it comes to submitting stories and other written work. I even ask the wife to lend a hand when she has the time, but on the whole, it is a task that I attempt, and maddingly fail at very often.

    Case in point, I just realized a few days ago that I had been sending out a story that had a typo in the first sentence. Right there, six words in. It should have been the word “simply” but I had written simple. No matter how many times I read, and reread this story, my mind kept seeing and saying “simply” even though, clear as day on the page, it said “simple.”

    I don’t know how I could have missed that, over and over again…

    And today was the day that I learned that medieval scribes attributed mistakes in their manuscripts to a demon by the name of Titivillus. They didn’t make a mistake; It was Titivillus!

    (I like this picture of the scribe looking at Titivillus. The scribe doesn’t seem frightened by the demon waiting at his desk, but he seems resigned that the demon is there, and will do what the demon does. I have a feeling that these two are on a first name bases with each other.)

    I do feel better knowing that this really isn’t my fault, my lack of skill when it comes to proofreading, that is. All this time, there was a small supernatural being that was messing with me. A demon that doesn’t commit heinous acts of death and destruction, but causes people mild annoyance and embarrassment.