Writing and Reading

This is a tough one for me. But I couldn’t escape from my mind, thinking about it. You see, my mind runs a mile a minute. There’s always questions. And I’m always searching for answers. And then my blog turns into therapy, allowing me to pour all of it out. At the same time, I can only hope it helps any who read. Because I don’t just write this stuff to fill the white space. It’s more than that to me.

I got to thinking about how amazing it is that authors write what they do, that they constantly write and never stop. They always think of plots to write. They can churn books out like clockwork. It’s a phenomenal talent, really. I mean, for Christ’s sake, look at Stephen King! He’s a freakin’ literary machine. He could pull words out of his anus and have it mean something without even breaking a sweat. It’s remarkable.

Even me, with my waterfall of a brain, my daydreams, the constant imagination explosion, like a perpetual atom bomb in my head, mushrooming into clouds of particles that beg to escape my skull and land on paper–I still get intimidated with the fact that I must continue to think of new projects, to continue to–

WRITE. And not stop WRITING.

Just the thought of it exhausts me. It’s a little intimidating, too. I keep thinking in my head–will my future projects be as good as the one I’m currently enamored with? And I’m only bringing up this intimidation because I’m referring to the period of breaking into the industry. I’m not referring to the period where you’re a superstar like Nora Roberts or Danielle Steele or John Grisham where pretty much anything you write will be bought simply because of your name. Let’s face it–it makes it a little easier knowing people out there await your next book.

I’m sure this is a question to many aspiring writers out there: how do you keep writing? How does one have the strength to produce mounds and mounds of unbelievable drivel, forming a well-constructed novel, on either deadlines or just the constant nagging of dreams waiting to be realized? Without fail? Without stopping? Especially for an aspiring writer, how can a writer press on with the never-ending toil of taking the fingertips and snapping at the keyboard, the boundless fleshing out of characters and plots and pages and pages of chapters and scenes and paragraphs, when a writer is faced with a big ‘No, not for me, sorry’ or ‘My list is already full, best luck to you in your publishing endeavor’ from literary agent or small magazine or micropress editor? To cope with the disappointment, to shake it off, take a deep breath, pull out the laptop and actually start a whole new project? The idea astounds me. Such courage, such tenacity, perseverance, faith, stubbornness.

How do you keep writing?

Well, again, this is a hard post for me to write. It involves personal things, personal feelings. But it has to be said. You writers out there, you want to really be a writer?

I’ll start from the beginning. I’m a 2nd-generation Hispanic. My mom was born in Puerto Rico. My dad was born in Nicaragua. Even as a 2nd-generation, I always had the feeling that our family was still trying to adjust to what it meant to be an American. Sometimes I felt like I didn’t know what class we belonged to. I remember as a kid taking the train and the bus with mom and my little brother. The reason being? My mom was a schoolteacher at our school. We also lived about forty-five minutes away from the school. So to save money on gas, we took public transportation.

My dad was a defense attorney. He worked late. But when he came home, which was late, he’d always pick me up with his big hands and land a huge kiss on my cheek or my forehead or both, calling me ‘pobrecito’ or ‘flaco feo’. Which I learned were affectionate terms, even though ‘flaco’ means skinny and ‘feo’ means ugly. ‘Pobrecito’ means poor little boy (my dad was the ‘pull-my-finger’ dad. He made jokes all the time. I just laughed. I knew I wasn’t really skinny and ugly).

I remember my dad with a belt to my big sister, ten-years-older-than-me big, both of them yelling at each other in Spanish. Spanish I couldn’t understand. I’m pretty sure I was at the very least five years old and at the very most eight years old. It’s one of the most crystal images in my head that’ll never go away. My dad was REALLY mad at her. I’m still not sure why.

A number of years ago, my dad had to get surgery for his weight–staples in the stomach. Countless years before this surgery, he actually quit smoking cold turkey. He simply decided one day he needed to stop. So I didn’t think this surgery was going to faze him at all.

It fazed him.

Nowadays, he cherishes life more than ever.

I remember waiting in line at a church for food. My wife and I were on food stamps and WIC. I had lost my job, and so did she. She got laid off. I remember the power of God.

To feel the heartbeat of my son in my wife’s tummy was like hearing God’s whisper inside my head–reminding me that there are always miracles around me. Sometimes those miracles are overlooked. Or forgotten.

To have to listen to two of your best friends say that they’re ending their marriage–it’s like having your hands tied behind your back while sitting on a gilded throne and having the best foods fed to you, having people praise you. You’re not in danger, you’re not afraid. But you’re lost. You’re lost because there’s nothing you can say to make things better. There’s nothing you can do to make things right.

Losing my grandfather was surreal. I was close to him. To hear that he died–it was like a part of me died with him. You see, every time he saw me when I was little, he’d slip me a $5, big smile on his face, say something fast in Spanish and ruffle my hair. I loved him.

At his casket, I slipped a $10 bill in his pocket. I wanted him to take that to God.

Staring at my wife’s face while she tells me she doesn’t love me anymore is worse than death. Watching her read to me divorce papers is like taking daggers and jamming them into my eyes, my mouth, my ears. Twisting them. To see the lack of emotion in her eyes–my world suddenly turns into some kind of dream, some kind of joke. I wake up in a world that doesn’t understand me, doesn’t care, never shines a light, never has a kind word to say. Always whispers in darkness.

That’s what that feels like.

To have a second father, my former father-in-law, suffer physical complications constantly, surgery after surgery, like he’s cursed for life–and to know he still fights with the most courage I’ve ever seen–

And to know I’ll probably never see him again. Ever.

It hurts.

And when I stare at my son’s face, I look into those beautiful patterned eyes, those wonderful dark blue eyes, and see him say that I’m the best dad ever….

The feeling is so wonderful that it hurts. 

To take him up the steps of his home for the night so he can get a snack and a bath and go to bed and hear him say that this is daddy’s house…. And to know that that house isn’t my home anymore, to actually know the truth….

That hurts even more. And not in a good way.

I keep telling my son, over and over again, without fail–I tell him how much I love his mommy. And that I’ll never stop loving her. I’ll never stop loving him. And he remembers what I said weeks later. He remembers, too, that I tell him to always love his mommy. No matter what. That’s one of the most important things a child should remember–always love your mommy.

To almost die while making it to the emergency room–thanks to asthma. It reminds me how fragile we all are. We don’t take life for granted. And then somehow–after living through the feeling of suffocation–we suddenly grow this strength in us that doesn’t fear death anymore, that allows us to spit in his face and say, what will be will be. The days will be what they are, but we will be what we are. And never change. We will not be manipulated.

I sit here writing this, and automatically I feel the tears roll down my face. I sit here writing this, and I can remember the last time I put my son to bed before having to move out of the house–and I can remember the tears just coming as I read him his bedtime story. They just came. And I couldn’t stop them. I cried so hard, and yet I finished his book for him. Tucked him in. And kissed him goodnight.

That was about three months ago, and I haven’t kissed him goodnight in his bed since.

You’re asking me why I’m telling you all of this. It’s simple–

You want to be able to keep writing? Don’t lock yourself up in a room with a word processor or laptop. Experience.

You want to have stories, watch your friends die. You want your mind to overflow with ideas, feel your heart break. Relish in it. Let it remind you that you’re alive. Watch others look at you and want you dead, watch them hate you, watch them fear you. Fall in love. Watch your love walk away from you without even a look back. Stand before your children as they shout obscenities at you. Take it. Scream at God at how unjust the world is. Don’t be afraid to cuss at him at times. You’re entitled. And believe me, God understands anger and all those 4-letter words. Don’t be afraid to face a man who looks at you with a knife in his hand. Don’t be afraid to fight for the honor of your loved ones. Remember those who fight in wars. Remember the soldiers who die the most horrible deaths. Travel, see the world, spend time in a forest, live on the streets willingly, embrace it, endure it. See the world from the eyes of people you’d never know. Understand the world strangers see. Strangers who will never know you. Or never like you.

That’s life. You want to write stories, you want to have stories to tell, you want it to never end? Live that life. Don’t worry. With all the struggle come some of the greatest triumphs, some of your greatest joys. For sure, one of the greatest joys is being able to make your life live on paper. To create unbelievably unforgettable characters that represent pieces of you, pieces that will never die. Pieces that will always be real. Because they were real in you.

I remember the life I’ve lived so far for that reason–I write. And look, by no means am I saying I have it hard in life. There are millions of people out there in the world that have it worse. But let’s face it–life is unfair however you slice it, life makes you tilt your head and question things that put you in awe. Hardship is hardship. Some of the most unexepected things that happen, good or bad, happen. It’s all relative. I keep writing because I keep living. Remember that–you want to have the strength to keep writing? Have the strength to keep living in this world.

That’s where you’ll find your greatest strength.

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