How to Jump Off of Cliffs

I've been writing for most of my life. I have stories in my head that must come out. At twenty, I knew I wanted to write for a living, but I didn't know how to do it. My writing was, frankly, just awful. It took ten years of treading other paths, enduring pain, falling in love, and educating myself before I finally had everything it takes to sit down and write a decent story.  

In October 2010, I left a go-nowhere job in private security to step up and take the plunge: I had decided to become a professional fiction writer. The decision was very difficult for me. I knew that, even if I succeeded, it would be years before I started making real money. I was afraid to tell my family that I wanted to stop working full-time in order to pursue my dream; when I bit the bullet and announced my intentions, they surprised me by backing me whole-heartedly (the general consensus was "it's about time!").  

I sat down and started writing. I read books about writing. I read and re-read some of the best contemporary fiction. I studied and honed my craft even as I plied it. I found people who could help me get my work into the right hands. I submitted my work to over one hundred literary journals and magazines. I taught myself to enjoy rejection.

When the first acceptance came, it surprised the hell out of me. I  was completely unprepared for it. When the story was published, I went to the website and looked at it every day. I still visit it from time to time. It still thrills me. My dream is beginning to come true.

But this story isn't about my dream. It's about yours.   

The things we dream about seem so unattainable because they entail risk; usually a daunting amount of risk, which threatens the comfort and stability of our lives. We have responsibilities. All of us are beholden at least to ourselves, many to lovers, spouses, children, aging parents, etc. Chasing those dreams and confronting that big bad risk puts all of the people to whom we are beholden at that same risk. We are adults, to a given value of adulthood, and we have become so by learning to play it safe and only take small risks. We have been taught that it is okay to go up to the edge of the cliff and look over, but that we must never, ever jump, because only bad things happen to people who jump off of cliffs.

If you have a serious dream, follow it. Don't stand at the edge of the cliff and look over, get a running start and leap. I know it's frightening. I know you could be risking a lot. I know it hurts when you hit bottom. It takes balls to do it, big brass ones, but there just aren't enough people chasing dreams these days. We need more.      

       Here is the Benson Method for Achieving Your Dreams:  

       1) The Running Start: get your life in order. Save up a little money. If you're beholden to anyone but yourself, make sure everyone knows you're going to jump and that they support your decision, or at least understand it.  

       2) The Leap: give it everything you've got. Here's a tip: it won't be enough.  

       3) The Landing: it hurts. Nobody flies the first time. Nobody. Pick yourself up and go back to the top of the cliff.  

       Repeat steps 1-3 indefinitely, learning from every experience you have and every mistake you make and every other dreamer out there falling alongside you, and you will eventually achieve...  

       4) Success: congrats, you flew for about five seconds. Keep jumping.  

       This may sound hokey, but I'm totally serious. Dreams are made real by desire, dedication, and perseverance. I am writing this post while taking a break from stuffing copies of yet another story into envelopes. Will it be rejected, or will somebody publish it? Will I fly again, or land in a crumpled heap? Don't know. Don't care. Leap again. As Joseph Heller wrote: Jump!*

*those who don't get the punchline need to read the book Catch-22; those who have read it must read it again. It is one of the most astounding pieces of literature ever set to page.

Comments and Polls now enabled!

After much trial and error, I've got the comments feature enabled. Anonymous posts are welcome, you don't need a Google account or blog membership to have your say. I love the free exchange of opinions and ideas; tell us all what's on your mind! Do you like what you read here, or hate it? Let me know what you think of my blog, my stories, or just the world in general. Off-topic commentary is fine.

Only blatant abuse or excessive profanity will be censored. I won't delete a comment just because somebody has something negative to say, as long as the message is civil, comprehensive, and articulate. Hecklers be warned, however; I'm not above returning fire!

Without wishing to exclude my fellow Americans, I'd be especially interested in commentary from my international readers. It seems I have a solid following in Russia, in which I find both joy and fascination.

Just for fun, I'll also be running the occasional poll, which you will find down at the bottom of the page with the other extraneous junk. The topic will change every month or so.

Objects In Mirror

There are a number of expressions in the English language (and, I can safely assume, in most other languages) used to express the observation that most things we dread aren't as bad once they're over. I imagine that I'm not alone in getting myself all worked up over things that turn out, when all is said and done, to be far less traumatic in the execution than in the anticipation.

This comes to mind now because I am scheduled to receive an epidural steroid injenction in a couple of weeks. This will be the second and hopefully the last insertion of a large needle between my L-4 and L-5 vertebrae, the goal being to reduce inflammation of my sciatic nerve. Strangely, I was much more concerned about the first epidural than I had been about the surgery that came some weeks previous to it, wherein it was not just a needle but in fact a couple of scalpels and several pairs of hands that were monkeying about in disconcertingly close proximity to my spinal cord. I am a stranger neither to needles nor to invasive surgery, but the epidural had me freaked.

As it turns out, I was freaked over nothing. I had been in the operating room for about three minutes and had felt a couple of mild  jabs that I assumed to be a spinal block, at which point I turned my head in time to see the doctor walk past holding a gleaming stainless needle approximately the size of a hunting rifle. Expertly concealing my anxiety, I asked him how long the procedure would take.

He gave me a funny look and informed me that it was finished.

So this time I know it will be no big deal. Gigantic needle poked into my spine? Been there, done that. 

Generally all of the frightening experiences and painful injuries I've endured in my life seem to follow that pattern; once they're over, I don't remember them being as bad as they very probably were. I've been banged up pretty badly in my time--I won't bore you with the litany of abuse my body has suffered, but let it suffice to say that recitation of the complete list begins to feel like bragging after the first couple of hours. Seriously, though, I've experienced, for mercifully short periods, what several doctors have described as the upper limit of the human pain tolerance. Strangely, I don't remember what it feels like.

From an evolutionary standpoint, this seems a bit backwards. Pain exists, in part, to educate us: stove hot, ouch, don't touch stove. Doesn't it stand to reason that retaining full memory of extreme pain would serve a purpose? If it hurt so much the last time, maybe you should avoid doing it again...

On the other hand, maybe there's a lesson in the converse, to help us deal with things we know ahead of time are going to hurt: it won't be as bad as you think it will, so just get it over with. With that in mind, I'm off to meet that giant needle, and you probably have a dinner with the in-laws or something. Be strong.

Remember, objects in mirror aren't as scary as they appeared.

Mistaken Identity

I live on the wooded fringe of a very small town. The folks who live deeper in the surrounding wilderness see it as a shopping mecca and social hub; those from more built-up regions of this sparsely-populated state probably see it as a blip on the map; people who live in honest-to-goodness cities might not see it at all. There are less than a thousand locals, and either directly or by association, we all know one another. Nobody locks their doors, or even bothers to take their keys out of the ignition. The last time a car got stolen here was six years ago, and the thief made it a whole quarter of a mile before somebody recognized the car--but not the driver--and the County Sheriff's office was all over him like ravens on roadkill. We don't even have our own police department. We don't need one.

So, when I came out of the town's 6-aisle grocery store one night and saw a black VW station wagon parked next to my truck, my first thought was that it was odd that I hadn't crossed paths with my father inside the store. Looking around, I quickly spotted him in the shadows beneath a tree at the edge of the parking lot, walking his dog on a leash.

With the proper tone of mockery, I shouted, "What's the matter, couldn't the little s__t wait until you got home?"

After a pause, a completely unfamiliar voice responded, "I'm sorry, are you speaking to me?"

Out of the shadows walked a man who could have been my Dad's long-lost twin. Not only was he of the same approximate age and build as my father, but he carried himself the same way, wore the same style of hat, and had very similar glasses. His dog was even the same size and color as my Dad's dog, although it wasn't quite as funny-looking. And, of course, this gentleman was also the owner of the car that I had thought to be my father's. It even had Maine plates, but of a different style.

I apologized immediately, explaining the mix-up and pointing out the numerous details that had led to my confusion. The fellow listened patiently, cupping his chin in one hand, and after a few moments of silence, he asked, "Tell me, are you on good terms with your father?"

"Absolutely," I said, "I love my Dad. He's the greatest!"

"If that's the case," the man said thoughtfully, "I suppose I can't take issue with being mistaken for him, can I?"

What is a patriot?

Here in the United States, our national celebration of independence has come and gone, along with all of the fireworks, bunting, and discount mattress sales which have come to be associated with it. You may note that I did not call it 'the 4th of July;' that is simply the date upon which falls the national holiday known officially as Indepedence Day. This is an important distinction to me, although I will not press my opinion upon others.

That's really the point, isn't it? This is a country founded upon a simple and unifying principle: freedom. The freedom to be who and what we want to be, to do (without infringing upon the freedom of others) what we want to do, to worship whatever deity (if any) we so choose, and to say whatever we want to say. The documents drawn up to ensure such rights have a lot of necessary boilerplate attached to them, but that's what it comes down to: freedom.

Despite whatever may be wrong with it at any given time, I love my country. I cherish the freedom afforded to me by my nationality. I consider myself, all political affiliations aside, to be a true patriot. Yet I recently took part in an interesting discussion in which I was accused, for various reasons, of being unpatriotic. So what is a patriot? 

The Oxford English Dictionary defines a patriot as thus: a person who vigorously supports their country and is ready to defend it against enemies or detractors.

By that definition, I entirely qualify. I even love my country's insignia, though I am not normally one given to the worship of symbols. I own a high-quality American Flag, and when I display it I do so in strict accordance to the traditional protocol of respect. I've even been known to lecture those who break that protocol; for some reason, it just pisses me off to see a flag mistreated. I really frown upon those who wrap themselves in a flag or wear one like a cape. The honor of being draped with our national ensign is reserved solely for those who have given service to the nation, and even then only posthumously. But I've gotten off the topic.

Yes, I was accused of being unpatriotic. Why? Because I objected to the practice of coercing children to say the Pledge of Allegiance in schools. As stated above, I love and respect my country's flag, but I think it's ridiculous that children should be taught to begin each day by praying to it. That's right, I said praying. I think it was that statement that this person took such issue with, for their response was to tell me, with no small amount of profanity, that the Pledge of Allegiance was part of the U.S. Constitution and a national tradition. In fact, the Pledge of Allegiance was written in 1892 by a Baptist minister (and card-carrying Socialist) as what he called a 'secular prayer' used to open his non-denominational services. It languished in obscurity until 1942, when it was instituted in schools and government buildings to promote national unity during World War Two. In 1956, at the urging of President Eisenhower and the Knights of Colombus, the words 'under God' were added, presumably as a dig against those "godless red commie bastards" who were, at the time, our nation's greatest enemy. Unfortunately, my patient delivery of this short history lesson fell on deaf ears.

As this quite public discussion went on, I was not only branded unpatriotic and un-American, but I was also told that I was a threat to the values of this country, that I should never be allowed to have children of my own or be in contact with other people's children, and that if I didn't like what was going on in this country, then I should "pack (my) ____ing bags and get the hell out!" (My cousin's wonderful comeback to this was "who appointed you the Deportation Fairy?")

I don't go out of my way to publicly humiliate the ignorant and hypocritical, but I must confess to taking great delight in helping them do it to themselves.

So here is my opinion: anyone who wishes to brand themselves a patriot should A) obtain at least a basic working knowledge of their country's history and fundamental ideals, B) be prepared to debate the meaning of said ideals in a civil and open-minded exchange, and C) learn the difference between patriotism and nationalism.

To do any less would be downright unpatriotic, don't you think?

Shameless Self-Promotion

As part of my ongoing campaign to mercilessly inflict myself upon the unsuspecting public, I have added the options to follow this blog via e-mail and a list of links to my stories that have been published online (a pitifully short list, at the moment). You will find both at the bottom of the page. Also, if you wisely choose to become a follower of this blog, not only will you and your loved ones be spared when the revolution comes, but your smiling face (or whatever you've chosen as an avatar) will be proudly displayed in the right-hand column.

I think I'm getting the hang of this blogging business. It's not about what I write, it's about the gadgets!

The Battle of the Morn (Poem)

As promised, here's some of my terrible poetry:

The Battle of the Morn

by Anders Benson

At the appointed hour, a spiteful cry doth sound
As man and monster take afield to begin another round
The man with flailing fist doth aim to strike his enemy down
He lands a mighty blow upon its battered head
The screaming beast recoils, stunned, but far from dead

Now our hero rests, for blissful minutes nine
Until the foe returneth backed by morning's shine
In waxing rays they bray and battle, their war as old as time
The stalwart red-eyed beast, its detested duty clear;
The drowsy man defending the solace he holds dear

Again, again, once more again, they circle, feint, and jab!
Here a raucous squawk, there a wild stab!
In vainest hope the man doth try more precious sleep to grab
Alas that dream will always lie just beyond his grasp
For the beast's attack is to the ear like the venom of an asp

With plaint and growl the man, vanquished and at bay,
Concedes the battle to the beast and greets the dawning day
But first he makes a token strike, as he'll not forsake the fray
With joints a-creaking doth he rise to see his business through
The alarm clock bides in patience 'til the fight begins anew

International Greetings

No post today, but I extend a warm and heartfelt Gruß, приветствие, and 인사 to my international readers. It's a thrill to see that my humble blog is attracting attention from around the world.

Oh, and if any of those greetings are incorrect, blame Google Translator. I'm not actually multilingual, I'm only pretending.

Write What You Know

One of the most common--and most frustrating--pieces of advice given to budding writers is "write what you know." I have received this pearl of wisdom many times, and will undoubtedly dispense it at least as many times in years to come.

A writer must have something to write about. All the linguistic chops in the world won't get you very far if you don't have an interesting topic, and the key to making something interesting is to make it real. A writer must draw upon experience, education, and emotion in order to breathe life into their work; in other words, a writer must have lived. That is why I am only now, in my early thirties, developing the skills that will take me to a professional level, because without something to write about, my ability and capacity for exploration as a writer was as limited as my material.

Begin, of course with first-hand knowledge: everything you have ever done, seen, or personally experienced, all of your skills and talents that do not seem related to writing, all of these will form the physical foundation of your writing. Next, your second-hand knowledge: everything you have ever read, heard about, or otherwise learned of can be important, whether it becomes the core of inspiration or simply a small but vital detail. You will end up doing a lot of research simply to lend credibility to your work. Even rumor and hearsay have their part, because so much good fiction is an elaborate tapestry woven around a single strand of truth. If 99% of your story is simply made up out of thin air, that 1% of it drawn from reality is what will pull the reader in and make it believable (although I'd recommend a somewhat more balanced ratio).

But a writer's material goes far beyond the material, and this is where the true meaning of "write what you know" becomes clear. The most important and most often overlooked part is to write what you know in your heart. You cannot simply bombard the reader with facts and details and expect them to become swept up in the world you have created, you must connect with them emotionally. If you want a reader to identify with a character, you must discover what it is you yourself like about that character and emphasize those traits, which are far more important than hair color or wardrobe. Likewise, if you want the reader to despise a character, don't just model them on somebody you find despicable; model them on what you find dispicable about yourself. Always, always, always make it personal. Draw out the humor or tragedy as desired by finding it within yourself, not just within the scene. Your words should have the same effect on you as they do on your audience. Your writing should thrill and amaze and traumatize you. When your heart pounds in your chest as you type the thrilling climax, when you laugh aloud at a particularly clever scenario you've devised, or when tears well up in your eyes when you pen the heartfelt finale, that's when you've really got something.

Do that, and you are truly writing what you know.