And Walking Arm In Arm, You Hope It Don't Get Harmed, But Even If It Does, You'll Just Do It All Again

--"On The Radio", Regina Spektor

Cadence and Elliot, otherwise known as the screenplay I'm writing, is loosely based on my first visit to Macon, GA to see Breanne. A lot of the scenes and dialogue I have lifted straight from what I can recall and what I remember of how things played out. But, as with all things I lift from my own life, some things have been dramatized to keep the soul of the story intact. No, I have never tried conning her out of fifteen hundred dollars. I won't lie, though. The thought had crossed my mind when I first met her. No, her parents never caught me in bed with her. Again, the thought did cross my mind too. And, lastly, I never had these cute scenes of brushing the bangs out of her eyes. For that you have to shift locations and time just a tad.

I actually visited another friend under similar circumstances. I visited my friend Jina in West Virginia on a whim. Her mother had called me up about a month before her fifteenth birthday and asked if I wanted to surprise Jina. I thought it was a great idea and made preparations to travel across the country for my one and only meeting with who I considered my best friend at the time.

When I actually arrived and was greeted by her mom and sister the nervousness I felt is the well from which I drew some of the emotions that Elliot feels in my script. I wasn't nervous when I met Breanne; she wouldn't let me be. But I was superbly nervous when I was meeting Jina. One, she didn't know I was coming. Because of that I had no idea if she would be presently surprised or slightly disappointed. I didn't know if the same magic I felt in talking to her through letters or over the phone would carry through to talking to her in person. Two, I would be staying over at her house. If the meeting didn't go right, we would be stuck together for the next four days. Three, what's worse, I wondered if I'd be the one disappointed. All these problems could have even been easily resolved if it hadn't been for the clandestine nature of the encounter.

I surprised her at breakfast and, to my relief, it was a good surprise. Aside from the curious glances I received from the homogenous patronage of the restaurant--being the one Asian guy in a sea of Caucasians was an experience--the meal was completed without a hitch. I'd thought about incorporating that into the story as well, but I thought it best that experience remaining solely associated with Jina. There are some things that, even for me, remain proprietary to the individuals I went through them with. Other things I patch together if it makes the story better, but that, that shall ever remain Jina's.

However, a vivid memory I absconded with for use in Cadence and Elliot was how I kept repeating "I can't believe I'm three thousand miles away from home." I thought the nature of the comment and the emotional bewilderment behind the statement fit in well with how it'd be like for somebody to be meeting up with a person they hadn't seen before in person. As aforementioned, I wasn't nervous meeting Breanne. I also wasn't very trouble about being so far from home either. By that point I'd already flown across the country. The novelty just wasn't there any more by the time it came to fly to Georgia and stay with Breanne's family. With Jina, though, I must have repeated that statement thirty or forty times within the first four hours. It really was a shock to come to the realization that if anything bad happened I couldn't just run or drive home. That feeling about being out of element, out of my comfort zone, and out of control, was a feeling I wanted to play with when writing my screenplay. I wanted to match the main character, somebody who always tries to stay on top of the situation, with a situation that's beyond his experience and with an individual who, so far, no one has been ever to bridle or curtail.

In Breanne I had the character because, even after thirteen years, I don't think anyone's ever got a complete handle on what makes her tick or ever really told her what to do. In the situation with meeting Jina, I had the perfect situation, so that's why I said it was a hodge-podge of two different stories.

Lastly, the biggest break from what actually happened and what I've written down so far in the story is the fact that when I met Jina there was more of that shy, disarmed affectation that it prevalent in the screenplay. Basically, I had this lingering crush on her that colored the four days I was visiting with her. It wasn't that I was trying to put the moves on her, but every touch, every glance, and, yes, every opportunity I took to brush the bangs out of her face was a revelation about just how much I adored that girl. I mean--talking on the phone I knew I liked her, but it wasn't until I met her in person that I came to know just how much that was. I don't know if I fell in love with her because our time together was so brief, but that feeling of discovering emotions I never knew I had is where my whole screenplay springs from. It isn't about two people who know from the get-go how they feel about one another. They have some idea. Yet it's in the sparks and grinding of coming together in person where the actual connection is forged. Some of that went on with Breanne, but, mostly, it was quite the opposite. I think it was clear how we both felt for one another, but we spent the entire time trying to hide or camoflauge it.

The other huge element I took from visiting Jina that time was an idea I stole from the opening line to The Story Girl, the idea that the reason we like roads is because you can never quite be sure what will be at the end of it. It's not necessarily how you leave things with a person that you remember most about seeing someone. I left things relatively well with Jina. We had some great talks and I thought there was a connection forged there.

A month later I was mailing her stuff back to her after I'd burned them.

With Breanne, we left things pretty bad after I had visited her. Yet a month after that we were conversing and making plans to see one another for her next birthday.

That's what I pulled from visiting Jina, the idea that you can do everything right with a person and it still might not work out. If the two people aren't meant for one another, it doesn't matter how well the small things go or how hard you try. Some couples were never meant to persist. On the other hand, when you get the right two people together, even the big things like breaking hearts and crushing dreams can't kill the friendship. I think that, if I had to put it into words, is what the theme of the screenplay is. I took the idea from Jina, but it relates to Breanne too.

The idea is this. It's okay to want something to work out with a person. It's even okay to make plans in case it does happen to work out. But you can't pin your hopes on careful plan and hoping how you feel is strong enough to see you through. You've got to take your lumps and be aware for when the right opportunity comes along. If I took my disappointment with Jina into my dealings with Breanne, it could have killed any chance for a long-lasting bond. Just like if I pick at everything that isn't up to snuff with Breanne, it may prevent me from finding those same hopes and desires with somebody new.

That's where this screenplay is at, hopefully, and that's why I say it deals with a lot more than recounting my story of meeting Breanne. It has a lot of my meeting Jina in there, there's a bit of my meeting Tara there, and probably a half-dozen other incidents and conversations I've had with various people over the years. If anything, it's more of a story of how any two people come to the realization of where they stand with one another and how those two people come to move past that realization.

That's the story I'm trying to tell.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

finally!

someone said this today.

after much drama (honestly, the stuff i've been hearing the past week can be made into a drama!), my friend finally said,

you know, i wish we switched places. i wish i was in your position and you were in my position. hehehe.

and hours later, being the slow thinker that i am, i thought, "that's the first time someone ever wished to live a boring, single life like mine."

what i hate hearing from people in relationships say is, "the nice thing about being in a relationship is i always have someone to talk to, someone to hang out with, etc."

and i think, "well, can't you do those things with your friends? i mean, you can have deep and dumb conversations, talk for hours, hang out, eat meals together..."

just admit that relationships come with the emo, touchy-feely, and NC-17 elements, and you'll win the argument. no one has admitted those things yet.

That The Shadows Kept Me Hidden, From The Light That Calls My Name, All The Creatures Stood Above Me, Now I'm Crawling Towards The Sun

--"Crawling Towards The Sun", The Hush Sound

The other day at work I came across a unique situation that I didn't believe was a huge deal, but other people apparently have come to believe is another portent for the downfall of my ethical nature. I was otherwise employed in the men's restroom when I spied sitting on the toilet paper dispenser a container of chewing tobacco. Normally, in a situation like this it's in my interest to gather up whatever has been left behind and ascertain whether it has any use for me. In that regard, I took it back to my desk and showed it to my co-workers. None of them thought it was a huge deal, but my supervisor thought it a huge breach of etiquette and I was instructed to return the container from whence it came. We then proceeded to get into a huge debate about what the "right" thing is to do in a situation such as that. My rationale is that when people misplace things in a public place, such as as a restroom, they have a reasonable expectation to never see the items in question again. My boss's rationale is that in a situation where the item clearly does not belong to me I have a responsibility to turn the item into a lost and found.

Moreover, I reaffirmed my theory that I, as an individual, base my morality on the simple theory of cause and effect. Being a deist, I don't have any grand ledger of my good and bad deeds that will determine whether I go to some grand and beautiful afterlife. There is no afterlife. Free from this constant sense of "being good for goodness" sake, I truly believe most of my actions on whether or not doing something will leave me in a better or worse position than not doing. Included in this calculation is whether or not, if I were to be caught doing something, if I would be punished for it. Take for instance, the chewing tobacco, I took it with me because, though I had no immediate use for it, it would leave me in a position of acquiring something I did not have before. Also, the "punishment" for taking it would have been minimal as I had the excuse that I did not know who it belonged to as well as the rationale it wasn't that important to me anyway. If somebody had asked for it back, it would have been no big deal to hand it back. Now, if the same situation meant that I would have been fired or sent to the police, then I wouldn't have done it. Most ethical situations break down for me into a simple assessment of risk vs. reward.

After work I continued this discussion with Breanne, who is probably the polar opposite of me when it comes to ethical dilemmas. She is the only person I know who will honestly put herself in a worse off position in order to do the morally right thing.


so we tell some lies
and then we hide from light


Here's how the discussion went. Since there are so many hypothetical situations for which ethics is hard to define, we made up a totally ludicrous situation upon which to test our divergent perspectives. We decided that the situation was that making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches was wrong because it was discovered that peanut butter and jelly, once combined, were proved to be sentient. In a sense, the making of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches was akin to having a baby expressly to abort it--a heinous crime we deemed worthy of capital punishment.

Her reason is simple. Something is wrong because it's wrong. It makes you feel guilty. If something in the way she was raised or taught gave her the belief that peanut butter and jelly sandwiches was innately sinful, then she wouldn't do it. Even if there were no physical consequence for it and she was free to have as many sandwiches as she wanted, she would deny herself in accordance to her inner guidelines.

My reason for not making the sandwiches would strictly be not to get killed. Yes, there would be some underlying guilt for killing something alive, but truly the only rationale I have against killing is that I don't want to die myself. Also, I would be opposed to killing someone I knew because that would mean losing somebody who potentially fulfills and enriches my life, but if it were some PB & J creature I did not personally have a relationship with and I was really craving a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then I would have no reservations against making myself a sandwich. In short, in a world devoid of consequences I really have no moral compass to tell me right from wrong. Basically, something is only wrong to me if I can get hurt or punished if I do it.

I guess I never had that Jiminy Cricket to guide me between right and wrong because, after that day, I've discovered a lot of things I do not do, not because I think they're innately wrong or right, but because society says they're against the law and therefore we should not do them. I don't want to be punished by society and that's why I don't do them. Yet there's a lot of things, personally, I would never do and society is okay with them, which leads me to the belief that the corrolary is also true. The only reason I do things sometimes is because they aren't punishable by law and not because I think they're okay to do. For instance, if suddenly arson were to be an excusable crime, I think there's a part of me that would be burning things left and right even though, as it stands now, I think it's wasteful to burn property that somebody could possibly could come into my possession down the line. Yet if society says it's okay then I would cease thinking of it as being "wrong".

I basically go with the flow, and keep my ideas of right and wrong to myself... except in cases where I don't think the law, society, or other people in general can harm me in response to my actions.

It sounds harsh, but that's how I honestly feel where my allegiances to morality and ethics lie.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

can't help being suspicious.

the past several months have been full of drama, but not as bad as the dramas i've been watching.

hell, those four months can be made into a drama. if you drew up some correlation chart, it'd start looking pretty congested. XD

i dunno how i'll handle next semester, i just want there to be less real-life drama.

funny, last semester was the first time i've actually bonded with classmates from my major, both to study and actually "bond".

ahh, but i can't believe this student-life might end by 2009. ;__;

I Don't Want To Take Advantage, Or Do You Any Damage, But I'm Not Sure I Can Manage To Stay Away

--"Return To Send Her", Camera Obscura

speaking of things I don't think I've forgiven myself for yet...

It wasn't so much the look in her oceanic blue-green eyes that hurt the most. Nor were the tears she was trying so hard to hide the root cause of my regret. I wasn't contemplating on whether or not I'd really hurt her or if I'd get in trouble. The guilt I was experiencing did not have its beginnings in the actual result of my actions. No, what prompted my panic at the site of her lying prone on the side of the highway was the fact I was still highly motivated to finish out the trip and not to turn around. It should have been about her and the damage I caused her, but, no, I was still thinking about me.

Three rules everyone should have regarding whether physically harming someone is appropriate. You don't hit somebody in anger when they haven't done anything to harm you. You don't hit individuals who are smaller than you. Most importantly, you don't hit individuals who you supposedly love.

I'd managed to break all three rules in one unforgiveable moment.

When Breanne told me she had this idea to hike from Macon to Atlanta over the course of five days and four nights, I told her she was crazy, but I still loved the idea. Of course, it made perfect sense to me that we should celebrate her birthday in this fashion. It was so original and spontaneous that I had no doubts that it was just the thing to turn this birthday into a memorable one. Upon further review, I should have known it had all the makings for a very uncomfortable and potentially dangerous outing. Not only had I not liked lugging around a thirty-pound hiking backpack when I was in the Boy Scouts, but the thought of sleeping in a tent four nights in a row wasn't very pleasant either. All that I thought I could overlook because I was willing to humor her wishes in this endeavor if it meant making her birthday special. I didn't want to be the one who brought up having trepedations at basically camping where we didn't have a permit to camp or hiking through cityscapes and countryside alike when we only had the most general of ideas how to get there. There was no Mapquest, no GPS tracking, or any of the modern conveniences that could have assisted in our journey tremendously. All we had was a basic route along Interstate 75 to track and various recommendations of the locals as to convenient places to set up our hopefully inconspicuous two-man dome tent. I didn't want to ruin a plan that seemed fraught with adventure.

What I hadn't counted on was the heat being so unbearable nor how a person's voice can become tiresome after an extended period of time, no matter how close the bond you feel with that person.

That first day, while I was still growing accustomed to the notion that our impulsive sojourn actually had a chance of being successfully completed, I regressed to my time in scouting. Instead of looking forward to that sense of accomplishment we were sure to feel once we survived our first day, all I could concentrate on was how tired and sore everything on my body felt. All I could focus in on was how hot, sweaty, and apparently smelly I was becoming by the second. It was not merely the fact I was hating every second of it, it was the fact that with every second that passed I become to blame her more and more. Yet the more I tried, for both our sakes, to remain silent about my petty gripes and whining complaints, the more she seemed to revel in how exciting it all was and how much fun she was having. She had the easy part. She had the small knapsack we had commissioned for small snacks and bottled waters we would go through while walked, in-between stopping for meals. She also wasn't burdened with the thought of trying to please me as I was trying to please her. This was her idea and hell-be-damned if I didn't like it. To be sure, that's not how she thought. I knew she would have turned around if I'd raised a serious complaint. But in my head, my seemingly murderous thoughts were centered on those facts--how easy she had it and how she didn't care about my welfare. In my mind, she was intentionally trying to hurt me in some way.

The only thing I can compare it to is the time I had to do community service for the whole month of July one year after I'd been in that hit-and-run. That whole month I was pissed off at my friends for what felt like ditching me even though it would have been totally uncool and unfair to ask them to give up their summers. In much the same fashion I couldn't have asked them to not go out without me that July, I couldn't have asked her to give up the trip just because I was being an over-sensitive brat. And in much the same way I spent that July thinking of different means of exacting my revenge on my so-called friends, I spent a good deal of time walking along that April thinking of ways to get even with Breanne for forcing this labor upon me.

I don't remember where it was on the first day. Possibly, it was four or five hours into the walk. I'd read somewhere that, walking at a brisk pace even with a backpack, a person could cover four miles in an hour. We allowed ourself a pace where three miles an hour was acceptable and lunch each day on the road. That gave us somewhere in the vicinity of eight to nine hours of "go" time. It was an insane pace made even more insane by the fact that we were trying to do this five days in a row. It had to be four or five hours in, though, because I remember it was just long enough for me to bring up the subject of stopping for lunch. I thought it was a good idea. We'd been walking non-stop since eight that morning and we weren't due to stop till five or six. I thought stopping at one for lunch was a good idea.

When she said no I was considerably upset. I was tired, hungry, and I really didn't care any more about following her lead. I just wanted to eat, that's all. It's been pointed out that I'm not exactly the most level-headed person when I'm on an empty stomach and that day proved that thesis in spades.

We argued for ten minutes about the idea of stopping for lunch. I pointed out there was a perfectly good Chick-fil-A in the area where we had stopped. To me it made absolute sense to break up the day where we were. As aforementioned, she had other ideas as to our itinerary. She implored me, one more hour. Back and forth it went. The more I stressed my unwavering hunger and intent to eat something before I went, the more she pleasantly asked if I couldn't just hold off a bit longer. When I finally relented, it came as a dagger to my heart when she succinctly capped off her victory with that innocuous catchphrase of hers, "please, thank you."

I'd always the way she said those two words was cute. She could never say them apart. Yet when she said it that time, it hurt. It felt like she was rubbing it in my face that she had all the power on this trip. More than that it felt like she was throwing it in my face that she had all the power in our friendship. She could say no to mean, but woe betide me if I ever tried to say no to her.

So when I came up behind her, I didn't see the chestnut tresses that had always been the highlight of my imagining her back at home. I didn't see the dimples or the slight frame. I didn't see any of that. No, I didn't see the person who was both my friend and confidante that I managed to always picture with a smile on her face. All I saw was the bitch who was standing in my way of being happy. I wasn't even trying to be happy, I was just trying to be comfortable. I would have settled for comfortable.

I didn't just bump into her to show her I was unhappy, I practically tackled her to the ground--which, with a thirty pound pack on me, was a considerable amount of force to run into someone several inches and more than several pounds lighter than me. The only saving grace for not making the experience any worse than it already was, was the fact that I did knock into her from behind. That way I didn't have to see her face right away. The hurt, the shock, the accusatory stare--all those I didn't have to see until well after the realization what I had purposefully done had sunk in. She didn't only fall, she fell onto the pavement of the parking lot. She didn't only fall, she fell forwards onto her knees, scraping them in the process. She didn't only fall, she fell without warning. She didn't fall at all.

She was pushed. Hard.

I don't know if you have ever seen a small dog, who has only known love and praise from its master, that gets kicked for the first time. It's a face of surprise and pain. But mostly it's a face of sadness--as if it had been inconceivable to them beforehand that their owner could ever cause them pain in any way.

That was the look she gave me when she turned around.

It was everything about that face that should have told me to stop and apologize. It should have never gotten to the point where she had ever to wear the face to get me to say I was sorry. I could have gone my entire life without seeing her countenance on that day. I could have spent that entire day hating her for making me do something I didn't want to do and still feel a hundred times better than I felt at that exact moment.

By that time I'd known her almost two years. From the time she was thirteen until that day, until her fucking fifteenth birthday, I'd gone without hurting her like that. Sure, we'd argued and fought. However, those were petty disagreements about who was more committed to making what we had work. Those had always been petty squabbles between people who cared for each other, but didn't always agree with what the other thought or felt. Our disputes up until then had been akin to the disputes you had with a colleague or co-worker; it never got any more personal than the argument itself. It never felt like a backstab or underhanded attack.

What I did was worse than I had ever done to her up until that point. What I did was what one did with someone you despised and couldn't care less what happened to them. What I did was what one did with, exactly, a dog one didn't like. For the briefest of moment she cease to be Breanne. She was only an obstacle to me, an obstacle I had to go through to get my way. It didn't matter how she felt or what her reasons were. She wasn't letting me do what I wanted. That was all I knew and needed to know.

If there's any God-given talent I've ever developed, it's the ability to make the people who care about me the most cry. I've disappointed, hurt, or otherwise made pity everyone who has ever loved in any way. From my parents to my relatives, from Jina to DeAnn, from new friends to old friends, I always manage to show the worst side of me at absolutely the wrong time.

Slamming DeAnn's arm in that car door is probably the worst I've done as was spraining her wrist by pushing her off the bed. Those were my absolute lows in terms of being petulant and violently aggressive when it came to not getting my way.

This time with Breanne ranks right up there, though.

Up until that point, she was always this beautiful creature. She was always ready with a smile. She always had a way of managing to laugh through things that would bum or otherwise frustrate most people. Up until that point, I could count on her good nature to counteract whatever glum disposition I had been experiencing. Up until that point, she really had been Little Miss Chipper no matter the obstacle or circumstances.

I had taken that positive attitude away from her in that one second. She had to come to count on me in a way she hadn't counted on very many others. She had put her trust in me on the basis of the fact I had never hurt her like that before. In that one second, I had broken all of that trust in me.

I was discussing with Carly tonight how in a situation where one person is more immature or petty or otherwise emotionally undeveloped, it's always the person who has the infantile personality who brings the more well-balanced individual down--at least, at first.

That was me and Breanne. Instead of her upbeat nature rubbing off on me, I had shown her this dark side to my character and wiped away all her romanticized illusions about what kind of person I was. From that point on, even if I never exhibited that behavior again, she knew I had that side to me and, knowing I had that side, she knew it was capable of awakening once more.

Yes, I helped her up, more out of trying to salvage the trip than genuine concern. Yes, I spent the rest of that day apologizing profusely and hollowly promosing it would never happen again. Yes, eventually she did forgive me before we pitched the tent for the night. And, yes, the next night we shared ourselves in multitude of ways that showed that sometimes how a trip begins isn't often how it concludes. Yet the thought that by pushing her down on the ground lingered on in the background of her memory still persists in my conscience. Maybe she hasn't brought it up as often as I thought she might have and maybe she has never used it against me when I've recalled times when she wasn't exactly kind to me. But there it persists like some ticking clock or telltale heart.

I know it's crazy to believe that, even after ten years and many more happy, sad, and painful memories having transpired between us, this incident was the catalyst to the way in which our relationship and friendship developed. It may be crazy, but a huge part of me still believes that if I hadn't hurt her on that day she would have been mine. I still think that losing that first piece of trust set the pattern in which every other time I hurt her it became that much easier for her to see I wasn't going to be the one. It was almost as if before that day what we had was flawless and, by my hurting her in that fashion, I'd placed that first crack in the dam.

That's why I don't believe people can ever forgive other people. You always remember when somebody's hurt you and, even if you don't think it bothers or colors your judgment about them, it does. I know I can't let go of that day in the same fashion I can't let go of her. I can't walk away from something or someone that meaningful to me.

Now I know you can't regain trust; you can only lose it. Sometimes it's the briefest of seconds that can define a lifetime. Sometimes all it takes is one little push to lose a happy ending.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Now It Seems They're Telling Me, You've Changed Your Wicked Ways, But Should I Give You A Second Chance, Baby, I'm Too Afraid

--"I Heard a Rumor", Bananarama

Does everybody deserve a second chance?

Do I?

I normally don't steal other people's pet themes, but the theme of wickedness has been creeping up time and time again in the project I'm working on now. Breanne usually tackles the subject whether or not one can outgrow one's innate troublemaking nature as she got into far more trouble than I ever did as a kid. But the way she writes about it, coupled with the several stabs I've made at it recently, has led me to some soul-searching as to the nature of committing acts that are unforgiveable and whether it is in our nature to really allow ourselves to let such acts slide. It's one matter to lack better judgment as a child as was my good friend's excuse, but it's entirely different to know better and still choose to do wrong as has been my case on more than one occasion. Even if there is contrition on my part, I still believe that forgiveness is not something I can earn by being contrite or by even offering to make amends or restitution. It's the whole adage in RENT; the opposite of war isn't peace, it's creation. It's not enough that I make up for my mistakes. I've got to leave the people I've hurt ahead on the books.

How do you make up for slamming the arm of someone you care about in a car door in the middle of the fight?

How do you make up for not showing up at the wedding of your best friend?

How do you make up for burning everything a person you've known for three years gave you?

What do you say? How do you start?

I don't know if you can. Certainly, saying sorry is nowhere near enough. I more than took away a person's happiness; I took away that person's trust in me. And even after the memory of the event or the words have faded, that trust never fully comes back. Things are never quite the same. That's why it's my understanding that when it comes to maintaining good relationships with people, you pretty much get the one shot. Yes, people may allow you to still remain friends or see them, but once you screw up, that screw-up is lodged into their understanding of you. It forms a mental marker whenever your name is mentioned.

So, no, I don't think you can ever be forgiven for past trangressions and, no, I don't think I ever will. This isn't a bad thing nor is it something to regret. I took my chances and made my choices. It's more than just making my bed and sleeping it. It's about the understanding that given the same set of circumstances and having to make the same choice at the same period of my life, I had no other choice but to do what I did.

Yes, I was born wicked as we all are and the only forgiveness we'll ever earn is from ourselves and no one else.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

He Never Knew How Much His Life Would Change, Ever Since Then She's Always With Him, Even Though They Live Miles Away

--"So The Story Goes", Lewis

The first short story which I wrote that I was ever proud of was one entitled "Ten Minutes Later". It was totally written on a lark and I had no intention for it to be the forbearer of all my short stories, novels, and screenplays to come. Before then I'd been content to churn out poem after poem with no serious thought as to how I was ever going to make a living from it. I only knew that, up until the night I wrote the story, I thought I had no gift for dialogue and, therefore, no gift for storytelling.

As most of my life goes, it began with a serendipitous moment. I had been watching a movie called Little Giants that my brother and I had been enjoying. I mean--I can't tell you much of the plot now, but I remember it involved the usual ragtag bunch of kids who are the underdogs in a rivalry against the more well-coached and conditioned team. Of course, they claim victory in the end. Many lessons are learned and there are plenty of "aaah" moments to go around. Yet what stuck in my craw the most was that one of the characters in the movie, "Icebox," the tomboy on the team, was played by a young actress named Shawna Waldron. Normally, such an insignificant detail wouldn't be enough to generate a whole story idea, but I always get ideas from random places. You see, it wasn't the fact she wasn't any great actress. She was decent, to be sure. Yet it was the name that stuck with me. I had never heard of a girl named Shawna.

That, boys and girls, is all it took for me to want to write a story.

In much the same vein that the main character in the screenplay I am undertaking is named Cadence, sometimes a unique name is all the inspiration I need to begin the creative process. I liken it to the process of how Helen of Troy's beauty was enough to launch a thousand ships, except in my case the right name is enough of an impetus to write one good story.

After the movie finished I went straight to my room, intent on getting my ideas down on paper. At first, I thought I was going to write another poem, but somehow that didn't seem appropriate. Up until then, every one of my poems had been about or inspired by the two Sara's, Sarah Polley and the character she played, Sara Stanley. Two or three hundred poems strong were all constructed in her honor. I actually felt like it would be slightly adulterous to suss together a poem inspired by someone else. I only had one choice. I had to write Shawna's tale as a story.

I'd written short stories in elementary school, junior high, and high school, but they were always fairly insipid and always involved supernatural elements. I was very fond of comics and superheroes. My choice in subject material always reflected that. However, with all instances where the artist's talents are best suited for other subject matters, I never produced one work I could be entirely proud of. They always felt distant and disgenuine. Possibly, it could have been because I don't know the first thing about having powers or being responsible for the lives of millions of people. There's no way I can convey what that experience was like to people because I've never experienced that in the least. Knowing this going in, I was slightly hesitant to begin writing. I thought that this project would be doomed to irrelevancy like all my other previous stories. I thought it would only prove that I had no business writing stories.

Then a funny thing happened when I got down to the business of writing the story. Instead of making the characters larger-than-life, I wrote about characters I grew up with and would have known. It all started with naming the male character Patrick. It's a meta-fictional trick and that's probably one of my main influences in making that decision. I'd read a good deal of modern literature in those first few years at USC and the concept of writing about yourself with the knowledge that it is writing intrigued me. Instead of placing myself as an impartial narrator, I included myself in the fictional story I was concocting. It opened up so many possibilities as to what I could include and exclude in terms of storytelling. I started utilizing real-life anecdotes, mixed them up a bit, and blended them with outright tales that I thought would add to the tension or drama.

It was a rough process. I think the story itself took me about three or four hours to complete and it was originally crafted as a play, without benefit of inner dialogue or description. Yet even that first draft had cleared a lot of hurdles for me. Not only did I believe the dialogue, I believed the situation because, had I known a girl like Shawna and had I been involved in a night like that story describes, I probably would have reacted in exactly the same fashion as Patrick does in the story. In fact, that's what a lot of the story is, how would I handle the situation if I were confronted with it. I think that's what gives a lot of the story's urgency and personal nature. Instead of hiding behind a character, I let the reader in from the outset that you're not just reading a tale about somebody that doesn't exist, the reader is also gaining some insight to the author himself--namely, me.

It was a success from the beginning. "Ten Minutes Later" remains the only story that has been universally liked by everyone who has ever read it. From Heidi to Breanne, Dan to my cousin, everyone who has read it has thought it was worth something. It may not be God's gift to storytelling and I think I've come a long way since that story came into existence, but it's what finally convinced me that I wanted to write stories for the rest of my life.

Every subsequent story has played off the model. I always start with writing out the dialogue before I do anything else. I always try to limit the stories to two characters whose dialogue is the main action of the narrative. There are almost situated somewhere for the entire story; there's never more than one location. The story almost always plays out from the beginning of the conversation to the very end; so ends the conversation, so ends the tale. Lastly, they almost involve one person attempting to leave or pull away in some fashion or another and the other person attempting to convince them to stay. Sometimes the effort is successful and sometimes it is not, as evinced in "Ten Minutes Later."

For some reason I've also noticed that a majority of my stories involve people who live far apart for some reason. I think it's because the closest friends I've ever had all lived thousands of miles from me. There's an artistic touch in having two characters who connect so completely live or about to live so far apart from each other. That stems from this story too. The whole notion of long-distance relationships or friendships managing to survive is a topic I'm very keenly aware of. I always wonder what kind of percentages those types of arrangements actually possess. Is it mostly like Breanne and I who've managed to stay close after thirteen or so years? Or is it mostly like Jina and I, Heidi and I, or a half-dozen other examples, where it clearly does not.

I've progressed since then, of course. Sometimes I branch into adding more characters now. Sometimes I include a bit of physical action as the main focus of the conflict. And sometimes I even write stories where hardly one word is uttered. The screenplay I'm working on is a prime example of this. It has ten main characters, takes place all over the city, and delves on the topic of whether relationships can survive change. It's hardly my mileu, but, for the most part, I think I've learned enough to make it work.


here's a story of a boy and a girl
two hearts, one world

Yet when push comes to shove, I will always be most comfortable writing humble stories about one boy and one girl talking somewhere. In a sense I'm still telling the tale of Patrick and Shawna.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Falling For You, Did You Ever See Me, Watching From Periphery, I Was Playing Another Game, I Hoped You Catch On All The Same

--"Fallen For You", Sheila Nicholls

to my friend who's having the bad day...

WHAT KIND OF FRIEND IS SHE?
by e. patrick taroc

What kind of friend is she?
Does she count koalas till you sleep
When you’ve told her to, please, count sheep?
Does she look first or does she leap?
And what company does she keep?
What kind of friend can she be?
Is she still the same girl you met
Or did she already forget?

What kind of friend do you know?
Does her temper run hot or cold
And what grudges does she hold?
Do you consider her bold?
When you met her, was she young or old?
What kind of friend was she long ago?
Did you kiss or did you fight
From morning through noon or night?

What kind of friend is she now?
Does she have a nickname for you
Or does she possibly have two?
What kind of hijinx have you been through?
Is there anything she wouldn’t do?
If she became your friend, then how?
Did you meet one day at school
Because you somehow knew she was cool?

What kind of friend are you to her?
Do you say “I’m sorry” when you’re wrong
Or is your pride far too strong?
Have you written about her in song?
And have you known her really long?
Are you a friend who can see through her?
Can she look you straight in the eye
Even if telling you a lie?

When you see your friend, do you smile?
Can she make you laugh right away
Even when you’re having a bad day?
Do you still go to the park and play?
When she goes, do you want her to stay?
Has she been your friend for awhile?
Does she know what you were like as a kid
And all the embarrassing things you did?

Is your friend a friend to the end?
Does she come whenever you call
No matter what time it is at all?
Will she drive you if your car should stall?
Does she pick you up when you fall?
Are you proud to call her a friend?
Have you talked about her 24/7
Since the time you were eleven?

Do you love your friend with all your heart?
Does she think your love is real
Or haven’t you told her how you feel?
Is her heart made out of steel?
And when she breaks yours, does it heal?
Does it make you cry when you’re apart?
Does she feel as strongly as you
And do you know if her love’s that true?

What kind of friend is she?
She’s the kind of friend that’s hard to find—
Possibly she might be one-of-a-kind.
She’s the kind of friend that speaks her mind.
She’s how friendship is definied.
What kind of friend do you want her to be?
The kind of friend she’s been before,
Just herself and nothing more.

(12/09/06 Copyright 2006 E. Patrick Taroc)

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Sometimes In The Morning I Am Petrified And Can't Move, Awake But Cannot Open My Eyes, And The Weight Is Crushing Down On My Lungs

--"A Better Son/Daughter", Rilo Kiley

I was watching The Hill88's video about the reason why she wakes up every day and was struck by how similar her answer would be to my own if I were to ever formally ruminate on my own reason for getting up every morning. Not only do I consider her answer an honest portrayal of how confusing the search for one's meaning is, devoid of any artifice or sugar-coating, it is also very concise about how really sad that quest can get. I don't normally recommend other people's posts because I always strive to make this site about being as original as possible and sometimes it bothers me when people's post consists of numerous links to other people's works, but hers is one post that really lit a particularly bright spotlight on my life. Check it out, if you have the opportunity.

One line in particular struck a chord with me. In answer to the question of what motivates her to start her day she answers, "I guess I'm just getting up so that one day I'll actually have a reason to." I identify with that answer completely. I do not have one reason, one goal, or one person I look forward. I don't have a big plan for my future that I spend each day chipping away at. It scares me that there are days when I feel helplessly lost and without purpose, that I'm just going through the motions of living a life. That thought scares me more than anything because the majority of people I know seem to have their acts more together than I do. I see my friends actually building towards a future they can be proud of. I see acquaintances taking those first few steps towards achieving their dreams. I see my family members doing ever so much better than me. That's when I wonder why I ever do get up each day. What does today hold that I haven't already seen or done yesterday or the day before? Why should I even bother trying today? What makes today so different than all the days that have come before or will come to pass? A lot of the time I cannot think of one thing to differentiate today.

I'm a fretter by nature. That's why I called this site california is a recipe for a black hole. That's why there's a half-dozen people whose nickname for me is Eeyore. But sometimes I think the worry and the fretting is justified. I think without that safeguard of being implicitly displeased with the manner in which my life has turned out I would never get off my butt and attempt to change it. I think without the inherent dissatisfaction I feel with the world, there would be no point in even trying at all. Maybe that is why I get up because I'm not completely happy yet. Maybe it's because I often wake up unfulfilled that I force myself out from beneath the covers at eight in the morning. I think I need that unhappiness, that sadness, that angst in my life to get anything accomplished. After all, it's like I've always said, "only unhappy people write because happy people are too busy being happy to stop and write." Perhaps it holds true for all other aspects of life as well. Perhaps we all need to be those squeaky wheels to get that bit of oil in our lives. I certainly do. It's only when I reach that point where everything is tolerable, when I reach my bliss, that perhaps I'll stop seeing the point of getting going in the morning with such vigor. It's that search for the point in my life where I can honestly proclaim, "now I can die happy," that gets me through life every day.

So, yeah, I totally agree with her. The reason I get up in the morning is because one day I hope to have a reason to be completely happy. There's always room for improvement in some aspect of my life. I could always be a better person in some way to somebody I know, even if that somebody is me. When I reach the point where such improvement is no longer possible, maybe I'll consider sleeping in.

Maybe.

A BETTER SON/DAUGHTER
by Rilo Kiley

Sometimes in the morning I am petrified and can't move
Awake but cannot open my eyes
And the weight is crushing down on my lungs
I know I can't breathe
And hope someone will save me this time
And your mother's still calling you insane and high
Swearing it's different this time
And you tell her to give in to the demons that possess her
And that god never blessed her insides
Then you hang up the phone and feel badly for upsetting things
And crawl back into bed to dream of a time
When your heart was open wide and you love things just because
Like the sick and dying

And sometimes when you're on
You're really fucking on
And your friends they sing along
And they love you
But the lows are so extreme
That the good seems fucking cheap
And it teases you for weeks in its absence
But you'll fight and you'll make it through
You'll fake it if you have to
And you'll show up for work with a smile
And you'll be better
You'll be smarter
More grown up and a better daughter or son
And a real good friend
And you'll be awake
You'll be alert
You'll be positive though it hurts
And you'll laugh and embrace all of your friends
And you'll be a real good listener
You'll be honest
You'll be brave
You'll be handsome and you'll be beautiful
You'll be happy

Your ship may be coming in
You're weak but not giving in
To the cries and the wails of the valley below
Your ship may be coming in
You're weak but not giving in
And you'll fight it you'll go out fighting all of them

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Yeah, I Know Who You Remind Me Of, A Girl I Think I Used To Know, Yeah, I'd See Her When The Days Got Colder, On Those Days When It Felt Like Snow

--"Catch", The Cure

As I was working my way through the first scene of I hope to by many in my new project, I came to the realization that a big flaw of my character creation process is the fact that every male main character I write inevitably turns out to resemble me. I don't know why that is. I have plenty of examples from my life to create well-rounded male characters, but none of them are as interesting to work with as people who think like me. Most of the time when I stray too far from that model, my guy characters turn out in flat, almost bordering on stereotypical, cartoon characters. They lack any distinction. Possibly, this is a result of getting to a deeper level of understanding with the females I meet in my life. It's just easier for me to get to the juicy details of a person's history and personality if they're female rather than male. This could be a comment on the emotional walls everyone says guys put up or it could be the fact that some people have an easier time talking to friends and acquaintances of the opposite sex than of the same sex. It possibly could be that, if I were a female, I would have a lot more stock types of male characters to create a panorama of divergent male characters. As it is now, if you ever see a main male character in one of my stories, it will probably resemble me more than anyone else I know.

Female characters are another story. I have the most fun crafting strong, female characters as they tend to be my protaganists about 75% of the time. People always tell me that my female characters tend be more unique and memorable than my male characters. I've always taken that to heart and always tried to utilize a supporting cast that compliment this strength rather than downplay it. Even in the story I'm writing now, I am having an easier go of insuring each female character has a different voice, a different feel, than any of the guy characters. Indeed, I had to cut back on some of the female characters and switch them over to guy characters because the story was slowly filling with all these forceful girl characters, jumping off the page, and very few male characters, most of whom came off as background performers.

Yet, even though I've birthed many fine women through these stories, I always tend to rely on three main archetypes when it comes to what kind of women characters I'm drawn to:

Sara Stanley - If there's one characteristic that I'm immediately drawn to in people, it's the personality trait of being the center of attention, of having that type of charisma which draws crowds to them. Sara Stanley, being my favorite character from literature, held this in spades. It doesn't necessarily mean my characters have to be divas. Far from it. It just means I always have at least one character who people seem to like simply on the merits of being themselves. Almost always they have some kind of talent that catalyzes this trait; be it singing, writing, dancing, or even comedy; and almost always they are humble about this talent. Sara Stanley is the shining example of Kerri Ray's favorite maxim of the type of people she loves to meet. Sara is extraordinary, but humble about it. That's what I always shoot for when I write a story, having one woman I would like because she is just that charming, persuasive, and alluring.

Phoebe Caulfield - Mark Twain once called this character "the best example of childhood in literature." After reading that, I took another spin through Catcher in the Rye to try and see what he saw. Upon re-reading I started to see it. It isn't just that Phoebe exemplifies a type of innocence that Holden wishes to maintain; it's the fact she remains innocent while at the same time, seeming more mature than her brother at times, that makes her interesting. It's that dynamic that I try to capture in my own characters. I seek to have one character who, from the outset, seems less sophisticated than the rest, but who always, by the end, comes off as the one who seems to have it the most together. Phoebe is kind of like the female version of Eeyore for me. She's a character that doesn't seem like much when you first hear her, but the more you give her a chance to explain how she sees the world, the more you realize she has more understanding than she ever gets credit for. I think that's a fun trait to write about as it involves restraining the urge to show off her wisdom through words and highlighting this wisdom through actions.

Eponine - There's an Eponine in the majority of my stories. There's one character almost always who pines for another character and never lets them know the full extent of their desire. Eponine, as a character, has fascinated me ever since I saw her on stage. She embodies a universal trait that I've taken as a motif in my stories; the fact one almost never gets what he or she wants. There's always one quality, one person, one thing, that one actively seeks throughout one's life that never comes to pass. It's whether or not that quest makes or breaks a person's happiness that I love delving into. She also kind of ties into the tone I aim for in most of my stories, wistful and forlorn. I love writing stories where the characters are mostly resigned to believe there is nothing better out there for them, but still have a hope that it could happen someday. Eponine never gives up hope. Even while she doesn't act on her impulses, she never gives up the impulse itself. That's always a classic personality trait.

If you ever have the opportunity to read something I write, you'll see these three types of characters always creep up. It's freaky, quite frankly, how often they do appear. I may disguise it well, but these three characters are always in the back of my mind when I'm attempting to resolve conflicts. I always ask myself how each of these three would a handle a situation and then I write from there. I'm sure there are more classic archetypes out there that I subconsciously employ, but these three have always been my launching point.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers