Kids these Days

At the risk of sounding like an old get-off-my-lawn writer who wouldn't know the difference between a skateboard and a keyboard, kids today possess the backbones of jellyfish while coveting everything they see and hear. These kids, who range from the age of three to twenty-four, are so entitled they believe that by doing no work at all, all the riches of the world belong to them simply because they exist.
Let’s begin with the fact that we are raising a generation of spineless individuals that bursts into tears if someone dislikes their facebook post or Heaven forbid, calls them a derogatory name. The term ‘online bully’ is laughable. Of course the parents are to blame for this nonsense and by parents I mean the child-bearers and the government. Kids are incredibly coddled and way too sensitive because parents, all three of them, have never allowed them to get hurt or engage in any dangerous activity. The days of riding in the back of a pick-up truck are long gone and by God never ride a bike without a helmet. These kids don’t know the feeling of wind blowing through their hair. No wonder they bawl when something truly tragic happens, such as missing the last step, falling one foot, and landing on the ground. They’ve never felt the ground with anything but their feet which must be covered at all times. I doubt the term barefoot means anything to them. Consider playgrounds, a staple in almost any city. Believe it or not, at one point in time, playgrounds contained sand (of which I ate plenty as a tot), merry-go-rounds, teeter-totters, and large climbing objects where a metal slide jutted from the top. On hot days Father would cook hamburger on the metal. That’s how scorching the slides were. Yet we slid down them anyway, tearing away layers of skin in the process. Those days have passed, the sand and toys and slide have vanished, Father must cook on a grill, and we have a generation of wusses on our hands. Drive by a park today; all is sterile and mothers carry hand sanitizer in their purses along with bactine, wipes, and a complete change of clothes for the youngster in spite of the fact that there is no dirt to be found anywhere. As for bullying, it’s gotten out of control. Not the supposed bullies, but the kids who whine about each and every perceived slight. Being picked on is part of growing up. And I have some news for these kids who are not reading this: You will always be picked on, even as a grown-up. Young people have no idea of self defense. Bad grade? It’s the teacher’s fault, and the parents side with their kids. By far, the newest form of bullying is done online. Nothing makes a kid cry harder than when his newest post is mocked. And who can blame them? They got called names; most likely while ridiculing someone else. As the tears are drying, some parent is rushing to the store and purchasing some item the kid just has to have or he will get made fun of at school for not possessing said item thereby perpetuating the cycle of abuse. Kids have so many things they don’t need, it’s insane. Want has replaced need while parents give in and tell their kid how special he is. I have a solution to all of this idiocy. Child-bearers must allow their kids to get hurt on occasion; both physically and mentally. Also, we must dismantle the government for implementing so many safety laws. Of course, none of this will happen because the kids are in control and many are unable to vote.    

Sleep...or lack thereof

The life of an insomniac is not a pretty one. Went to sleep at midnight and woke every two hours on the dot. It's quite annoying and not productive. After writing all day, staring at words on a screen as they flow by, creating worlds with the tick of a finger and what rattles around my head, a bit of rest would be nice. But no. How many of you would love to take your brain, set it on the nightstand, and get a peaceful night's rest? All of us I'm sure. So I pick up Doctor Sleep by Stephen King and read for a while. Good story and the title seems to be representative of my current state. Of course, reading is not the cure. It stimulates the mind and what I need is a lack of stimulation. I close the book and another two hours pass as I lay unconscious dreaming of nothing memorable. So I write again. I read about world events and how the recent election is going to change the country for the better. Pundits throw in their two cents which is about all they have to offer and why am I reading them anyway when I should be asleep? The problem is that I love the night. It's when I do my best writing and ideas come to me like whispers. It's what I enjoy: Creating.something from nothing. But some rest sounds great. Sometimes sleep can be a real bitch.

A Matter of Inches

I was driving down a dark road, music blaring, my favorite person next to me in the passenger seat. We were enjoying ourselves by the simple act of being together, sharing the same moment, ticking along; our clocks in sync. The half-moon bright in the sky, headlights illuminating the long road that lay in front of us as we drove, enjoying the evening. Everything was perfect and I looked into her eyes as she looked at mine, unspoken words exchanged between two humans at peace with each other and the world around them. I took her hand in mine, squeezed, and smiled as she returned the gesture, so simple yet profound.

The headlights approached, perpendicular to my own and moving way too fast. Her hand in mine, my eyes followed the other vehicle as it headed towards the intersection. We were about to intersect and I removed my foot from the gas pedal and hovered it over the brake. My car slowed. The other did not. The woman sitting next to me, who dwelt in my heart, the future mother of my children, was unaware; we were both caught in the moment, her warm skin enfolded in mine.

The car that was travelling too fast ran a stop-sign, the distinctive sequel of brakes (that unmistakable precursor) echoed as the car slid through the intersection , tires gripped the road in vain, dark skid marks left a trail of burnt rubber imprinted on the pavement. I too pressed my foot, halting the forward motion of my car just as his came to rest, my headlights mere feet from his face. He appeared startled, confused, disoriented, and slightly dazed. He stared for the briefest of moments, hit the gas again, spun his wheel, and drove away from me on the wrong side of the road. As his tail-lights diminished, I saw that his car was swerving all over the road and I prayed that no one would become a victim of this man's idiocy.

That's how quick your life can be forever altered. The whole incident was over in less than a minute. I was safe, the beautiful soul sitting next to me was safe.We would continue to travel, not only on the highway, but through life, hand in hand. Had the timing been off by a few seconds, his car would have plowed into mine, striking the vehicle right where she was sitting, the woman whose soul had captured mine. Who knows what would have happened. I don't even want to think about what could have been; the wrenching loss had she been taken from this world.

People often ask why I write what I do; why I find it necessary to place my characters on the knife's edge and twist. I suppose it provides a bit of catharsis, shining light into the dark in order to discover what is hidden behind the invisible curtain. That evening, I almost found out first-hand. Too many people do.  The page is safe, there is no real harm there, only suppositions. But real life can be a dangerous road on which to travel...and it's the only path available to us.

So tread with care because what lies behind the curtain may not be safe at all. It could change your life forever, or end it. I could have lost her through no fault of my own; she could have lost me. Or we both could have taken that final step together. But we didn't. And I am grateful. We landed on our feet and are still walking side by side and I am able to reach out and touch her as she touches me. My eyes are open. They scan the horizon searching for pitfalls and beauty and firm ground on which to stand where I can hold her hand, look into her eyes, and marvel at the wonder that lies within.

Never Leave Home Without It

I'm an addict. No use denying it; might as well get it off my chest. Who hasn't stumbled into their local 24 hour market at two-thirty in the morning searching the aisles for Diet Coke? I can't possibly be the only one. You open up the fridge and notice that there are only three 2 liters left. It might be well past midnight, but three bottles certainly will not sustain you for the next day. Not even close.

If you're anything like me, you too have a 64oz. mug filled with Diet Coke on your person at all times. Day or night; it's simply a matter of course. And if you're smart (and I know you are), the mug's handle is facing you on your nightstand so that when you wake it makes for easy access. After all, who wants to search, bleary eyed, for that delicious beverage? It must be ingested quickly; as efficiently as possible. Imagine the poor fools who remain parched, suffering, because they didn't think ahead.

Ice is essential. I can't tell you how many times I've been told that I don't drink enough water. The ice melts; is consumed along with the soda, and what is ice but frozen water? So feel free to scoff at those who admonish because you are drinking too much Diet Coke and not enough water. My logic on this is sound.

There is no shame in pushing a shopping cart during the wee hours of the morning. Sure you may be tired, but the agony of an insufficient supply is far worse than an hour of sleep deprivation.

The first step is to come to terms with your addiction as I have. The second is to ensure that you have enough gas in the car to make it to the store and back. And be sure to have plenty of ice on hand.

Of Carpet, Stairs, and Writing

So last night I'm busy banging away on the laptop, creating a new world with words and what skills I possess. Lost in the moment, watching sentences fly across the screen, I stop. My stomach is growling and there are delicious, ripe, plums downstairs. Saving my work (I always save and you should too), I walk to the stairs sans shoes because barefoot writing is the only way to travel.

My mind, divided in half, part still on the story the other half imagining the fruit, is not truly focused on walking. When is it ever? We walk as we breathe, with very little thought. Sometimes though, a bit of thinking is required...as are a pair of shoes. I hit the stairs at a trot, hands just brushing the railing; why bother?

About the third step down, my bare feet hit the slick carpet and I began careening down the stairs one bump at a time, shoulders bouncing on the walls, picking up speed, hand seeking the railing and coming up empty. It was like a Slip 'n Slide minus the fun and the water. Unhappy that my shoulders were browsing the wall, enjoying the trip, my head decided to join them. The ride ended rather quickly as most do. I sat on the floor, looking at the table where the plums sat in a bowl, waiting for signs of any bodily damage (the stairs were just fine). Standing up, I kind of limped towards the table, grabbed two plums, and ate them, glancing at the stairs as if they were to blame, knowing that a return trip awaited.

One hand firmly on the rail, I ventured back up; my story unfinished, sore body but no serious injury, and resumed typing, slowly at first, then picking up pace as my mind took the reigns. Pausing, I cracked my knuckles and saw a pair of shoes on the floor; they looked up at me longingly. Slipping them on, realizing the error of my ways, I resumed typing. Shoes, not the sole addition to my writing wardrobe; a soft pillow rested on the chair.  

Skip Trace

Recently, I published my first book of short stories on Amazon; a slight tome called Skip Trace. Self-publishing is interesting and definitely quite the learning experience. For those who are considering taking a chance, I highly recommend it. Like many authors, I have always wondered what the big secret is that opens the doors to the major publishing houses. As an English major in college, I (along with many aspiring writers) frequently questioned any published professor how they did it, any pointers they could share with us, tips and tricks into the world of selling your work. Each and every one danced around the question like a boxer in the ring playing a bit of rope a dope with us fledglings.

Sure, one must be able to write they said, keep trying they offered, get a good agent. But how? Writers number in the thousands, so how about a little inside information professor? Nobody knows how to change the subject quicker than a published author. Thankfully, those of us who love to write are able to publish at any time now. No rejection letters. Our writing either stands or falls on its own. Currently I am working on my second, much longer book of short stories which will be available soon.

For those interested in a quick read, my first book is available on Amazon. Yes, I am an opinionated individual, and will be posting quite often of this and that and the processes I go through when writing along with rants and reviews. Enjoy.

-Vince Guzman

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00LSX5JS6