October Happenings

It’s been nearly two weeks since I posted a blog, quite the change from September. But you’ve missed these, right? Ha. My September goal was to write something each day and take a long break from my novel. These last few weeks have also been quite hectic. I’m not the biggest fan of posting a blog that is more like a “dear diary” entry, but a lot has happened in a few weeks, so I am going to ramble a little.

The last weekend of September I saw one of my best friends get married and reconnected with old friends. That was a beautiful and fun weekend.

At a great friend's wedding. Congrats, Rachel!

I also spent a weekend getting trained in a new fitness program called KettleWorX, choreographed kettle bell routines to music. I am proud to say that I am a fully certified “pass plus” KettleWorX trainer now!

This is my third fitness cert and definitely one of the
hardest to pass. I'm also a certified P90X trainer and
Turbo Kick instructor. 

I spent a weekend night at my favorite haunted house, where (and I don’t mean to make fun) a friend with a heart condition had to be escorted out because it was all too much. That’s not something to laugh at, but damn if I don’t love that kind of intensity when it comes to horror. FrightNight in Forest City did not disappoint this year. (We made sure he was ok. And then the rest of us continued while he sadly sat outside.)

Can you guess who had to sit out? Everyone is ok now!

I saw a fantastic musical at Illinois Central College called Avenue Q that starred a former student who is now a friend and was directed by my boss at the college. I cannot believe the talent of all of our students. So incredible. And if you’ve never seen Avenue Q but have a chance to do so, don’t miss out. It’s hilarious and naughty but has a good deal of heart in between the obnoxious humor.

Most tragically, the son of one of my best friends died. I am happy to have spent some time with her and am happy (happy is not exactly the right word, but you understand) to have been able to go to the visitation and the funeral and see her beautiful family. All of that is her story to tell, and I don’t feel right writing more about it. I just want her to know that it is something we all will never forget, and somehow over time, all will be stronger and closer.

Then I managed to dress us as Hulk Hogan and give my college students a laugh. In one class, the students tried to sneak out cell phones and discreetly take pictures of me. I don’t know why they felt the need to be discreet. I was happy to pose for them! (By the way, I didn’t dress up randomly as Hulk; it was part of an 80s theme day at the college. Not that there’d be anything wrong with that if I did, right?)

My Comm 110 class, several students also dressed 80s
style. That's me front and center. WHATCHA GONNA DO!

And then today is my father’s birthday. My dad passed away four years ago this December. I’ve been using that Timehop app for Facebook. Most of the time, it’s pretty fun. You get to see the silly status or pictures you uploaded on this day for each year in the past that you had Facebook. But recently Timehop has been very sad. I’m seeing all the old status updates I posted about my dad to keep friends and family in touch. Today I saw a post about spending time with him on his birthday. It was the last time I would ever be able to see him on his birthday.

He was basically paralyzed in October of 2010. On October 10, 2010, I visited him in his nursing home. There was no gift to buy; there was nothing he could do anymore. ALS had melted his nervous system, and he just asked me to scratch his face and his arms. He still itched and felt uncomfortable, but there was nothing he could do about it. Isn’t that just terrible? Every time I stopped for a moment to rest, he’d cry, “Please don’t stop.” I spent the day talking to him and scratching him. It is probably the saddest yet most rewarding birthday I ever spent with him. And the last.

Today we had a midterm break, one day off from the college. So I devoted my day to revising the novel I wrote this past summer. It’s been over a month since I looked at it. What a much needed break that was! Today, fully refreshed, I started re-writing. It has a new title, more development of characters, a brand new prologue, and a new sense of direction. The meat of the story is still all there, but I’ve cut a lot of the fat out of the story and added some much needed seasoning. Of course, this process is going to take several weeks, but I’m hoping to have one day a week to spend with the story, and I have a new goal of having a full revision completed by January 1.

I envy those who can write a perfect story the first or even second time around. This will be my third major revision, but the first one after such a long break from the book. I’m very excited about what it is becoming.

And of course, all of the influences and happenings that occurred this month: You’ll see that they have made some kind of impact on the story. I’m not saying Hulk Hogan is a character, but there is nostalgia and a love of past heroes. And there is death and tragedy, but also escape and hope.

Thanks for being with me on this journey, friends. 

The Rapist in the Neighborhood

Have you felt someone watching you?

Have you heard a noise in the house and have been convinced someone is there?

Have searched for an intruder with a baseball bat/butcher knife/gun in hand?

Have you walked around the outside of your home at two in the morning, certain that someone is hiding in the bushes?

Fear captivates us all.

When I was a child, we lived near a convicted rapist. This is no joke, but this is before the time of sex offender websites. (Have you explored those and found the creeps in your neighborhood? It’s frightening.)

But our rapist did not keep to himself. He enjoyed the attention. He had a large tree in his front yard, a trunk as wide as a car, leaves like a cloud that hid his window.

He knew the neighbors knew about him. He knew the neighbors were terrified of him.

My grandmother was convinced he was out for her. In her 60s at that time, she cried at night, “He’s gonna get me! I just know it!” I laughed and replied, “Grandma, I doubt he wants those 60 year old chicken legs.” She frowned at me and locked her door.

Then the most interesting thing happened in our neighborhood. He used large, white adhesive tape and wrote a letter on the car-sized trunk of his tree each day. The first letter was “I.”

“What does it mean?” the neighbors asked.

The next day he wrote the letter “A.”

We held our breath and waited for the next day. The new letter was “M.”

“I am… I am what?” the neighbors wondered.

Then he followed a 14 year old girl home from the park. My friends and I spent an evening planning a battle.

“What should we do?” I asked my older, wiser neighbor friend. He was 16.

“Eggs,” he said with confidence. “Eggs.”

The next day, with that obnoxiously large white tape, he put up the letter “W.” We responded by tossing eggs at his front door and windows, laughing at these adult fears with a childlike naivety.

His message continued, one letter each day. After “W” came “A.” Then “T.” Then “C.” And then “H.” Next was “I.” Then “N.” And “G.” And then “Y and O and U.”

“I AM WATCHING YOU,” my grandmother read, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist. But he wasn’t done.

On the next day after the message was complete, he used the white tape to construct a smiley face. That was the last thing he wrote on his tree.

“I AM WATCHING YOU :)”

The older boys in the neighborhood had more than enough. They moved from eggs to baseball bats, and in one crazy night, they took the bats to his door, to his car, and to his windows. They bashed in the door, shattered the glass windows all along the front and sides of his house, and turned his cheap car into a nothing more than an incredibly dented piece of metal.

He called the cops on those kids, as I watched from the sidelines. I don’t know what happened to those brave and obnoxious teens. I was forced to go inside by my parents.

Later that summer, we read an article in the local paper about this man. He was arrested, thankfully, once again. He was caught by a police officer masturbating in a park while watching children. I had never been so disgusted in my young life.

This is one of the creepiest memories from my childhood at home, and I think he’d make a great villain in one of my stories. It took place in the early 90s, before the time of cell phones and internet. It was one of the last years before we could search online for predators. We lived in fear and ignorance. We had to read the paper each day for updates, as nothing was instant. And no one could post photos of the letters he put up on his tree each day to publicly condemn his behavior.

My grandmother really did think she would be attacked. This pervert really did stalk a 14 year old girl. We really did egg his house, and several older boys really did violently destroy much of his property. And they were punished while he smiled with his letters on his tree, that is until he was caught doing a disgusting public act near children.

He will be a villain in one my stories. He will do terrible things. And he will be punished for it.

Strippers and Summer

Like you, I have so many incredible childhood stories and adventures. I enjoy remembering them and reflecting on that time in my life. The following is a true story, but I made some changes to my friends' names. This is one of many such adventures, and I certainly hope to share more.

I grew up in a well-kept, middle class neighborhood, but I lived in a house surrounded by a strange combination of lifestyles.  Next door to me was a boy’s dream: a house rented by three women who worked as adult entertainers for local strip club.  I kid you not.  They moved in as I moved through puberty, and my friends and I hoped each and every day that we’d catch them in a spontaneous performance in their living room.

                Across the street from the ladies’ house and my house was an Apostolic Christian church, neighbored by Apostolic Christians who took care of the church and its property.  If that wasn’t the epitome of lifestyle juxtaposition, one only had to look to the neighbors on the other side of my house for more culture.  There lived my two best friends as a child, Ronnie and Danny, who were raised by their gay dad and his partner.  Strippers, Apostolic Christians, and gay parents: I could not imagine having more culture as a child.

                “Chris!” Danny yelled as I walked over to his house.  “Did you hear the bad news?”

                “Yeah,” I answered, frowning.

                “I can’t believe they’re leaving.  This sucks!”

                “We have one week left.  We need a plan.”

                “I already have supplies!” Ronnie said as he pulled three dynamite long smoke bombs from his pocket.  “Tonight, we use these babies!”

                It was the first day of summer, and to our profound disappointment, word on the street was that our stripper neighbors were moving.  We had looked forward to the summer all year long.  Hot days and hot nights would mean even fewer clothes for our salacious neighbors.  We had been trying to catch glimpses of them by peeping into the windows late at night.  During one Saturday night party, we heard music and laughter.  We went to the windows and the girls were dancing, but we ran away laughing when a man in the party dropped his pants and blocked our view from the window with his ass. 

                Danny’s brother, Ronnie, came outside to meet us.  “Danny and I have a battle plan,” he said.  “We wait until night and we light these smoke bombs under the windows at their house.  Then we’ll hide by the bushes in your yard and wait for them to run outside naked!” Ronnie giggled as he said the word in his best villain voice. 

                “What makes you think they’ll be naked?” I asked.

                “We’ll wait till it’s late,” Ronnie said.

                I nodded and smiled in agreement, as if it was the most logical thing possible. 

                We passed the time playing basketball in my driveway.  Danny, as usual, won our little street game.  He was the athletic one, two years younger than me and Ronnie, but muscular and toned.  His blonde hair moved with the wind, and his blue eyes focused intensely on the ball.  At 11 years old, Danny may have been the youngest of the three of us, but we admired his athleticism.  Ronnie, on the other hand, was the scrawny, non-athletic brother.  A year older than Dan, Ronnie had dark black hair, dark as a raven, and a pale complexion.  He was the worst of us at any sport, but he had a contagious laugh and honest humility that made us fall in love with him.  I was the oldest of the three, a proud 13 year old and it was my first summer as a teenager. The brothers looked at me with awe as the wiser, more experienced member of our trio.

                Finally the sun set and we met together in my backyard to finalize our plans.

                “You take this to the kitchen window,” Ronnie said as he handed me the smoke bomb.  “I’ll put one by the front window, and Dan you put one by the window on the other side of the house.  Once we start walking over there, we each count to ten-Mississippi.  On ten, we light and run like hell to these bushes.  I even brought a camera!”

                “Awesome!” My heart was racing and my arms were shaking.  We stood up slowly and made our way to the edge of my yard.  Ronnie looked at us intently and carefully.  “Ready?” He paused and took a deep breath and then said, “go!”

                We ran, smiling, scared, and excited all at once.  I found the kitchen window and placed the smoke bomb below it.  I wasn’t sure if I was counting right.  As I reached four-Mississippi, I thought I was going too fast.  Then I thought I was counting too slow, but at ten-Mississippi, I lit the smoke bomb and ran to the bushes.

                Within seconds we were huddled by the tall, wide bushes that lined my front yard.  We grabbed onto each others’ arms and shoulders, trying not to laugh, but full of the excitement of youth and adventure.  The smoke bombs were overwhelming.  These weren’t the cheap kind that lasted a few seconds.  These dynamite long sticks poured out a fountain of thick smoke that lasted at least a minute if not two.  To our surprise, all three women ran out of the house screaming and waving their arms.

                “Is there a fire?” one asked.

                “What the hell is going?” asked another.

                Unfortunately, they were fully clothed, but their reactions forced out our laughter and we could hold back no longer.  We laughed as loud as we had ever laughed before.

                “It’s those fuckin’ boys,” one of the girls yelled pointing at the laughing bushes.

                “Oh shit,” Ronnie laughed.  “Let’s go!”

                We ran in the opposite direction, past my friends’ house, down to the end of the street.  We ran down to another block and then hid in an alley between the two.  We were still laughing as we panted from the sprint.  Our arms interlocked in a little circle as we leaned on each other while we caught our breath.

                “That was awesome!” Danny cheered.  “Let’s do it again!”

                And so began our first day of summer.

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Rediscovering Childhood

I love how big the world is from a child’s eyes and how simple adventures can create the greatest memories. This summer I unlocked a secret to my childhood, a mystery that I had tried to discover for years. I’d like to write about that and tell you the secret that unraveled my little mystery.

I’m not sure if I can trust my memory, especially from adventures that happened nearly 25 years ago, but I will do my best.

The cemetery was the size of a planet, full of undiscovered territory for a 12 year old. We were forbidden to ride or walk through it. Not long ago, a dead body had been found in the all-encompassing woods that surrounded the endless paths of tombstones. This is no joke. Someone was murdered and her dead body was dumped in a ditch. Naturally, our parents forbid us to explore the cemetery. Naturally, our curiosity was far greater than our obedience.

Hopping on a BMX, I rode on a dirt path behind some side streets near the entrance of the cemetery. We had discovered paths for dirt bikes, and one of these paths led into the rear of the cemetery. We had to travel through wooded paths and cross a creek that often flooded when it rained heavily.

Once we were in the cemetery, the endless winding roads were a childhood explorer’s dreams. We flew down hills at life-threatening speeds and walked our bikes up the roads too steep to climb. There were mausoleums and a dilapidated caretaker’s house. We explored all of these, losing ourselves in time and space. There were creepy stairways hidden in the woods that connected the high grounds to the low. The steps were too broken and staggered to bike through, and so we walked with a giant stick to knock down the numerous spider webs from our way.

There was even a witch’s circle, a circular area that housed many graves from the same family, including small children and infants. The rumor was that they were all burned many years ago having allegedly been practitioners of witchcraft.

Deer and wild turkey vultures roamed freely, and on occasion, no joke here either, we even saw a black cat.

This was the setting of legends and adventures for much of my childhood, and there are a dozen stories to tell. We witnessed drug abuse, were chased by security guards, believed we were hunted by a murderer who left large grave hooks on a path to torment us, had a frightening experience with a Ouija board we used at night in the cemetery, and of course, there was the hidden railroad and the secret lake.

All of this minutes from my backyard.

On one adventure of many, we biked through the cemetery and managed to get lost. That summer we had watched what would become one of our favorite childhood movies, Stand By Me, and we felt like we were living the film. It wasn’t long after the murdered body had been discovered in our cemetery, and so my gang of friends and I set off on a journey to find other victims, curious if anyone else had been ditched in the woods behind the seemingly infinite grave-yard.

That’s when we found the railroad tracks. Surprised, we walked our bikes along a railroad that had to have been just minutes from our backyard, but we never knew of a train so close. Following the railroad, we discovered a hidden lake and a dozen other kids swimming and beating the heat of the summer time.

“Hey,” one of the kids yelled. “Come on in! It feels great!”

We looked around. “Where the hell are we?” I asked my best friend.

“No idea,” he responded. “But that does look fun. C’mon!”

We took off our shirts and shoes and jumped in the water. We dunked each other, raced with the other kids, and laughed harder than I can ever remember. There were no adults around. It was as if we had found our own secret garden of childhood.

Losing track of time, we swam and splashed until sunset when my friend said, “Shit, Joe. We better get home. Our parents are gonna be furious.” We must have left our houses around mid-afternoon. It had been at least five or six hours since we had checked in, and in a time before cell-phones, we were expected to pop in and at least yell at one of our parents so they knew where we were.

But of course, finding our way back would be tricky. We ended up going the wrong way and found ourselves under a massive highway bridge near the river. We were severely late, but this was too cool of discovery not to explore.

We crawled up the huge cement foundation of the bridge and were actually under it. Cars moved overhead, and the vibrations of the vehicles driving over the bridge are still noises I associate with childhood today.

We found the main road connected to the bridge and from there made our way back home. Before getting reprimanded by our parents, we swore we’d return. Every day if we could that summer. We’d bike through the cemetery, hike the railroad, swim in the hidden lake, and play under the bridge.

It was a magical summer, perhaps one of the most adventurous summers of my childhood. If I ever write a story about kids and adventures, there is no doubt in my mind that the secret lake, the hidden railroad, the infinite cemetery, and the ubiquitous surrounding woods would play a central role. I think that’d be a great story.

Of course, part of the beauty of childhood is that we don’t necessarily recognize the things we do as magical until we reflect back on them as adults. My childhood friends moved away, security was tightened around the cemetery, and I never went back there again after that summer.

Until almost 20 years later, when I was on a mission to find this secret garden of my youth. I printed maps, walked every inch of the cemetery, crossed off every section, walked to the bridge, looked around, and found absolutely nothing.

For years, I thought my memory had tricked me. Had I made all of this up?

And then this last spring I got a bike. And that was the secret. I didn’t need maps and an adult’s eyes. I needed a bike and a carefree sense to explore. One day I went off the beaten path into an area with a “no trespassing” sign. I found my railroad tracks. Although the tracks were no longer present, the indentation of the path was still visible. I also found my “lake,” although it’s really no bigger than a watering hole, and it doesn’t look like anything anyone should swim in. But again, that’s probably the beauty of child’s eyes. We didn’t care what it looked like. It was our secret, our special place.

And if you’d like, I can take you there. Perhaps I’ll take you there in a story. That story of childhood adventure is still developing in my mind. But I’d love to show you the witch’s circle, have you by my side as we ducked and hid from security, and let you feel the adrenaline that shot through our veins when we were convinced a madman was chasing us through the woods.

On a less fictional note, I can also take you there on a nice afternoon. We’ll take a walk and talk about adventure, childhood, and nostalgia. But I’d prefer to be on a bike. I’ve shown a few friends these secrets in person. To them, it’s pretty cool. But they never got to see it as a child, when the world was larger, when mysteries were unsolved, and when finding secret places in nature known only to a few special kids was the coolest thing that could have ever happened.

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Walking Satan's Path

I love the Harry Potter books. I have no problem in confessing that I am a total nerd, but that shouldn’t be a defense in loving those stories. They are perhaps the most imaginative stories written in my lifetime if not of all time. To not had read the Harry Potter books: well that would be like never seeing a sunrise or the ocean. You’re missing out on one of the greatest things in life: the power of imagination.

When the last book came out, I bought it at midnight and stayed up until sunrise reading. I fell asleep for a couple hours and had nightmares of Voldemort. I texted my best friend my worries and fears as of course she was reading it that night too. I woke up and did nothing else that day until I finished the book. I can only dream of writing something someday that has such power and inspiration.

During my first year of teaching, I had one of my most challenging and rewarding classes. I was assigned a reading class of ten of the lowest level readers in the freshman class. My job was to improve their reading scores. When I reflected on how to do that, the first and most important task, I thought, was to help them learn to love reading. Students have low reading scores because they don’t read. And those who don’t read don’t like reading. Simple, right?

So I thought of the one book that could help them love reading: the first Harry Potter. For nine of the students, I think it was a roaring success. They aced my tests, and they loved the story.

But when the book was assigned, one student’s parents visited me after school, and I will never forget what they told me.

They introduced themselves and then said, “Do you know you are walking in the path of Satan by reading this book? Do you know you are encouraging students to walk Satan’s path by having them read it?”

I laughed. This had to be some kind of joke, right? But they didn’t laugh back.

“A fiction story that plays with magic is akin to worshiping the devil,” they said.

“Have you read the book?” I asked.

“No,” they answered. Of course not, I thought.

“Well, if you had read the book, you would know that the magic is what we call fiction or make-believe. It is not real. Furthermore, the books deal with the themes that I think all students should be exposed to: friendship, good over evil, self-discipline in learning, overcoming fear, teamwork, bravery, love of family, love of learning, and so much more!” I told them.

They stared at me. I could see in their eyes that I must be the anti-Christ.

“We will not allow our child to read this book,” they said.

No wonder your kid has low level reading scores, I thought. You stifle the imagination.

Naturally, I had to provide an alternate book. Something boring and old and without magic.

I think of this story many times when I’m teaching today. I think creativity and imagination are the most important elements in the classroom. And a little magic and make-believe can do wonders for the imagination.

Sure, these parents are a minority, members of a specific religious sect that see the devil everywhere. He’s on the back of your cereal boxes and on the television and in your video games.

Evil, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. I have a fantasy that this child snuck a copy of Harry Potter and hid it under her bed like a teenage boy would hide a copy of Playboy. I hope she read it late at night, under the covers with a flashlight while her parents slept and dreamed of devils. Wouldn’t that be a nice ending to the story?

I can’t imagine any writer not reading and re-reading the Harry Potter stories over and over. Imagination is the soul of life and the seed of creativity. If that’s walking on Satan’s path, then let me hold his hand because it’s a wonderful journey not to be missed.

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Power

               The person who invades your dreams has extreme power.

                In sleep, we are most vulnerable.

                You came to me last night in my dreams.

                (How many times is it now?)
                Arms open.

                Crawling in my bed.

                I rolled, to make it easier for you.

                And then you kissed me.

                Divine.

                You stroked my body.

                Hand gliding down my chest.

                Making my back curl like a gymnast.

                You grabbed me.

                Put me inside you.

                I was in nothing less than heaven.

                But as we all must do,

                I woke up.

                And I lost you.

                Again.

                (How many times is it now?)

                I roll over to an empty bed,

                And I long for one person.

                The one I will never have.

                The one who controls my dreams.

                The one with the power.

                The one who controls me.

- Written summer of 2004

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The answer

When you didn't come home,

When you didn't call,

When you avoided me and didn't make the time,

We discovered the truth.

By avoiding the question,

It becomes obvious

That the least desired answer

Is the right one.

-- Spring 2004

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Blind Man Walking

For weeks, I could see the brain of my toilet.
The chain had broken, and I had to reach into the fluid to flush.
After a couple of days, this didn't seem weird at all.
Funny the things we can get used to.
Go without cable for a month and you realize you don't need it.
Live alone for a year, and you know you can survive without others.
Raised on specific religious and political beliefs, and you'll never think you're wrong.
Maybe we are robots.
Conditioned and programmed and not unique at all.
Do you have the brains of a toilet?
Is someone pulling your chain?
Do you walk on paths paved only by others?

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Lazy inspiration

I'd like to sit and think.
To do nothing.
Boredom is for lazy fools.
Give me boredom.
Give me time to write some bad poetry.
But there's always something we have to do.
Freedom is not free.
Sometimes I want to be the moon.
Far away from this world,
Visible only in darkness
To romantic star-searchers
And deep thinkers.
It's the object of desire
And inspiration.
And it's never called upon
To do anything.

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The Joy of Writing

The novel consumed me,
A plethora of vultures
Attacking a corpse in the desert.
The novel was my child.
Pleasure and pain,
A thorn on a rose.
The novel fucked me.
Abusing my body,
It erased my mind.
The novel was a third shift waitress,
High on heroin,
At a cheap street corner dive.
The novel was me.
A clone, a brother,
Conscious and subconscious.
It was the sun behind the night.
And it was blinding.

- Written in the winter of 2003

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On writing, and a re-introduction to the blogosphere

I’ve had several journeys with blogging. My first attempt was a blog devoted to politics, and I’m still surprised at the number of views the blog received and the number of real friends I made (and lost) due to those discussions. While I’m still politically active and always open to a good face to face discussion, I deleted the political blogs. I was tired of fighting, tired of ignorance. There are only so many bigoted people in the world that I can deal with at one time. So I focused my energy on my other life passions.

And I do have several. Teaching is #1. I’ve been a teacher for 14 years now, 10 of those at the high school level where I taught all sorts of English classes, from American literature to creative writing and everything you can imagine in between. Now I teach communication classes at the college level, an intro to comm class, public speaking, intercultural communication, comm theory, and more. It’s fantastic.

My #2 passion is tied between fitness and martial arts. I started training in the martial arts over 20 years ago, and I’ve created and taught a variety of programs. I currently host a karate club at the college where I teach. Fitness to me is like breathing—I have to have it every day. After taking dozens of classes and doing home DVD programs, I became certified in a few programs and teach 4-5 group fitness classes each week. Those are also fantastic.

It’s not fair to say my #3 passion is writing. I can’t give it a number. You see, I enjoy reflecting and writing on my passions, so writing is like the skin that holds all those passions together. Without my ability to write, I’m not sure those passions would fully exist. So let’s just say that writing is also a huge passion.

This summer, I finished writing a novel and am in the process of sending out queries and looking for an agent. I’ve written a lot before: other novels, short stories, poems, news articles, theses, and more. I’ve published many articles in magazines (and got paid for it, yeah!), but I’ve never tried to publish fiction. Even though I’ve completed works of fiction before, I never thought they were good enough for mass publication.

Until now.

 I’m fired up, and since finishing a book this summer, actually letting friends read it, and revising, revising, revising, I’m ready to add “author” to my resume. I’ve outlined 3 more books, and hope to write a couple a year. I’m an optimistic person, a go-getter, no doubt. I don’t mean to be arrogant, but I’ve always believed passion and persistence pay off. Of course, one needs patience too. The longer I wait to hear back from my queries (and I’ve only sent a few so far, and only just last week), the more I think about the kind of author I want to be. I’ll keep re-reading and revising my current book as long as I need to do so, and I’ll keep writing other stories until I find an audience.

So that’s why I’m returning to the blogosphere. I’m going to share my writing journey and hope to connect with others who have similar goals and experiences. I’m going to share some writing, much of it old and terrible (can’t share the new stuff yet!). I don’t want to self-publish. Call me greedy, but I want to see that printed book with my name on the side at my local bookstore. That’d be cool!

If you browse through older posts, you’ll likely see a lot about fitness and some about teaching. Hey, like I said, those are my big passions and I have to write about them, even if most of what I have written is personal and has not been shared yet.

I’m going to try and share a lot more. I’m going to try and read a lot more too. So blogosphere—who’s writing and trying to publish? And how’s that going?

Since this is a blog of re-introduction, I’d like to include a little informal bio below. Check it out if you’re curious about my background. Ignore if not, and that’s ok—I’d still like to hear about your writing journey.

-          I graduated from Illinois Central College in 1999 with an Associates of Arts & Sciences (this is where I now teach!). From ICC, I transferred to Eureka College and graduated in 2001 with a Bachelor’s degree in English and a secondary education certification (summa cum laude).

-          I started my teaching career at Metamora High School where I taught high school students for ten years, from 2001-2010.

 -        While at the high school, I pursued more education and graduated from Bradley University in 2008 with a Master’s degree in Liberal Studies, a very cool program that combined science, psychology, literature, law, communication, and religion—it was like an advanced gen ed program but you had to connect all of the subjects.

-          After that (something was wrong with me, I know), I went for a second master’s degree. In May 2011, I earned a another Master’s degree specifically in Speech Communication from North Dakota State University

-          I have studied abroad in Tokyo, Japan at Sophia University, and I STRONGLY believe no college education is complete without a study abroad experience.

-          I’m now beginning my 14^th year as a full-time educator. I’ve taught dozens of subjects including English, American literature, journalism, creative writing, and so much more! This is my 4^th year as a full-time professor at ICC.

-          You can’t teach public speaking and not do it, right? I love inspirational events, and I have been hired as a motivational speaker, performing at all-school assemblies and special events for multiple central Illinois schools and organizations.

-          I’ve won a few awards for teaching, which of course is cool but I have a lot more I want to accomplish. My first award was the Golden Apple Award in 2001 for the best student-teacher from my college; thirteen years later, I won Advisor of the Year for 2013-14 for my work with student organizations at my college.  

-          I also love fitness! I am a certified Turbo Kick instructor and P90X Instructor, and I teach about 4-5 fitness classes a week just for fun at our very own ICC CougarPlex.

-          I started the Cougar Karate Club last year on campus, a free martial arts club our students. I’m also a martial artist. I’ve earned a 4^th degree black belt in karate, and I enjoy sharing that passion too.

-          I run a college food pantry and am always shocked at the number of people who need help. It’s a great joy to provide that help.

-          This last May, I completed the Master of Online Teaching program and am now an official Master Online Teacher. I prefer face to face classes, but I also take pride in improving the online environment. Teaching and learning online is inevitable in today’s world, so I’ve tried to learn more and make it better!

-          And like most of you I’m sure, I cherish my family and friends (and I’d include pets in that statement too—2 dogs and 3 cats make my small home a big zoo some days!) above pretty much anything else.

-          And of course my next big goal is to be a published and successful fiction writer! (And maybe some more non-fiction and memoir too!)

If you’ve read this far, you must be a good friend. Or my grandmother. Or just a really cool dude. Thanks.

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