And So It Begins…

I know what you're saying: "Not another dog story!"

    And honestly, I don't blame you. There are several dog books on any given shelf of your local book store (and even more in the big, commercial book stores), so what, you may ask, makes this story so different? Not a lot. I don't like lying, so I'm not going to sit here and blow smoke at you. Although, I did say "not a lot"…not "nothing at all."

    The one thing that sets this story apart is that it follows the ups and downs of my hunting dog; a black lab by the name of Strider, and as far as I know, there aren't many about one hunting dog.

Strider has his own story to tell, and since he can't tell it himself (even though he'd be much funnier about it than I will), I will tell it for him.

 

Strider's story begins about three years before he was even born. I was twenty-two years old, and had moved back home in a college transfer from Limestone College in South Carolina to Wesley College in Delaware the previous year.

    I was dating a girl named Colleen…we had been together for a couple of years at the time, and we had discussed the idea of getting a dog together. Growing up with big dogs, my first choice was a Labrador Retriever. This also served another purpose; I have been an avid hunter since the age of thirteen, and had always wanted a hunting dog.

    I don't remember what her first choice was, but it didn't matter…this was one fight I was NOT going to lose. Actually, now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure it's the only fight I didn't lose over the course of our relationship. Anyway, we put some feelers out to a few different breeders, just to see what we could find. We took all the proper precautions in studying pedigrees, trying to avoid the usual health defects that tend to effect labs such as hip and elbow dysplasia and eye problems.

    As luck would have it, she had an uncle named Jimmy who lived in Alaska and was very big not only into hunting, but into retriever games, as well. He made a yearly trek across the country; just him, his truck, and his Chesapeake Bay Retriever, Tundra.

    Tundra was an amazing dog. Even now, every dog I watch or train has to live up to him. The Chesapeake Bay Retriever is, in my opinion, pound for pound, the best hunting dog on the planet. If you tell a Chessie to run through a brick wall to get to a bird, he'll lower that hard-ass head of his and leave nothing but a hole in the shape of a big, furry dog in it. They come in three accepted colors: brown, sedge, and dead grass. Tundra was a dead grass color, which in his case meant that he was a tan color that blended in with marsh grass perfectly, and it also meant that he single-handedly cemented that color as my favorite among Chesapeakes.

    Jimmy arrived in northern Delaware and asked me if I would like to go and help him train Tundra. Of course I accepted, and we were off to the Summit Retriever Training Area at the C&D Canal, which is a piece of public land that had once been a dump, but had been turned into an area specifically designed for the training of hunting and trialing retrievers.

    We drove to one of the technical training ponds on the grounds, and placed the dog on one of the humps that had been built to help people train and handle their dogs with greater ease. Jimmy threw a bumper for him to the front into the water at about 100 yards, a bumper to the left into another small pond at about 150 yards, and had me throw a bumper to the dog's short right at about 50 yards. Before we set that up, he had planted an orange bumper as a blind retrieve on the opposite bank of the large pond that I had thrown a bumper into. Jimmy walked up to the dog and lined him up for the left bumper in the small pond. Placing a hand over the dog's head, as if he were aiming him, I heard him yell, "TUNDRA!"

    I tell you, that dog took off like he had a firecracker up his rear end. I'd never seen anything like it, even though I had hunted over some decent dogs in my life. There was something different about him. This wasn't something that he just did for fun (although it was very evident that he was thoroughly enjoying himself), it was his job…and he did it harder and better than any job I could remember myself or anybody else ever doing. Tundra knew his duty and his role and executed it to, what seemed to me, perfection.

He picked up that first bumper with no problem and brought it straight back, coming to a sitting heel position with the bumper still in his mouth, waiting for his master to take it from him. Jimmy lined him for the other two in the exact same way; bringing him to a standing heel position facing the mark that he wanted the dog to retrieve, lowering a hand over his head and saying, "TUNDRA!"

    He then did something that absolutely blew my mind. The orange bumper that Jimmy had planted on the opposite bank was visible to us, even at the distance that I would estimate now to be about 150 yards, but to the canine eye (which can't see bright orange in the same way that humans can), it was completely invisible. He very deliberately lined the dog up for it, and I remember him saying "dead bird," at which time Tundra's body completely locked up and was aimed right at that bumper. Again, Jimmy lowered a hand over the dog's head, but this time said, "BACK!"

    Tundra ran toward the water and entered with a giant leap forward, as Chessies tend to do, and began swimming across the pond. When he began to veer off line, Jimmy suddenly blew a whistle (a regular coach's whistle that had a big horn on the end of it) in one long tone, to which Tundra turned in the water and looked at his handler. Jimmy put a right hand in the air over his head and said, "BACK!" The dog turned back to his left and began swimming toward the bumper again. A few seconds later, he was again off line, and Jimmy blew the whistle. When Tundra turned and looked for direction, Jimmy put his left hand out to his side and said, "OVER!" This time, the dog began swimming straight to his own right. Once he was on the line for the bumper, Jimmy once again stopped him with a long whistle and gave him another "BACK!"

    He nailed it. He ran up on the bank of the pond, picked up the bumper, and leapt back in the water, swimming back toward Jimmy and me.

    That was it…I had to have one of these dogs. I didn't care what it took, how many books and videos I had to watch, or how many hours I had to spend, I was going to own a highly trained hunting dog. Thanks for the show, Tundra! Rest in peace, buddy.

    Colleen and I set back to finding a Lab, and after a little bit of research, we found out that there are actually two types of Labradors; English and American. Essentially, the short, stocky, square-headed Labs that you see are of the English variety, and tend to be calmer and more deliberate than their American counterparts. The American Lab is taller and leaner with a long head, and is built for speed. They tend to be much higher energy and have a lot of stamina. There are, of course, plenty of exceptions to both of these standards when it comes to the nature of the dogs, but when you're talking strictly in general terms, this is what owners of English and American Labs are looking for.

    We both agreed that for our first dog, we should go with the lower energy English Labrador and settled on a fantastic breeder from York, PA. The kennel was called Ivy Spring Labradors, and was run by a very nice woman named Gail (FYI, they are still in business). After a few emails and many answered questions, which is how it goes with every responsible breeder, she agreed to sell us a puppy out of the chocolate litter that was on the way.

    I grew up with a yellow lab/golden retriever mix named Gus, who was the same age as me and died when he was fifteen. That dog meant more to me than anything in the world, and I was completely devastated when we had to put him down. Our whole family fell into a collective depression at his passing, and every dog I will ever own will be compared to him. He was, quite literally, the perfect dog. Naturally, I wanted a yellow lab, but since I had won on the breed argument, I had to make a concession on the color and we went with chocolate.

    Colleen and I may not have worked as a couple, but one thing we did get right was our dog, who we named "Maui." We brought her home when she was seven weeks old, and she was quite possibly the easiest puppy I've ever seen. She slept for 18 hours a day, and only had a few nights of bad crying in her kennel. Being inexperienced dog owners, we thought that the amount that she slept was not healthy, and I'm pretty sure we single-handedly kept our vet's office in business for those first couple of months with all of the visits that we made.

    Maui didn't turn out to be the competition dog that I wanted, but she was one hell of a hunting dog. She was so relaxed and laid back that it was hard to get her excited to train, and she was almost two before a light finally came on and she really loved to hunt. It was more my fault than hers; I missed so many things in her training that I ended up hindering her from reaching her full potential.

    For example, I remember the first time I took her hunting. Every year, I take my dogs dove hunting for the first hunt. This is because dove hunting—especially early season dove hunting—tends to have much more action than your average duck or goose hunt. The birds are more plentiful, people are yelling and cheering, there's more gunfire than usual, and all these things mixed together make for an environment that is completely unbearable for a young dog. Some people like to ease their dogs into stressful hunting situations, but for me, I want to get the early season jitters and bad behavior out of the way as soon as possible.

    She was a year old, and I took her to my uncle's farm in Laurel, DE; just the two of us. It was a beautiful day and the birds were flying. After about a half hour, the first of them came into shooting range. I raised my gun, pulled the trigger, and watched as the first bird of the season fell about 20 yards in front of me. I looked to my side to release Maui for it, as she was trained to stay sitting through the gunshot and retrieve on command, only to discover that she wasn't there. Looking behind me, I saw her running at full speed in the opposite direction, her tail tucked firmly between her legs. The shot of the gun had scared her to the point of running away in fear, and I found her hiding underneath the truck, shaking and whining uncontrollably…she wouldn't come out until I had put my gun away. With all of the time I had put into trying to make her bird crazy and making her robotically obedient, I had skipped one of the most vital steps in gun-dog training, which is proper introduction to gunfire. It was a classic example of an owner not knowing what the hell he was doing, and damaging the dog's performance as a result.

    After another year of training and de-sensitizing her to the gun, I took her hunting again, and she did beautifully. She absolutely loved it, and I never went out without her again.

Well, that's not exactly true. There was one morning when she was three and we woke up for an early morning duck hunt. It was 4:30 in the morning, 28 degrees (which is cold for Delaware), wind blowing 25 mph, and snowing; perfect duck hunting weather. Needless to say, I was very excited about the morning's prospects, but I couldn't say the same for Maui. She literally put one paw out the door, turned and sprinted back into her warm kennel. I'm not kidding…she was moving so fast that her feet couldn't even grip the hardwood floor, almost making her run in place. While she did turn into a very good hunting dog, she was a bit of a diva when it came to harsh weather.     

    It didn't matter, though. She was an amazing dog, plain and simple, and she left an impression on me that I will carry for the rest of my life. Until I'm old and in a nursing home, I will always have a loyal retriever by my side. There will never be a point in my life when I won't have a dog lounging around the house again. Without Maui, I'm not so sure I would be so adamant about needing a retriever in my life.

As you can probably guess, Colleen and I didn't work out. When we got Maui, we made an agreement that if anything happened between the two of us that she would stay with Colleen. Of course, I didn't think that we were ever going to break up, and when we did, I not only lost a girlfriend that I had been with for 5 years, but I also lost my baby girl. Make no mistake, Maui was nothing less than a daughter to me, and I was completely crushed by the entire thing. We broke up in the summer of 2007, and I may have hunted five times over that time of September through February. It just wasn't the same without Maui sitting next to me, nudging my arm on the slow days for a scratch behind the ear, or the way she knew that the ducks were coming way before I ever did. We would be sitting in the duck blind, and I would see her turn her head and freeze, looking off in the distance. Without fail, a group of ducks would appear in a matter of seconds; she could hear the whistling that their wings make before she could see them.

    I think that's what I missed the most about her. Even though I was the world's worst trainer when it came to hunting dogs, she was able to make up for it with her intelligence and natural ability. I don't pretend to be a great hunter—in point of fact, I'm a pretty lousy hunter—but she filled the hole created by my inexperience and ignorance. We were a team; a great team. There were even times that I was invited on some great hunts, but only on the condition that I brought Maui with me…she was that good.

    In the midst of my grief, it was my father and sister who suggested that the best thing for me to do was to get another puppy as soon as I could. After two months of grieving and drinking myself into a perpetual stupor, I began my search for another Lab. On the suggestion of one of my training mentors, I contacted John and Amy Dahl, who are professional hunting dog trainers in North Carolina. They had just whelped a litter of puppies, and the pedigree was one that I couldn't pass up. I did all of my communication with Amy, and she agreed to sell me a black male.

    Some people don't like to name their pups until they've picked them up and brought them home, as to give them a name that best suits their personalities. While there is nothing wrong with that, it's not what I do with my dogs. I had settled on this pup's name weeks ahead of time.

    I wish that I could take full credit for his name, but I can't. My sister, Amy, gave me the idea while helping my other sister, Tammy, name her first puppy. There were many names thrown around, and Tammy decided to go with "Riley." One of the names mentioned was "Strider," which I locked away in my mind for a future dog. At the time, I was still with Colleen, and had no intention of getting another dog any time soon. It was almost a year before I was able to use the name, which I bestowed upon the black Labrador that John and Amy Dahl so generously sold to me.

    Being a literature nerd, I couldn't just let this name go without some reference to The Lord of the Rings in his registered name for the American Kennel Club.
On Tuesday, December 11, 2007, "Shupe's King Aragorn of Dewey" entered my life. I couldn't make it down to North Carolina to pick him out on my own, and it was the middle of winter, so flying him wasn't an option as cargo holds on airplanes aren't heated. I told Amy what I was looking for, and she picked the male that best suited my requirements. I arranged for a guy who was driving down from Pennsylvania to get two pups from the same litter to pick him up and meet me at my sister's house just outside of Washington, DC.

    I'll never forget the first time I laid eyes on him. He was with two of his littermates in a wire kennel in the back of the van, and I got the feeling that he was less excited to meet me than I was to meet him. It's understandable; I had just ripped him away from the only companions that he had ever known. I took the Redskins puppy collar that I had bought for him (HAIL!), complete with a dog tag that had his name etched into it, and put it around his neck.

    With that, he was no longer just a new pup for me…he was Strider. More importantly, he was my Strider. I didn't have to share him with anyone, and I didn't have to worry about losing him to anyone, either. He was mine, and I was going to turn him into the greatest duck dog that this world had ever seen. I was also going to be one of the few amateur trainers who produced a National Field Champion. All those pros in the world wouldn't have anything on Strider and me.

    Needless to say, and as you will come to find out, I was quite naïve, and while it's good to set goals for yourself, setting them so high when it comes to training a dog is going to make for some interesting moments. This is where my life took a turn that I never could have seen coming, and this is where Strider's story begins.

    He is five years old now, and is still making me laugh on a daily basis. I will post different training sessions that we do together, and I will also post old stories as they occur to me. As an aspiring writer, this is a great opportunity for me to exercise my mind and get things written as often as possible. I really hope you enjoy reading about his life as much as I've enjoyed living it with him.

 

Just Winging It...

I know it's been a long time since I posted, but I honestly hit a bit of a rut this spring; not only in my writing, but in my life, as well. As much as I try to fight it, I've found that my personal life has an overwhelming influence on my creativity, and when I hit a rut in the way that I have, my writing is going to suffer for it.

A series of events over the past few weeks has brought me out of that rut, but not necessarily in the way that I expected. I'm not saying that it's bad...just different. What's the old saying? God never closes a door without opening a window.

I hope that holds true.

Strider is asleep at my feet, I just had a long conversation with a friend that I haven't talked to in a while, and I'm heading to Baltimore tonight to hang out with some really cool people. As I take a step back from the insanity that can sometimes define my life, I can say that, despite what I often tell myself, things aren't all bad.

I've spent the past year and a half in a state of mind that you could say was less than healthy. It isn't a matter of seeking medication to cure some sort of chemical imbalance (which is also something that I've been through), but rather an acceptance that will hopefully take me back to the old me, as cliche as that sounds.

My focus on the destination of my life has blinded me from what's important. While achieving a goal is something that we all wish for ourselves, we must not forget what it was that made us set that goal in the first place. There was something about it; something that lit a fire inside of us. It made us light up at the thought of it, and made us think that anything was possible, and that if we wanted it bad enough, it would come to us.

And just when we think we have it figured out, here comes this little thing called reality to bring us back down to earth. How will we pay this bill? Why doesn't this person like me? Why won't this damn house just clean itself? Ah...life.

Maybe it's not the end that counts so much as the way we get there; the things we have to go through before we get whatever it is that we're after. Maybe it's not about the destination, but more about the ride to get to it. Maybe it's about the feeling you get when you look back on what you've done, and knowing that through it all, you never gave up.

Now I'm just winging it. I'm going to step away from the person who is consumed with becoming an author, and going back to the one who just opened his journal or fired up his computer because he just had to write. Let each word, each sentence, each page fall where they may. I can only hope that they will find their way to where they are needed.

-GS

A Brief Reminder…

I did some heavy writing today. When I say heavy, I mean HEAVY…as in 65 pages heavy. And here's the best part: I didn't delete it! I actually liked it!

Words cannot describe my excitement about what I did today. Honestly, for the first time since my breakup with my ex-girlfriend am I completely at a loss for literary words. I'm sitting here, typing this blog, and I can't even put to paper how good it made me feel to really bang out a major part of one of my novels.

Today reminded me of why I write. I once said that writing is like breathing; I literally couldn't survive without it. Now that I've written some major pages—and I don't mean just in numbers, but a HUGE part of the story was put together today—I can say that my breathing has gotten substantially less labored. Some of my closest friends see the stress that becoming a writer puts on me, they see when it drives me to drink, and they sometimes question why I do it.

Well, this is why I do it. Taking a blank page and turning it into my own creation gives me a gratifying feeling that can't be rivaled, and days like today make me feel as if I may just get to my goal.

On another note, I recently learned that an acquaintance of mine (since, as she recently pointed out to me, we're not friends), is also writing a novel, and I just want to go ahead and wish her the best of luck. Good luck, Irene!

Enjoy the Superbowl! Go Pack!!

-GS

Nothing Special, But a Realization, Nonetheless

It's funny how little things can change your perspective on happenings in your life. For example, a couple of days ago I posted a rant about a very blunt rejection to one of my query letters. As a side note, I'm still going to send them letters, just to piss them off because, hey, it's what I do. Sometimes I like to stir the pot and see what concoction comes out, and sometimes it ends up being pretty funny.

But, alas, there are times when it doesn't turn out so funny, such as a situation that arose yesterday on Facebook. First of all, here's the problem with Facebook (as well as emails and texts): as a reader, you almost never know if somebody is joking or not, and as the writer, you can never tell how somebody is going to take something that you write.

As I put in an earlier post, I'm not the biggest fan of people who post sappy things on Facebook, and when a friend of mine posts something of that nature, then I consider it to be open season on them. This is when I'm at my best, which I suppose is sad to say, but whatever. My friend Lauren posted something about meeting "him," and looking forward to getting to know "him" one day. Well, never missing an opportunity to be a smart-ass, I made a post about gagging and throwing up in my mouth a little bit. Not to be outdone, Lauren posted that she would hunt me down and punch me in the face (which is a visual that I found hilarious, and would probably let her do it if someone were to get it on film). I'm pretty sure she wasn't joking.

Here's the thing…I'm smart enough to know that if you stir the pot long enough over high heat, it's eventually going to boil over, which is exactly what happened in this instance. Lauren is not, in any way, being over sensitive about this, because, as she did not fail to mention, the only comments I've left for her have been of the smart-ass variety. So I'll take this time to publicly come out and say that I apologize. Lauren is a brilliant person who could put me under the table in a battle of wits, any day of the week. When it comes to writing, I'm sure she would make me look like a third grader, which is why I'm glad she's chosen a career in education rather than writing (further proof that she's clearly smarter than me). I'm sorry, Lauren! Please don't punch me in the face, unless we arrange it before hand, and there's a camera crew present.

This had led me to be a bit less angry about the 12^th rejection of my novel. Here's why: just because I think something is witty and clever doesn't mean that others are going to, as well. All it means is that the literary world isn't ready for it, or at least those that would publish it aren't ready for it. I think there is some part of me that knew that something like this was possible, and that might be part of the reason for my taking on multiple writing projects (that and the undiagnosed adult ADD that I suffer from).

When it comes to my writing, I'm just going to keep my head down and continue plugging away at it. When the world is ready for my work, then it will be dropped upon the unsuspecting public…may God help them.

However, for those of you who continue to post sappy shit on Facebook, you're not safe. Consider this your warning.

Happy Friday!!

-GS

Here Comes Another One

Yes, you probably guessed it, another rejection letter arrived today…ten minutes ago, to be exact. Not only was this a rejection letter, it was an official request not to send them any more material. Before I paste the entirety of this email on this blog, I should probably give you a little bit of background on it…

For those of you who don't know, the process of being published is long and frustrating, not only because finishing a book is a daunting task, but because there are several steps that need to be taken before your book is actually bound and put on the shelves for all to see. Outside of the obvious, which would be actually writing the book, the first step is to get yourself a literary agent to represent you. These are the people that know the book market better than anyone, and they also know which publishers would be interested in your work, but therein also lies the problem. Before you do anything, you have to actually get an agent to be interested in your work. How is that done? Through query letters.

A query letter is a one page document that not only explains the plot of your manuscript (similar to a blurb on the back of a book), but that also sells you, the unfortunate writer. In this one page, your book has to be mind-blowing to a complete stranger, and you have to have the credentials that warrants this person taking a chance on you. The simple fact of the matter is that if your book doesn't sell, the agent doesn't get paid.

This leads us to the next obstacle in our quest for publication, which is that these agents literally see hundreds of these letters a day. So, the question becomes, "What can I do to make my letter stand out from all the rest?"

The answer is…luck. For every hundred query letters an agent gets, they probably throw half of them out without even looking at them. I don't care how many of them claim to read every letter, I've come to the realization that it's literally impossible. Go ahead, try reading 200 pages of a book in one day and still find time to set up lunch and dinner meetings, conferences and conference calls, set up meetings with your employees, and then still find time to pay your bills. Yeah, how much time do you think you'd have left for say, I don't know, SLEEP?? The point is that the first step in getting an agent to notice you is being lucky enough not to be one of the poor bastards that were just thrown in the trash without being given a chance. Even if you survive the Russian roulette of the literary world, what makes your letter worth asking for a manuscript?

Since I haven't been picked up by any agents, I can honestly say that I don't have a fucking clue.

I've sent this particular agency five query letters, and am leaving their name out for fear of a lawsuit (I'm no lawyer, I have no idea how these things work, but you can get sued for almost anything these days and I'm not taking that chance). They responded to one with the standard "We're sorry, but we are choosing not to read your work at this time…good luck with all your future endeavors…don't let this get you down…" blah blah blah bullshit, and simply didn't reply to any of the others. Clearly, since I thought my story was brilliant, I just hadn't written an effective enough query letter. I sent more because I was so sure that this agency wanted what I had to put out there. Oh, how wrong I was.

Here is the email, in its entirety:

"Mr. Shupard (it should probably be pointed out that in every other letter that I've ever recieved, all I've gotten was a 'Dear Author'),

We have received your query letters, have read them thoroughly, and are requesting that you not send us any further inquiries. We appreciate your efforts, but we will never represent you, and you are taking up valuable time from our reading possibly important pieces for future publication.

Again, thank you for your interest in our agency, but we are not interested in you."

Ouch. Yeah, stab and twist.

Well, you're welcome for my interest, and…oh, what do I want to say right here? Hmm…oh yeah, that's right…GO KILL YOURSELVES.

With that said, "Gin and Tonic" is being put in a drawer…for now. I think 12 rejections for it should give me a good clue that it's just not good enough. Oh well, on to the next one…

-GS

Writing Exercise

I started reading a new book this past weekend called Bird by Bird on the suggestion of a friend of mine (thanks Carrie). It's a self-help book for writers, and it's the first that I've read that has not only kept my interest, but has also given me some very interesting drills and exercises to help with my ever-crippling writer's block. One of them is to write about what you can remember about school lunches, and this is what I came up with (Warning: this is a little longer than most of my posts, and it may contain some errors. Part of the exercise is not to worry about correctness, but rather to ramble onto the page, take one piece of it, and write something else):

 

School Lunch

    I remember when school lunches were both the most relieving and most terrifying things on the face of the planet. It really is hard to write about, as there were so many facets that went into the inner-political web that was elementary school. Honestly, when somebody asks me to recall something about a school lunch, I don't remember all that much about middle or high school (other than the senior table throwing random things at our freshman table…and my lacrosse players wonder why I'm so hard on the freshman nowadays. Bastards). All I can recall is elementary school; specifically, fifth and sixth grades.

You know what I'm talking about. It was that time in everyone's life when they start to notice that not everything revolves around their parents and how much they're getting for Christmas that year (although, a lot did still revolve around the latter at that time). This is when you started noticing the opposite sex, and how it freaked you out that not every girl or boy was so disgusting to you anymore; or when you started wondering how to make that weird smell go away (that happened far later for me, which ended up costing me a BIG price socially); or when the hierarchy of bully vs. victim was starting to shift, because the victims were starting to physically catch up to the bullies (but not for everyone, which we'll cover later). Generally speaking, I think we can all agree that it was a very awkward time.

Let's just start with the basics. Where were you when you heard the dismissal bell and the teacher told the class to get in line to leave for lunch (barring the condition that you had to be in alphabetical order, which did nothing but create utter chaos for the average 11 year old)? Were you in the front, back, or middle of the line? While we, as adults, don't look at this as overly important, as children we saw this time of the day as a strategically critical part of the war involving the social pecking order that had been occurring since we got on the bus that morning (were you in the front or the back of the bus, or were you one of the social royalty who had parents that cared enough to drop you off every day?). And then there was the way you behaved in line. At Rehoboth Elementary, I can remember the generally cool kids being middle-front and causing some sort of harmless ruckus, such as giving his/her friend in front of him a flat tire (where you step on the heel of their shoe) as revenge for beating them to the spot closer to the front of the line. I can remember thinking that these kids enjoyed being popular, but inwardly wished that they got the straight A's that the kids in the front of the line took home.

Personally, I can remember being in the middle-back with all of the other socially awkward children. Those behind me were the kids that everyone laughed at and wished that they could be around all the time for sheer entertainment, but would receive a swift fatherly ass-kicking should they ever be seen in public with them (this from the same people who always try to say that nobody is better than us…but apparently we're better than other people). On the flip side, a beating was in order if one of these kids gave you even the most remote of "hello" or head nods and it wasn't returned with some sort of mutual acknowledgement. Ah, the politics of youth.

Let's move from your place in the lunch line to your actual position in the lunch room, itself. I can't speak for private school lunch rooms, but as a public school kid, I can say that we were generally left to our own decisions on where to sit (until that time in 5^th grade when one kid put another kid's head through a door window for saying something about his mamma…another very serious faux pas in our young world). There were the cool tables, which were a healthy mixture of girls, boys, and races that banded together wherever they would get the most attention from everyone else; there were the nerdy tables, which split themselves up by sex and race, but generally had tables near each other in the middle of the room (thus, closer to authority figures should something go wrong); there were the trouble-makers, who also separated themselves by sex and race and mostly stuck to the corners of the room; and then there were the rest of us. I use "us" intentionally, as this is where I fell in elementary school.

We were the leftovers from those who failed to make a definitive decision about where we belonged as children, and even though we didn't realize it at the time, we made our own sect of the lunch room. Our group consisted mostly of kids who weren't the best looking and were painfully shy of everyone around us. We didn't get the best grades, but we weren't a huge cause for concern for the special education department, either. I've come to this conclusion about myself during the majority of my childhood at this time: I could have done much better in school. I was smart enough to get straight A's, but I was also concerned about where I fit socially. Those two things battling it out in my 11 year old mind was enough to make my confidence wither away like a slug that's been doused with a mountain of salt. I'm not saying this to get any kind of sympathy—as I don't feel that way anymore, I'm well aware of my friends and intelligence, and I genuinely love where I am in my life—but I know that many people could relate to me at that time, and that's what made up our group.

Moving on, there was also the question of the actual lunch. Those kids that brought their own lunch were always met with a sideways glance. Sometimes their lunches would be better than what you got in the lunch line, and sometimes you would feel so sorry for them that you felt the need to give them some of yours.

I can remember very specifically when I was in 6^th grade, I begged my mom to make my lunch for me because I was being picked on in the lunch line. She finally conceded and one morning, she gave me my very own brown bag which she said had my lunch in it. I gave her one of the biggest hugs I can remember giving anybody. When lunchtime came, I opened the bag and was immediately disappointed to find a very humbly made peanut butter and jelly sandwich…not even wrapped. There was nothing else, just the sandwich; no drink, no extra snack (I so envied the kids who got gummy treats in their lunch), and no extra money which with to buy these things from the lunch line. When I pulled the sandwich out and began eating it, my friend Jason asked what else I had gotten in my lunch, to which I didn't even reply…I just put my head down and quietly ate my sandwich. He took the bag from me and looked inside. I fully expected him to make some sort of announcement about my predicament to the table (as was the custom at 6^th grade lunch), drawing many jeers and jokes at my expense, but without saying a word, he just reached in his own bag and gave me his extra juice. My other friend, Brandon, was sitting across from me and noticed what was going on, and he reached in his own bag and very discretely slid a fruit roll-up in my direction. People often say how cruel kids can be (and they can), but it's mostly my friend's various acts of kindness that stick out in my mind from my youth.

But, I've digressed. The lunch line was an adventure that would take an extra twenty or so pages to describe, so I'll refrain from that. Some kids were lucky enough to have parents that would give them a whole $3 dollars so that they could buy double lunch, but most of us just got the standard $2 dollars (it cost $1.50, and who can trust an eleven year old not to let two quarters slip out of his/her pocket?) which bought us the main course, a milk or 2 juices (they were significantly smaller), a fruit cup, and a cookie. The fruit and juice were often used as tools of barter. On almost a daily basis, I would trade with a friend of mine because his mother would constantly pack rice crispy treats in his lunch. This was before the days of individually wrapped treats from Kellogg…these were homemade. Yeah, some kids have it really rough, don't they? He hated marshmallow, so I was always able to trade my chocolate chip cookie for his rice crispy treat. He and I are very good friends to this day.

Some of the nerdy kids would use their fruits and cookies as means of protection (on a side note, those nerdy kids are now some of the coolest people I know and are dating REALLY hot girls…oh, the irony) from the various bullies. This was a vital part of their survival. I attribute it to our situation with Kuwait…we'll give you cheap oil as long as you keep those lunatics from the north out of our hair. Sometimes these items could be used to convince the actual bully not to beat them up, or to hire an even bigger bully to whoop the other bully's ass (this was my favorite tactic). Again, some of the kids that I paid to protect me are still very good friends of mine.

School lunch is something that shapes all of us in ways that we can't even begin to imagine at the time. Even though this was just a writing exercise, it was really fun to look into my past and make something out of it. Excuse me for now, I think I'll write a few chapters of my new book.

Started a New Book

Yes, that's right. I'm just a glutton for punishment.

So this idea just came to me this weekend as I was finishing a book that I was reading. I don't want to give anything away, but I think if I can get to the end of this one, it'll be a good sell. It's a comedy with religious ties to it (comparable to Moore), but make no mistake, it's an original.

On another note, I just spent the weekend in D.C. with my family and had a blast hanging out with my sisters, brothers in law, and baby nephew. We did a lot of drinking, a lot of laughing, and for one of us in particular, a little bit of tumbling.

My brother in law got quite drunk on Friday night (I say that as if I wasn't drunk, as well. We drank a bottle and a half of Maker's Mark between the two of us), and took a fall down six stairs, leaving a faceprint in the drywall at the bottom. I'm not kidding...you could literally see where his forhead, nose and chin hit the wall. I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure he was laughing about half-way down the stairs, because by the time I got there (2 seconds after it happened), he was already in hysterics. He took one look at the wall and said, "Come on, people! That hole was there before, wasn't it??"

Good Times...

-GS

We're All Guilty of It, so We All Need to Stop

We all have a routine when we turn on our computers everyday. Mine includes checking and answering emails, watching the funny video links in those emails, and checking Facebook.

As I scroll through the different thoughts that my friends have chosen to bestow upon the world, I find myself experiencing a wide range of emotions, usually something like this:

Boring...boring...annoyed...boring...annoyed again...ok, that's funny...boring...you're an idiot, learn to spell...funny...annoyed...more annoyed...getting irritated...nevermind.

This is usually the part where I've come across how much somebody misses somebody else, loves somebody else, can't live without somebody else, had such a great time last night, etc. You know what I'm talking about. This is also when the urge to purge has gotten to the point of no return, and I need to leave Facebook or risk a major stain on my new furniture.

Here's the thing: I have no right to judge anybody on putting sentimental crap on Facebook. We've all been there, and any of you who say different are delusional. My concern is for the people who feel the need to post these things every single day, often two or three times a day. The world doesn't need to know that you have the greatest boyfriend or girlfriend in the world, only they do.

Being a hopeless romantic myself, I'm all for sentiment and affection. I also believe that when it comes to matters of the heart, any and all things that need to be said between two people are meant to stay between those two people. Here's a thought, and I can't believe that I'm apparently the first to think of this...TELL THE PERSON YOURSELF!! Actually leave your house, go to theirs, and tell them to their face; not the world of Facebook.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy that my friends are happy. But I don't give a rat's ass how much they love or miss someone, or how their boy/girlfriend is the best. Stop filling up my wall with that crap and go tell them in person.

Coincidentally, these are the same people who, when single, are those that never hesitate to let the rest of the world know how bad their love life is, how depressed they are, and how they're NEVER going to find happiness. Isn't it ironic? Don't ya think?

-GS

...But When I Become a Star, We'll Be Living So Large. I'd do Anything for You.

I recently talked to a very dear friend of mine about a poem that I wrote, which happens to be on this site. She talked about the defining line in the piece, which states, "Because without you...I'm nothing."

Her concerns over this line were that I didn't think of myself enough without somebody in my life, and being a concerned friend, made it known to me that I didn't need anybody else to make myself feel complete. That really hit home for me, and made me question whether or not she was right.

Food for thought comes from some strange places, and for me it came from our stand-in DJ at work tonight. A song came on that seemed to provide some clarity for me.

I have to be honest with myself when I say that my pursuit of becoming a successful author carries with it the glorious idea of being financially stable doing that which I love more than anything else, as most best-selling authors are. My point behind "...without you...I'm nothing" is not the fact that I'm nothing without somebody in my life, but rather that I want somebody to share whatever life throws at me, whether it be a huge success, or a catastrophic downfall. I'm confident that my ambition will carry me to the level that I wish to achieve, but I can only hope that those I love can enjoy the ride with me.

I don't believe that success should be something that somebody should enjoy alone, and I fully intend to share whatever success I achieve in this life with those who are closest to me...whoever they may be when I get there.

-GS

What a Weekend!!

Whew!! That was intense!!

My best friend got married yesterday, and it's been a general consensus that it was one for the ages. There will be pictures posted soon, I'm sure.

Nothing new with my writing, although I did notice something interesting about myself.

I've made two best man speeches in my life, one being at my brother's wedding, and the other being last night. I tried for weeks to write the first one, only meeting frustration and never feeling as if I could never put how I felt about my brother and his new bride into words. With that in mind, I decided to stop trying to make the perfect speech, and just go with it. I had a few key points that I wanted to make, and I would just fill in the blanks, hoping to God that I didn't miss anything. I did the same thing for this speech, and I think it went over well.

I think it's interesting that I'm so meticulous with my writing, which I let hardly anybody read (despite my having this blog, ironically enough), and yet so cavalier with something that I'm putting out there for everyone to see and hear. Maybe I should take a clue from that with my writing.

On a side note...it's really windy outside.

-GS

Rejection

I feel that rejection is something that everyone must deal with in their lives. As a writer, I can say that it is a constant reminder of how insignificant I am in the world of literature...and as a man, I can say that it is a constant reminder of how insignificant I am.

Let me explain...

I recieved another agent rejection today, and by my count that would be #11 in my quest to become an author, at least for as long as I've taken this seriously. So my question is this: At what point do you just give up? I'm not saying that I'm throwing in the towel completely, because there will never be a point in my life that I stop writing. At the same time, I sometimes wonder what exactly it is that I'm writing for.

The obvious answer is that I'm writing for myself, which is completely true. I can't imagine coming to a point so low that literature can't give me relief, whether it be my own or that of the authors that I truly love. My journal is quite possibly the best therapist I've ever had, which when coupled with my dog is quite a sad statement to admit, but what the hell... At least I can say that I have two things in my life that will never turn their backs on me, and will always make me feel better. How many people can say that?

But, I've digressed...

I can't help but feel that rejection has become such an ingrained part of humanity that we fail to realize what a profound impact it can really have on us. We have been raised to accept rejection on multiple levels to the point that it has become a part of our everyday lives, controlling what we do and how we think of things.

Should I take this other job? (Well, what would our current boss think of it? Will they REJECT our wanting to move on to better things? Or will they ACCEPT the fact that this could make us a better person?)

Such an example is, on a very legitimate level, hard to make. How can I complain of rejection when the other person is simply doing what they believe to be the best for their own livelihood?

...And so goes the continuing battle between the unpublished and the literary agents that they so wish would represent them. On the one hand, I wish that I could just push a few pages into their arrogant faces and say, "Look what you're missing, you ignorant fuck!" But on the other hand, I can't help but respect the fact that they know much more about the book business than I ever will, even if I do become a published author.

So it is with life, I suppose. How can I possibly place judgement on somebody because what they want is not necassarily what I want? How can I consider myself "enlightened" if I just assume that someone is full of negativity? To make those judgments or assumptions would put me in a place just as low as those that I am trying to degrade as a justification of my frustrations, and I refuse to live my life on that level.

Until next time...

-GS

A New Beginning

I've decided to change the format of this blog a little bit. I originally thought that starting a blog and telling a few people about it would be enough to get my name out there...I honestly thought I would just let my writing speak for itself, and it would be enough for somebody to notice and say, "Hey, this guy's got talent." Oh, how naive I was.

So, with that in mind, I'm going to attempt to "Put the Pen to the Paper" (as they say) everyday, and update you, my few loyal (and very much appreciated, I might add) readers on my quest to becoming a published author. I'll try to post something new every evening about my day and how it's effected (or is it affected? Maybe I should learn that before my book is finished) my writing. I will still be posting other things that I've written, as well, but I'm hoping that this will give me some inspiration to keep writing.

Thanks for tuning in!!

-GS

There are times when, as a writer, you are asked where you get your inspiration, and in my case, why it always seems to be about heartbreak. To be honest, I often ask myself the same question, and if I have a hard time answering it for myself, then it will be impossible to do so for anybody else. I may not be able to explain why I write about the things I do, but I can tell you why I write.

Writing is like breathing; I literally could not survive without it. Every time I finish a new piece of poetry, an essay, or a chapter in one of my novels, I feel a sense of accomplishment that few things in my life can rival. I feel that without writing, there are things that would be unbearable for me. When I can put a pen to paper, there is nobody to interrupt me or tell me that I'm wrong or crazy. I can say exactly what's on my mind, and nobody can judge me. Writing is the single most liberating thing in my life.

Sometimes life gets hard, and everyone has different ways of dealing with those troubled times. Some people work out, some go to a therapist, and some people drink...I write. For me, there are few things more therapeutic than the art of writing. Watching a blank sheet of paper turn into a piece of literature can soothe even the most troubled of souls. If a person doesn't have something to turn to when things aren't going the way they want, then I consider that person to be among the most unfortunate in this world.

Writing is an art, and anybody who says different is simply delusional (or ignorant). It's true, some are better than others, but if someone can't paint the Mona Lisa, does that make them any less of an artist? Art comes from somewhere within yourself. You may never make any money off of it, and you may never get any positive recognition for what you do, but if you can create something from a blank piece of paper, a white canvas, six strings on a guitar, or anything that makes something from nothing, then you are an artist.

For those having a hard time in their life, my advice to you is that you find something that you can immerse yourself in, if only for a few minutes each and every day. It is those few minutes of relief that make life worth living, because in those precious few minutes we are able to lose and find ourselves. Creation is something that lives inside all of us, but it's also something that won't come on it's own, and needs to be awakened from time to time. Find your canvas, whatever it may be, and make something beautiful.

-GS