"What We Hold Dear - A Christmas Story" By Pete Ophoven

   I remember the year Dad wanted a real Christmas tree rather than the fake tree we'd decorated forever.  It was years ago, I was eight years old, Billy was 11.  We lived in Seattle; Dad heard about a farm near La Conner Washington that let you cut your own tree down and take it home.

Mom wasn't excited about it.  She thought it was a lot of work.  They argue a lot - Mom and Dad, mostly about things that seem meaningless.

"Billy, you ready to go cut down the tree?"  I was excited.  I pushed him back and forth in his bed.  I knew he was awake but his eyes were closed with the little white ear buds stuck out of his head like Frankenstein.  One eye opened.  He liked to be left alone- especially with his music. 

"Come on, let's go," I repeated.  His one eye closed and his face curved into a smile.  I ran to the kitchen to rally Mom and Dad.  I crept slowly to listen to their continued argument from earlier.

"It doesn't cost much and it's family time," Dad was negotiating.

"We already have a tree.  It will be messy," Mom retorted.

"Let's go kids," Dad yelled up at the ceiling, I poked my head around the corner, "maybe you can go with the kids, I would love to stay..."

"Hey sweetheart, ready to go?" Dad asked.  I wondered if they knew how silly they acted when they fought.

"Family car ride," Dad bellowed it out, "to get the Christmas tree," like he was singing the national anthem.  Mom resigned, she threw her arms to her sides and grabbed for her jacket from the hook, "are we bringing the dog too?"  Mom asked from inside her heavy winter coat.

"He's in the family isn't he?"  Dad answered bending down to Winston's level shaking his hips mimicking the dog wagging his tail.  Winston played along.  I always smiled when dad acted silly.

"Winston, come-on, car ride?  Where's Billy?" Looking at me.  I shrugged my shoulders as I stood by the kitchen door.

"Billy?"  He yelled.

"Can you stop yelling?"  Mom interrupted, "why do you have to yell?  I'll get him," Mom headed up the stairs.

"You're excited for a real tree right pumpkin face?"  My Dad's face looked so hopeful, yearning.  I couldn't tell him anything but what he needed to hear.

"Yeah Dad," I replied while twirling the words with my hips.

"You'll see, it'll be magnificent.  The smell so wintry and everything.  Best Christmas ever - starts with the tree," he pulled his jacket over his shoulders and checked his watch.  I could see he was about to yell again but stopped as he saw Mom and Billy coming down the stairs.  Billy had his hoodie over his head and his ear buds still blocking out the world.

"No electronics.  No iPads, pods, robots - family time," Dad exerted.  Billy's face contorted.

"Just let him listen, let's go," Mom walked past, meeting adjourned.  Dad stood for a moment, pulled the leash out of his pocket and we went out the door.

***

The city looked cold, steam seemed to leak out of everything; people's mouths, exhaust, chimneys.  As we drove, I watched the houses get fewer and fewer; replaced by hills.  The rolling mounds flattened out like the sheets on my bed.  The cold streets and buildings replaced with reddish brown fields and trees with the last remnant of fall connected to distal branches.  I wondered if every animal was hibernating, I secretly wished sweet dreams to all of the furry creatures.

Billy's eyes were closed, with his ears plugged.  Mom and Dad argued over map locations and routes on their phones.  Winston laid in the back hatch of the Subaru wagon, one eye slitted, probably keeping a vigilant watch for the Vet's office; the most common reason for a car ride.

We turned down a road dissecting farmland flat and free.  The hills had unrolled like bread kneaded to a thin consistent layer of smooth crust.  I couldn't see any tree farms.

Dad slowed when we neared a parked car at the side of the narrow two lane road.  It was an older kind of car you see driving around during the State Fair.  It was round and smooth at every angle and the top just seemed to go on forever.

"Cold day to have a car stall," Dad whispered.

"There he is up ahead," Mom responded.  A man walked along the shoulder.  His hands in his pockets, a red checkered hat.  As we approached he turned.

"We have to stop right?" Dad asked.

"Really?" Mom responded, "he's probably fine," but she knew as did I there would be no leaving him.  She sighed, rolled down her window, "hi, you look like you could use a hand?"

"Oh, hello folks, Nah.  She breaks down more often than a locomotive in high altitude," he pointed back to the car, his statement was lost to me.

"Can we give you a lift?" Dad leaned over Mom's chest speaking through the window.

"Well, it's just up over the ridge, but these old knees aren't what they used to be," he took his hands out of his pockets and blew on them.

"It's no problem," Dad added.  Mom opened her door and stepped out, she squeezed into the back and scooted Billy next to me.  Winston's head peeked over nosing Mom, "lay down Winston."

"Thanks' Ma'am," he stated as he sat down removing his hat, "the name's Charlie...Charlie McPherson," he stuck out his hand.

"Pleased to meet you, this is my wife Sharon, Billy and Nellie," Dad pointed us all out in the back, "I'm Stan."

"Greetings and thank you," he said again looking back at us.  He stared at Billy for a moment and turned to Dad, "boy's got a hearing problem?" Motioning to Billy's ear buds.

"No, no, just his music player," Dad said.  Charlie looked back with a confused face and then held a gentle smile on me.  His face was wrinkled and stained with the sun.  He wore beige overalls and a red flannel shirt.

He turned and sat forward, "what's got you good folks coming all the way out here?"

"Christmas tree," Dad answered.

"Oh yes. Family occasion indeed," he smiled.

"Do you know where the Christmas Tree farms are located?"  I asked.

"Hmmm.  Never heard of that before, farms just for Christmas trees?"

"I knew you took the wrong turn on highway 20," Mom leaned forward from the back.

"Now hold on, just cause I aint' heard of it doesn't make it so," Charlie interrupted before Dad had a chance to rebut.

"My family's been farming out here for years.  As far back as three generations.  But people are coming out from the city, especially since the war and who knows what they're doing."

Billy and I looked at each other, wondering if this guy was for real.

"Not a bad idea though, trees for Christmas.  People cut their own.  Sounds like fun.  The traditional way if you ask me."

"We've always had a fake tree, never had a real one before," I said.

"Fake tree, how you come by that?"  Charlie asked.  Before we could answer he pointed up at the driveway Dad was about to pass.

"Right here captain, this is the one."

The drive was an old bumpy gravel road barely wide enough for the Subaru wagon.  Tall cedar trees as high as the sky abutted the side of the road like pawns on a chess board.  At the end of the drive a modest white house stood like a bookend.  As Dad approached he slowed, I could see a chicken coop and an old tire swing.

"That's just fine, thanks for the lift."

"You have a beautiful house," Mom stated.

"Would you folks like a cup of tea?  Warm up a little?  Some hot chocolate? The least I can do."

"Yeah, yeah, please?" I pleaded.

"Well, we could briefly," Dad prodded.  He knew, as did all of us Mom was the deciding vote.  Everyone looked back at Mom.  She loved to make decisions, but hated to be the one put on the spot.

"All right, briefly, Winston here will get restless in the car," she turned and looked at Winston holding up the back hatch.

"How about Winston can run around.  Chicken's in the coop, I'm sure he'd love to wake those old birds a little," Charlie chuckled.  We all got out, even Billy left his hearing aid in the car.  I jabbed at him about it.  The farm was so wide open it seemed to go on forever.  A big barn slept a short walk from the house - looked older than the man; the red paint turning to brown and grey like Dad's hair.  We let Winston out, whose tongue licked the air curiously, and then he took off running - straight for the chicken coop.

We were in the movies - Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz.  Endless fields, trees that touched the heavens.  The house shimmered in the golden sunlight.  Black shutters hugged the windows.  The porch to the house made a creaky sound like it winced as we stepped on it.  We entered the house and it smelled like old memories.  The furniture was pasty and the area rugs were circular with faded colors. 

"Come in. Come in," he waved his arms and moved toward the kitchen and put on the kettle.  Even that seemed make-believe with a fat spout and a round body - I was expecting it to come to life like in a Disney movie.  Mom and Dad were quiet- I noticed neither were talking, nor arguing.  I slipped my hand into Mom's.

"What a classic and traditional home.  Very cozy," Mom said.

"Been this way for years, didn't have the heart to move anything around - something comforting in keeping it the same."

Billy found the National Geographic collection on the bookcase, his eyes popping out of his head.

"Family owned the farm for years you said?" Dad asked.

"Yep, forever it seems.  At least since the 1880's, before the railroad.  I have a picture of when those cedars were barely tall enough to climb," Charlie motioned to the front walk through a large window.  Dad studied the view he seemed lost in time.  Charlie pulled a small framed picture from the bureau and handed it to Dad.  The photo was black and white of the house and drive - the date in the corner read 1902.  The trees were only shrubs but the house looked exactly the same.

The teapot began to sing, more like wheeze.

"Ah, I've some of the best tea - you seem like a jasmine type lady?  Captain? You like English Breakfast?"

"That's lovely thanks," Mom smiled.  Charlie was right, Mom did like jasmine.

"Son, if you see anything you like, please feel free to take it with you.  Those've gathered enough dust," he added.

"Now, as for you young lady.  Do you like a thick velvet hot chocolate?  Cause I only make the kind that tastes like melted chocolate bars," Charlie bent down to my eye level, his hands holding himself up at the knees.  There was a sparkle in his eyes.

"Yummy," it was beyond looking to Mom and Dad for permission.

I watched as Charlie began stirring at an old pot for a few minutes.  His body was awkward standing over the old gas stove.  His suspenders holding up thick canvas pants.  He should've been outside stacking fire wood or something, but instead he was creating what would be the greatest cup of hot chocolate I've ever had.

Charlie brought the saucer down and set it in front of me and another for Billy.  The liquid inside was velvet brown and shimmered.

"Thank you Charlie," I said.  Everyone smiled.  It was a moment I won't forget.  An instance in time really.  All of them, Billy and Dad and even Mom smiling all with a joy that seemed ancient and cozy like the cedar trees.  Can joy be cozy?

That is when I noticed Charlie pouring a cup that he set aside on the stove.  I inspected Mom with her cup, Dad sipping his tea, Billie was gulping the hot liquid and Charlie held a cup in his hand.  I wondered whose was on the stove.  I started to look for what I hadn't seen.  The piano along the wall, the two facing recliners, and a pair of chairs in the kitchen. 

Where was Charlie's wife?

"Charlie? Are you married?"  My eyes found their way to the cup of tea on the stove.  Charlie glanced at the cup as well.

"That's rude sweetheart," Mom scolded.

"Sorry Charlie," Dad said.  Which sounded even worse.

"No, no.  Sweet child.  Thank you for asking.  Curiosity is a gift; a blessing like fertilizer to the imagination," Charlie stalled and walked toward the piano.

 "My Beatrice, Bea passed away not long ago.  Her heart gave out."  The room became somber.  Even Billy looked up from the goldmine of history he'd unearthed.

"Bea was the love of my life.  My left and my right foot.  She was so strong.  But there's just so many heart beats and Bea used all her's up taking care of me."

I looked up at Dad.  His eyes were glossy, like the moon on a lake.  Mom's eyes were low and hanging.

"I guess I just couldn't think of making a cup of tea without thinking of Bea.  How she would have enjoyed your company.  She lived for family," he removed the picture from the piano and handed it to me, "There ain't a thing in this world I wouldn't give to share a cup of tea with my Bea."

Beatrice was a beauty - she stood in a field with nothing but sky behind her.  She wore a bathing suit - the kind with the skirt.  Her smile made me smile.

"She's beautiful," I said.  Charlie just nodded, the wrinkles on his face were telling stories.

"Thank you for sharing the tea and hot chocolate with us.  And for inviting us into your beautiful home," Mom stated.  Charlie just nodded, without speaking he accepted Mom's gratitude.

"What's say we get that car started Charlie?" Dad interrupted.

"Oh, no. No.  That old thing just needs a little gas in the carburetor and off she'll go."

"I insist."

"Well, if you insist," Charlie smiled.  Mom was glad too.  I walked over to the window and noticed a willow tree in the backyard.  Its branches dangling - washing over itself like a fountain.  Winston laid on the frozen grass just outside the chicken coop.

We all walked outside, Billy stayed close to me - teased me a little, running and tempting me to play tag.  I chased him around the wagon.  We both looked back at the house.

"Kind of a weird guy," Billy whispered.

"Yeah, good hot chocolate though."

"None of those National Geographic's were dated after 1959," Billy added.

"So?" I asked.

"Well, he had every month for like thirty years."

"What happened in 1959?" I asked.  He shrugged and then pushed me a little and ran off again.  Winston joined in the chase, nipping at Billy's ankles.  I loved how Winston always took my side. 

We gave Charlie a ride back to his car.  Sure enough, the car started right up.  The smile on Charlie's face was like Santa Claus, Dad's too.  I watched as Charlie and my Dad shook hands.  My Dad reached in and gave Charlie a hug.  Billy gave Charlie one of those side hugs, where half his body remained open like the minute hand at six fifteen.  My Mom stepped out and shook his hand with both of hers, I couldn't hear but I'm sure she thanked him again for the tea.  Manners first she always said.  Charlie came over to the window and leaned in.

"You liked that hot chocolate?"

"Yes Charlie, thank you," I said with a grin.

"Come back sometime," I opened the door and popped out.  I hugged his legs and my tears came.  I was overwhelmed, I couldn't exactly understand why, but there they were.  Charlie smiled and hugged me back but didn't say anything.

We all watched as he got into his car.  The lights came on, even though it wasn't dark.  It lurched forward and off he went.  His hand floated out the window and waved back.  After a moment or two, Dad turned the car around and we went back the opposite direction.  No one spoke for a time.  The silence was a stranger to us.

"What'd you say we pick up a tree from the YMCA lot and head home?"  Dad asked.  No one argued.  Billy looked out the window.  I watched their faces - my family.

***

Dad pulled over for gas near the interstate.  It was getting late.  The blue sky turning a shade darker mixed with red, like someone brushed the sky with a purple paint brush.  I got out with him.  I always helped Dad pump gas.

"Do you think Charlie gets lonely?"  I asked.

"Yeah, I suppose so."

"Must be hard to run a farm all by yourself," I said.

"I'm sure he has help honey."

"He's got the chicken's to keep him company," I said.  Dad and I both giggled as I followed him inside.  I picked out some red licorice for me, sunflower seeds for Billy.  Dad was already paying when I slid them up.

"Oh, and these please," Dad added, "hey, I was wondering if you know where the Christmas tree farms are located?"  Dad asked the young man behind the counter.

"Yeah, we always got ours at the old McPherson farm, off highway 20."

I gripped Dad's hand tightly and looked up at him.  Dad looked down at me, his face spoke so many words without ever opening his mouth.

"Thanks," Dad replied.  He lifted me up and carried me to the car.

"Hey, pumpkin face, let's not mention it to Mom and Billy.  Just our secret okay?"

"Okay Daddy."

I kept our secret.

Years later after getting my driver's license - I drove out to highway 20.  Took me a few extra turns and a lot of memory but I found a huge field of pine trees.  Rows and rows.  Nestled into the middle of them was Charlie's house.  Some of the cedars were gone, a few towered over the driveway still.  The barn was gone and so was the chicken coop.  But the house still had that shimmer like it was being kissed by an angel.

The end.

Marrying Art With Perseverance

The Character Must Be Interesting…

The evolution of the character begins with an idea, even a silly situation, or a fleeting memory of a song and girl at a bus stop.  For the writer, the easy part is the inspiration, and then continues with hard work.  Maybe the character has form: eye color, lanky and tall, great singing voice and then it is up to the writer to marry art with perseverance.

One of the most common recurring failures of many short stories is the lack of well developed protagonists.  The truly great characters that make us want to read more don’t come out of the ether in one shake.  We need to fall in love with them.  One of the reasons we put stories down and don’t come back is the lack of interest in the characters.  The plot, story arc, all of the situations presented may be fascinating, amazing, unbelievable and cool; but none of it matters if the characters aren’t interesting, provocative, and a little amazing.

There is a writer friend of mine who has notebooks filled with character development.  Back story, pages and pages of back story.  Rarely are these words ever seen in the finished works, but nonetheless it fills the writer with a defined world of vision and the character development is filled with dimension.  What is written in those notebooks?  It’s filled with stories of first dates, job interviews, memories of vomiting in the neighbor’s bushes, scary near misses and perfect scores in skeet ball.  It is truly the tenacity of world building that creates a work that is special.  But it also simplifies the work for the author.  When I create a character and start writing the story without filling the void with facts about him or her, I find it more likely the story never gets finished.  The art of defining the world of the story often comes with defining the characters prior to the first word hitting the page.

The back story can be as detailed as birth, early school days, collegiate life, or maybe hitchhiking across Europe.  Pages of family history, especially the Mom and Dad, first loves, sexual and intimate stories all fill the void in a writer’s mind with details that will become vital for the story presently coming into fruition, and for creating striking, complex and obviously human characters and villains.

This is the perseverance.

I believe it is critical to consider the human being as analogue to the characters and their development.  Writers will tell you that a good character can exist as the culmination of several people that really exist in life.  The most important is to bring them to life- for you the author.  Once they are successfully incubated, they can truly take on the forms and tell the story – honestly and hopefully make readers fall in love with them.

Who are the characters that we love?  The ones that we like better than real people?  Celia Bowen, Frodo, Lolita, Luke Skywalker, Meursault, Prince Andrey Bolkonsky, and so many more…

What is it about them that we love?

Answering that question may be one of the reasons I continue to write and read.  Seeking the truth…

Are you alive if you have no desire?

What makes a great character?

In one word – desire.

The definition of desire: (noun) a strong feeling of wanting to have something or wishing for something to happen.  Strongly wish for or want (something).  Want (someone) sexually.

If everyone could answer what they truly desired, without judgment nor hesitation, they would be able to access something truly honest about their own character.

Many will argue a good story must have a great plot.  Another will say the same thing about character.

The point is, a great story has both of these elements, and they are well crafted like a beautiful work of architecture.

But, for me the most important thing that drives a story idea and gets me to the other end of the beginning are the characters.  No matter how great an idea or situation, it must have really kick ass characters.

Who are your favorite characters?

Remember the bad guy from Warriors; what about ‘inconceivable’ from the Princess Bride; Montag from Fahrenheit 451.

We need great characters.  We are inspired, embarrassed, delighted, engrossed, and sustained by great characters.

Does the story exist, and can the plot even begin to form without characters?

Have you ever written a plot line or formed a situation without any idea of the characters that will fill the spaces in between?

Here’s another question:  can the character exist without a story?  This is the fun question, and probably the one that most authors are plagued with the most.  What is the backstory?

So many story ideas are killed – condemned to a long dusty journey on the shelf, all because the main character doesn’t have a back story - hasn’t been invented yet.  A great situation, a great story idea – the characters get names, they have a general outline, they have a job, a girlfriend, a son, a daughter, and then the story begins to take space on the page.  But more importantly, how long will they continue to work in their job? Is their girlfriend cheating on them? Is their son their own?  Daughter is gay?

What are their desires???

But what really happens.  A decision must be made.  Conflict and tension have to have sides drawn, and someone has to be right and someone has to be wrong; or at least they have to think they do.  The author has to know! 

If they aren’t willing to decide, the story doesn’t get written.

“There is no such thing as writer’s block, there is only the unwillingness of an author to make decisions, take risks, and see what happens next.”

The beginning is the hardest part...isn't it?

I remember my first class as a budding writer.  The class was popular fiction one at the University of Washington.  I was so excited, ready to learn how to write a novel.  The first thing she said to us was, "okay, you all have your novel written, now what?"

I gulped.  I looked around at everyone, seeing if I was the only one who up until that moment had nothing in my hands ready to show.  It was like a bad dream, was I attending the last class and missed the whole year?  I did what every solid, honest, good student would do - I faked it.  I made up characters and plot and a villain and scenery and dialogue and theme all in about an hour.  At least, I thought I had.  

It felt good to know that after the first class when I went up to speak with her that I didn't need a finished novel, but the class was catered to those that were already completed with a draft and wanted to go back through and hone it and polish it.  She also said that everything we learn in the class will apply to all novels that we write and it doesn't have to be about a specific work.

The best lesson that I could have learned though was how easy it was for me to bust out a good story.  Was it worthy of a novel, probably not, but it gave me the knowledge that I could muster up a story if I needed it.

I think the beginning is the hardest part for a writer.  To get started.  To write the first sentence.  Once the sentence is on the page, it has begun.  How many people who want to write, have talked about it for years with their family and friends.  Spoken about awesome story ideas but never actually put a single sentence down, let alone completed it.

Let's change all of that.  Let's make it the easiest thing to do.  I am going to put down three beginning sentences.  No critics, no editors, no rules.  I am not going to worry about theme, character, too much descriptions, or too many adjectives, and all that blather that we get when we take classes and read all of the books on how to write.  Gloves are off.  The best work comes when no one is around to judge us for it.  

Sentence 1:

John Maynard stood on the Washington Avenue bridge, his arms dangling over the metal railing staring down into the Mississippi River below, he watched the dirty water turning inside itself like it was a rolling boil.

Sentence 2:

The waiting room of Anderson Hall had two chairs, no magazines and a single square window that was so small it made John Maynard wonder if the building used to be for prison cells.

Sentence 3:

It was seven thirty Saturday morning on August 16th, John Maynard opened the door to Jones Hall and entered the snaking line of other future doctor's waiting their turn to checkin for the MCAT exam.

That was easy.  Now I can get down to it.  Every novel needs a first line, and the best part is there isn't an author worth their weight in gold that has kept that same sentence they started their novel with until the book was printed.  That is why the beginning should be the easiest, because it is the part that will most likely change before it is over, so why waste time getting it perfect.  

One thing is for sure, the beginning must escape the infinite of our imaginations and find its way onto the page before the ending can truly come into focus.

The Wistful versus the Genius

"...We come now to the book.  It has been planned a long time.  I planned it when I didn't know what it was about.  I developed a language for it that I will never use.  This seems such a waste of the few years a man has to write in.  And still I do not think I could have written it before now.  Of course it would have been a book - but not this book.  I remember when you gave me this thick - black - expensive book to write in.  See how well I have kept it for this book.  Only six pages are out of it.  A puppy gnawed the corners of the front cover.  And it is clean and fresh and open.  I hope I can fill it as you would like it filled..."
-January 29th, 1951 Monday - John Steinbeck "The East of Eden Letters"

I woke up this morning with no intention of writing in this blog.  I showered, made coffee, was harangued by my children, went to work and like watching a marathon of Bravo Housewives I have nothing creative to show for it.  My back aches and it is cold in my core, and my wife told me I needed to take a bath which I haven't done in as many years as my oldest son has been alive.  So I did it.

As I lay in the hot water, I submerged my head all the way below the surface and listened for my heart beating.  I didn't hear it, but instead a different message came up from below.

I started a novel in 2007, and then I started it again in 2008, and then I workshopped it in 2009, and then I pitched it to an agent in 2010...

My novel spoke to me under the water.  It was a matter of a few seconds, but the vision was there.  Whether it was the silence or the change in my routine, whatever the reason it returned to me. A couple of hours later I went downstairs and looked for my notes.  I couldn't find them, but instead my eyes focused like a camera lens upon this book by John Steinbeck - Journal Of A Novel The East of Eden Letters.  I hadn't read it nor had any idea of what the second paragraph read.

The message is clear.  These are the kind of messages from the unconscious that if listened to and acted upon separate the wistful from the genius. 
Here I go...

The Fear of Writing

When I sit down to write, there is a great filter, like a contact lens over my eyes.  This is my critic deconstructing each paragraph, sentence and word as I write.  The critic being the totalitarianism of each person and grand work of published fiction that I am comparing myself to.

How in the greatest possible world of creativity and art is this helpful to my process?

It isn't.

Why do I persevere?

The answer is that I have no choice.  I cannot help but to write stories.  I must write stories.  My well being, physically, mentally, socially, and relationally withers as each day embarks from the last day that I put pen to paper.

So, how does one fight back the critic, while trying to cull the muse into fantasy and play?

A great scholar once told me that fear is neither good nor bad.  It is how we interpret the fear and allow it to sculpt our perceptions of the world that impacts our day-to-day lives.

He also reminded me that being fearless is not an acceptable personality trait, considering it seems that no one outside of fantasy and fiction has ever been completely fearless.  Rather, accepting the fear exists and going forth anyway.  The courageous and the brave are those that eat breakfast with the fear, have a cordial conversation, and then pay the bill and go forth and succeed (the truly courageous leaves fear to pay the bill).

There is another story that a friend of mine told me not long ago.  He was telling me about a West African tribe that makes money by selling monkeys that they capture.  The way they capture the monkeys is they cut a small opening in a coconut and then nail the coconut to a tree.  They place a candy bar or a banana inside the opening.  The monkeys will place there hand inside the coconut and grab onto the sugar surprise, but they are unable to remove their hands while it is made into a fist.  The monkeys are unwilling to open their hands out of fear they will lose the treat.  The tribesmen capture the immobilized monkey without physical harm or abuse(controversial).

This story I later came to realize is used quite frequently in inspirational lectures.  It is a metaphor for the things in our lives that we hold onto that create a trap for our personal development.  When all we need to do is open our hands and let go.  We write our own stories in our heads and define ourselves based upon these stories.  We hold onto them sometimes with such a fist that we cannot see the world passing us by, but instead are stuck holding onto something that we in many cases don't even remember.  In the end, we just have to let go, and release us from our own imprisonment.

Writing is a tough process, but it can be extremely fulfilling.  Every time we sit down and write, we face our own fears as well as open ourselves to new ones.  I don't claim to be a successful writer, but I do believe that each of us has a story to tell.  If we release ourselves of our judgements, and the judgements imposed upon ourselves by others and just truly tell our story - it will manifest itself as a truly original, amazing, profound, and humorous yarn that is meant to be heard and read, rather than trapped inside of a coconut.

The critic will always be there screaming in our ears.  But all we have to do is open our hands, let go of the fear, and put on some really great sound proofing head phones.

Freedom...Thus Far

It is at the point in the story, where one would probably say "I have finished the prologue."
It feels weird that this book is the talk of the town.  Let's both agree that at the same time a new book by Neil Gaiman or China Mieville would not get the circuit, nor the publicity, but have a stake at the same if not better literary achievement.


There seems to be a reputation as with any public popularity that is either "IN" or "OUT".  


Does it have Oprah's "O" sticker?  If not, then well, life is too short to read.
How reviews and judgements can make or break an artist and thereby the judgements of a few will limit the imagination of the masses.


In the case of this book. I know that there will come a moment where I will say out loud, "this is a good book".  At this point in time, I have yet to make that claim.


I for one am the first to admit when I am wrong, I do it every day it seems.  How can a person not admit when they are wrong, when they have children.  But, hindsight is twenty twenty.


I have to say that this is the first novel that I have read in which I can say I have a fairly large distaste for the protagonist.  Which usually means the literature is a tragedy, like Ethan Frome or MacBeth.  Time will tell.


For now, I read on.