Uncomfortable

YESTERDAY

Sitting on the hard plastic seat was like sitting on concrete. A cold piece of cement wedged into my crotch. Why didn’t they make bikes more comfortable?

“Hey, Steve! You coming?”

I grimaced, but managed to smile as I jerked the handle bars straight. My client, Jerry, wheeled his mountain bike around like he’d been doing it forever.

“You’re slow!” he said.

“I’m coming.”

The group home had a few bikes that the clients were allowed to use, so long as they were accompanied by staff. Today, I was the lucky staff member. I cursed under my breath and began to pedal. It wasn’t even like spin class, and I’d hated spin class. Only the instructor had made it palatable.

The road tilted, and I overcompensated by swinging my handle bars to the right. I missed a parked old Civic by inches.

“Let’s go, Steve!”

I growled and followed my client down one of the back streets. Why was it so hard to pedal? Had I grabbed the only dysfunctional bike the group home owned? Why did people think this was a good idea?

There’d been a time when biking was a lot of fun. Until I’d bought a car. Cars were fun. They had padded seats. They were less complicated. And I never worried about driving into a parked vehicle.

I knew the refrain about riding a bike, about how it got easier and how once you learned how to do it you never forgot.

I could only snort. Yeah. I could do it. But it didn’t make it any less uncomfortable.

“Hurry up, Steve!”

I didn’t respond. My legs were already burning.

SHELTER

“Are you a cop?”

Three black teenagers stood loosely around a weathered table. We were standing outside. The sun was hot. They wore loose fitting clothes, and the one addressing me had a broad smile on his face.

“I’m sorry, what?” I said, struggling with his thick accent.

The teenager squared his shoulders and imitated a robot. “You a cop? You walk stiff. You have beard. Muscular.”

I shook my head. Smiled. “Nope. Not a cop. Youthworker.”

I was at a homeless shelter for young people. I’d been there for a week. I was the only white face in the entire place, staff included. It held forty five young people between the ages of sixteen and twenty four, and while I liked working there and enjoyed getting to know the kids, it was disconcerting to feel so pale.

I’d written often about privilege, talked about what it meant to be white and male and straight and all the advantages it held in our culture, but it was my first experience being such a distinct minority, if only for a short time.

“My name is Stephen,” I said, extending my hand.

He took it, laughed again, and introduced me to his friends. The shelter’s yard was dingy. A few picnic tables. Sparse brown grass. A rusted fence. Staff had laid out supper on a few tables. Huge silver tins with aluminum foil folded back over each one.

It’s impossible to imagine – with any idea about what it’s really like – to be a minority when you’ve never experienced it. I tasted it for a week, barely, in a work environment where I still held power and could leave to a more “regular environment.” So in a way it hardly counts. But it still gave me a glimpse of the challenges these youths faced, of the challenges that people of different cultures faced when they dared leave their country. I’d seen it before. Seen what happened when minorities spoke up and what it meant for them. What it cost them.

But it was a reminder.

And it was uncomfortable.

HOME

Cars stacked in a traffic jam below my balcony. Rush hour. I shook my head, grateful my work ended early. Sitting in a line of cars was stressful. Especially in a place like Toronto, where movement was tied to both efficiency and success. Hell, all you had to do was listen. You could hear it in the massive steel buildings that scraped the sky and the hundreds of thousands of people who packed the subway, their eyes empty and fully charged. If you weren’t getting ahead, if you weren’t full bore for whatever was next, you either lacked ambition or were falling behind.

And nothing was worse than falling behind.

My last month had felt that way. I’d worked nearly to the point of burnout. My place was a mess. I was still living in boxes. I was struggling to keep up with the bills and laundry and other basic tasks. I was grateful for the work, but it had come at a cost. I was still adjusting. Still learning to push the constant noise of the city to the side.

Still uncomfortable.

COMFORT

“Comfort” means different things to different people in different cultures, but we are all searching for it. Something to do with finding equilibrium about our circumstances. With reduced stress. Something more than just coping. It was a place that I, too, was anxious to find. It’d been a while since I’d experienced it.

We all feel that pull away from discomfort. I’m fine at work, when I’m with my kids, and when I can see the difference I’m making in their life. Or when I’m at the gym. Or when I'm at home, where I can call a friend and toss back a beer and relax. I can, and do, purposely avoid things that make me uncomfortable. I’m human. We’re all wired this way.

And yet, for all that the past couple of months hadn’t been "fun," they'd been rewarding. I’d learned new skills, gained confidence in a way I hadn’t imagined, found myself growing stronger as I faced each challenge – even if the challenge was as mundane as working sixteen of seventeen days without breaking down. I’d dealt with the stress, the discomfort, and the exhaustion. Dealt with it and surpassed my limitations.

That never would have happened if I hadn’t been pushed out of my comfort zone.

One of the great lies of society is that we should measure the status of our life by how we feel. If we “feel” good, which we often translate to ‘safe’ and ‘secure’ and ‘comfortable,’ than things are going well. This is true in everything from relationships to living conditions to our work.

And it is a lie.

Progress – spiritual, mental and physical progress – is never achieved when we are fully at ease. Though we try to avoid these situations, humanity is at its best when it is pushed and stretched and forced into new places.

For all my frustration about the summer, I’d been forced to go farther than I could remember, and my life had changed dramatically.

I wasn’t comfortable. I hadn’t liked it.

But I was better for it.

TODAY

I swiveled my handlebars around and coasted down the street, enjoying the cool breeze on my face. Heat swelled from the asphalt.

“Hey, Jerry? You coming?”

“Yeah!” he said, flashing me a grin as he peddled to keep up.

We passed a number of old houses that looked like they’d been around since the Second World War. One of them looked like it had been burned recently, with a blackened porch and smashed windows. It stood in contrast with the one beside it. A blue Honda Civic glistened in the driveway. Orange and red flowers dotted the porch.  

I twisted past a huge pothole. “So where do you want to go today?”

“Let’s go to the beach.”

 “Are you sure?” I asked him. “There’s a big hill to get there.”

“No problem. I can do it. I’ve done it before.”

I laughed. “Yes. Yes, you have.”

A Ghost From Christmas Future

            I stared at the walls of my apartment and checked my email again. Nothing. How had it gone bad so quickly? Just six months ago, I’d received the phone call I’d been waiting for the past decade. An agent had called – a highly successful agent who had worked with best-selling authors – to tell me he was interested in representing my work. But it had been two months now, and I hadn’t heard from him. I’d tried calling and emailing him, but he hadn’t responded. I glanced up at the calendar above my desk. 2005. I was thirty-two years old. Young by a writer’s standards, but after ten years of hard work, and with the hope of the expected breakthrough, this felt different than the earlier rejections.

            I wandered out onto the balcony. I was a writer, but only by night. During the day I worked at a local high school helping kids with special needs. I loved the kids, but the school life wore me down. I didn’t know if it was the florescent lights or the tediousness of the routine or what it was, but every day I went to school  it felt like my soul was dying. I loved the kids, but my hope of getting off the merry-go-round seemed lost.

            The door to the balcony creaked open, and a man stepped onto it. He looked vaguely familiar. He had a shaved head, and tucked his hands into his pockets as he looked at me.

            “I remember this place,” he said, smiling softly. “Are you still at Florida Fitness?”

            “I, um, yeah.” I probably should have reacted more strongly to a stranger, but as I studied the older man, he looked, well, he looked like me.

            “Who are you?” I said.

            “I’m the ghost from Christmas future, dummy.”

            “You’re me!”

            “Good to see that I was so bright at thirty-two.”

            “I’m thirty-three.”

            “Well, the extra year hasn’t made a difference.”

            “If I’m you…” I paused. It felt like a dream, and I was having a hard time getting my tongue to work properly. “So, I stopped working out, then?”

            “I work out. Just not as often,” he said with a sniff. “I’m busy.”

            “Doing what?”

            He smiled for the first time. “Living the dream. Writing. Happily married. Just published my first book. Three more next year.”

            I slumped down on one of the chairs on my porch. Happily married? I’d married when I was twenty-five, but it had barely lasted a year, though we’d tried to make it last. We’d ended up as friends, but marriage seemed as remote as getting a book deal.

            “So is this a dream?”

            He smiled. It was unnerving to watch your future self smile the same way you did. “Yes. Something like that. Tell me, how are you doing?”

            I didn’t know what to say. “Well, my agent has apparently dropped me. I’m stuck in a job that is mostly soul-sucking. I’m single. I have a few great friends, but…”

            “How are you doing with the depression?” he said.

            “It comes and goes. Some days are harder than others. I thought that this agent might be a way to something better, you know? But…” I shrugged.

            “What are you going to do?” he asked.

            “I-I don’t know. Keep writing, I guess. I don't have much else.”

            He smiled, and I longed for the peace of that smile. My life wasn’t horrible. I had a steady job. I was able to coach. I had a few terrific friends. But I couldn’t replicate that smile. It suggested that more was possible.

            “Keep writing,” he said. “It gets better.”

            “So you’re me?” I asked. “In the future?”

            “Yes.”

            “How old are you? Err, how old am I?”

            “Forty three.”

            I whistled softly.

            “I’m not old, pal,” he said.

            “Yeah, well.” I stopped, not wanting to offend the older version of myself. “Do we have kids?”

            “No.”

            “Why not? Doesn’t everyone your age, well, my age, have kids.”

            “Maybe soon.”

            “But we’re married.” I bit my lip. My ex-wife was a wonderful person, but we’d been bad together. It was not a good memory. “And… and it’s good?”

            He laughed. “Yes. We met the girl of our dreams. We’ve been married for seven years. She’s kind and smart and beautiful.”

            “All right!” I felt a jolt of exhilaration rush through me, only to crash as I thought about my current prospects. “You’re here to tease me, aren’t you?”

            He scrubbed his shaved head. “No. My purpose is to encourage you. Ask me your questions.”

            “I, well, okay. I’m still writing, right?”

            “Yes! You just published your first book. People love it. You have three more due for release this year.”

            “Do I have an agent?”

            He shook his head. “No. Erin recommended that we publish it on our own. The industry has changed, Steve.”

            “Erin Healy?”

            “Yes. We got back in touch with her this year. She still works as an editor, but she’s also a best-selling author now. She read our work and that was her suggestion.”

            “I don’t get it. So we have boxes of books downstairs—”

            “No!” He chortled. “The world has changed. Everything is done digitally now. We publish them ourselves.”

            I struggled to grasp this new idea. Everyone knew that if you published books on your own you were a phony. A charlatan. “So now—”

            “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “What matters is that you have talent. And that people like your work.”

            I still didn’t understand what he was saying, not exactly, but I couldn’t ignore the peace that emanated from him in fresh waves.

From me, I reminded myself.

            “Why are you here?” I asked.

            “For a bit of wisdom. You’re hurting right now. You think that life will always be this difficult. That you will always be alone. That your writing will never be good enough.” He moved forward and rested a hand on my shoulder. “We cannot see the future, and no one knows why certain things happen to us. It will be a while before you find success as a writer, but you must not stop. Everything you learn will one day pay off. The same is true of your quest for love. Stay humble. Be aware of your failings. Never believe you have it all figured out, and love will you. Find us.”

            “What about my job? I love the kids—”

            “We have worked many jobs, but you were born to write. Do what you must to pay the bills, but remember your calling. Things are never as they seem. In two years, you will move and find yourself surrounded by people from all over the world. You will experience a re-birth, and within a short time, you will meet the woman of your dreams. Your career will change. Your life will change. And through it all, you will write. And when you are ready, you will do the one thing that has called to you since you were a small boy.”

            I swallowed. “It’s just… it’s just so hard to accept.”

            He rubbed my shoulder. “I know. Our future is always shrouded. If it were not, we would not stay humble. But don’t worry, things are going to get better. Better than you ever imagined.”

            I sighed and shook my head. “My wife, she’s—”

            “The best thing that ever happened to us.” He closed his eyes briefly before opening them. “Whatever you imagine about being with someone, she is the treasure. And no, we did not earn it, just like we have not earned the praise from people who like our writing. Yes, we have mended the soil, but God has managed the till.”

            I frowned, confused. “So if it isn’t us, then—”

            “It is us!” he said, placing his hands on the wooden balcony. “But it is us and so many other things, things we can’t identify, things that will one day infuse the series that allows you to write in your own voice for the first time.”

            “I… I do not know what to do.”

            My older self smiled. “Just keep writing. Continue to pursue kindness. Do not let those around you dictate who you are or what you will be. Accept criticism. Do not be afraid to look in the mirror. None of these things will give you money, but they will guide you. One day soon, you will be asked about these choices and they will inspire people, much like your work will inspire them.

            “Writing is not about the books you sell, but the vision you give to people. The vision you have for humanity. A vision that reminds us we can be better. That we can be loving and kind and empathetic. Never forget that.”

            “But, my depression—”

            “Will always be there. It will never leave. God gives us all burdens, and this one is ours. Be honest about it. Tell others about your struggles. Weakness is strength, and vulnerability is everything. Let it shine through your work.” He paused. “Most importantly, do not write in fear. Fear of what others will think. Fear of what they may say. Fear that you may expose yourself too much. Conquering fear is the pathway to your voice. And it is your voice that will affect others in ways you cannot comprehend.”

            The vision of my older self slowly began to fade.

            “Wait! I have so many questions! Don’t go!”

            The image flickered. “Remember what I said. Stay true to yourself. Things get better.”

            “What book should I write next? I don’t know what I’m doing!”

            The image faded away and I leaned on the balcony, unsure what I’d just seen. Had it been a dream? A daydream to help me take my mind off my troubles? I wasn’t sure. I stood and headed inside. Whatever it was, my resolve was clear.

            I sat down at my desk and opened my laptop. That the agent had dropped me didn’t matter, neither did anything else. It was time to write.

The Last Angel Is Here!

At last!

After twenty years, my first novel officially hit the shelves this past week. It has been a whirlwind these past two months, and I can't decide if I'm excited or exhausted or both. Phew! And the work has just begun. I've spent most of the day working on the latest newsletter, which should be done by tonight. (If you're interested in signing up for it, just shoot me your email in the top right part of this page. I only send one out every two months or so, so I won't spam your email.) I have three more novels, already completed (all in the Desolate Kingdom Series) due out this coming year. (April 6th, September 2nd, and December 4th) And I'm currently at work on the first draft of WINTER, which is due for release in the Spring of 2017.

Click this cover for Kindle e-book.

                             Click this cover for the Trade Paperback.






I mentioned this in my newsletter, but the lifeblood of any authour is a book review. The more you collect, the more prominent your book becomes for the search engines. If you've read one of my ARC's (Advanced Reader Copies) or if you are interested in reading it in the future (Goodreads, mark as "to-Read") please take five minutes and write a couple sentences for me at Goodreads and Amazon. I cannot overstate the importance of reviews. Thank you SO MUCH for doing that!

The next step will be three book signings in the next two months. I'll be honest, I'm a bit nervous about that, having heard some horror stories from my fellow writers. But hey, it's an adventure, right? And even if no one stops to talk to me, I'll be in a bookstore for a few hours, and that's NEVER a bad thing.

There will be more news to come, and I'll keep everyone posted as it happens. Eventually there will be a new website as well. (Though you'll still be able to access it through www.stephenburns.ca) Thanks again for all your support this past year. It's been a wild ride, and the journey has just begun!

-Stephen

An Unlikely Road to a Dream

           

I read the viability report three times before I showed it to my wife. I’d worked with Erin Healy, my editor and now best-selling author, in the past. But that had been more than a decade ago. Back when becoming an accomplished writer had seemed so much more attainable. The years had passed, and I was no closer to accomplishing my dream. I’d written three books and spent five years working on a failed fantasy novel, believing I needed to spend years working on a single project for it to be worthwhile.

The three books I’d sent to Erin to review, however, had been written over the course of a single year. I’d accepted a writing challenge, and the result was a new fantasy series, one I was very excited about. I’d hired Erin to look at the prospects for the series, a birthday gift from my wife. Erin had gone miles beyond in her review of my books, and I struggled with her final suggestion.

“I don’t think she likes my stuff,” I said, involuntarily wincing as I grabbed my stomach.

“Is it bad today?” My wife asked.

I smiled and sighed. “Like every day. I’m okay.”

I’d experienced chronic stomach pain the past year. Most days I ate only once. I’d finally gone to see the doctor a month earlier. She was convinced my ailments were a product of anxiety. As were most of the other symptoms, all of which had worsened after I’d lost my job back in May. My stomach hurt constantly, but there were also days when my hands refused to stop shaking. And for nearly three months after I was fired, I’d been battered by hives.  

            Bethany took her time reading Erin’s notes. When she was finished, she shook her head. “She likes them. You just have to make some adjustments.”

            “It feels like a lot of work.”

            My wife laughed. “It’s not. You can do it.”

            As she moved to walk away, I cleared my throat. “Erin also thinks I should self-publish. She says that the publishing world has changed.”

            Bethany smiled. “Yes. And she also says that you produce a high volume of quality work. That you’re ideal for it.”

            “It’s not the dream.”

            She leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. “Times change. Dreams change, too.”

            I grunted as she walked away. I’d dreamed my entire life of “the call.” Of the agent phoning me to tell me that they’d sold my book to a publisher. A great part of this, obviously, was about acceptance. About becoming part of an exclusive club. If I published the books myself, was I not simply saying that I wasn’t good enough to be part of the club? Or was that simply my pride talking? I understood that the publishing industry was at a crossroads. Self-publishing was smashing old barriers. Technology had splintered everything from TV shows to movies to music. Nothing was at it once was.

            With some reluctance, I decided to take my editor’s advice. Unfortunately, I had no idea what I was doing. I was suddenly being asked to start my own publishing company and figure out not only how to publish my novel, but do everything else that came with it.

            It was, in a word, overwhelming. So I started in the place I knew best; my manuscripts. I attacked the holes and questions that Erin had addressed. And before I could change my mind, asked some friends if they’d be willing to critique my work. To my surprise, people jumped in, willing to help. Within a short time, my manuscript changed. It became more polished. The holes filled. And still, I was nervous.

            Even those published traditionally were required to do their own promotions, but what did I know about that? And what about the cover? I was artistic, but visually, I had the skills of a first grader. It wasn’t going to work.

Old Ways Made New

            THE LAST ANGEL had arisen from a challenge. I’d been writing for twenty years, but when I’d discovered the NaNoWriMo (National Novelist Writing Month) challenge to write fifty thousand words in thirty days, I decided to give it a try. For the first time in years, I didn’t worry about censors or what people would think. I didn’t have time for that. All I had time for was to complete the challenge. And so I did. THE LAST ANGEL was unlike anything I’d ever written, but even though I recognized its need for serious editing, I felt the beat of something special in it, something different.

            I’d written two sequels by the time I sent it to Erin, and when she told me what I needed to do, I was ready. Even now, I find it staggering how many people volunteered to help. Emily Thiessen volunteered to design the cover, something that was beyond me, and created a work that captured the world perfectly. Others read advanced copies of the book, and their response and suggestions made it even better. At some point, THE LAST ANGEL ceased being a solo effort and began to feel collaborative.

            That was the moment I realized that Erin was right.

A Very Merry Christmas 

            “How’s your stomach?” Bethany said.

            It was a week before Christmas. Two months had passed, and I was waiting for the first physical copies of my novel. I’d managed to sort through the maze with the help of friends like best-selling author Steena Holmes, who had forged an ultra-successful career in self-publishing. She was, in every way, a star, and yet she took time to walk me through the path, again and again, even when my questions must have surely become irritating.

            “Good. Well, better,” I said. “Just anxious about the book. What if it looks amateurish? What if people don’t like it?”

            My wife kissed me. She’d read the first two books in the series. “They’re good. Erin likes them. So do your other readers. Trust the process.”

            I nodded, grateful for the reassurance, but still unsure. The person you love is supposed to support you. It was true that my beta-readers had nothing but high praise for it, but even that felt slippery. I’d been writing for more than two decades, and this was the first time I’d exposed my work to the public. It was difficult to accept that perhaps I’d accomplished something. That people might enjoy my work.

            On Christmas Eve, shortly before my wife and I left to do some last minute shopping, a UPS truck stopped outside our house. The man handed me two small boxes. I hustled inside and tore them open.

            As much as I’d always waited for that phone call from an agent, I choked up as I flipped through the pages. It was everything I’d ever imagined and more. By the time we left to do our shopping, I could hardly speak.

            Things hadn’t happened the way I’d imagined them so many years ago. And yet, the force of what I‘d gone through, and what was happening now, was still overwhelming. The dream had become a reality.

            “Are you okay?” Bethany said.

            “I’m good.” I paused, trying to find the right words. “I just… I just never imagined it would be like this. I know there’s a lot to do, but…”

            My wife smiled and kissed me when we pulled into the mall. “You did it, love. You did it.”

            I shook my head, felt tears crowd my eyes. Felt the weight of twenty years of writing in solitude. Felt the weight of my depression and anxiety and pain and everything else I’d fought through to write the story I’d always wanted to write. I thought about all of my friends who’d supported me, encouraged me. And I thought about all those who had volunteered to help me do the things that needed to be done. The people who had not only helped me with my writing, but helped me continue when the dream seemed so far.

            “Yeah,” I said, smiling, thinking about my friends and the people who had invested, without hesitation, in changing my life. It wasn’t a solo effort, and I guessed it never would be, “Yeah,” I said again. “We did it.”

             

Two Things We Should All Do

The fall had come, and my wife was huddled in a warm green sweater, me in my winter jacket as we sat on our porch. Her long day had just ended and mine was about to begin. This had become our ritual since I'd started writing full-time four months earlier. A chance to catch up and spend some quality time together. By the time she got home at night, I'd usually finished my chores around the house and whatever shopping and cooking needed to be done. When she went to bed, I went to work, writing in the silence of the quiet hours late at night.

Our conversations ranged from work, both hers and mine, and other topics around the news and in our own life.

It was my favourite time of the day.

Tonight, we'd been talking about the personality test, a free test that copied the famous Myers-Brigg test that I'd taken in Seminary in my leadership course. Though we shared the same worldview (basically, we're both hippies) our personalities were very different.

"You know what I don't understand," she said, taking a sip of wine. "I don't understand how you can be so closed and private when it comes people coming over or visitors or anything in the physical world, and yet so open and vulnerable in your writing."

Bethany had been raised in Ethiopia, the daughter of missionaries, a country known for its hospitality. Her easy going nature had no issues with sudden visitors. But to write a blog this one? That would never happen.

"It's because I have to be." I said. "Writers need to be open and vulnerable to be interesting. The only experience that I can truly mine is my own, and I have to be willing to dig into it to write things that matter. In other words, if I'm not willing to look into the mirror and be honest about what I see, I can't be an artist."

I believe this is true for everyone who has goals and dreams, not just artists. Whatever it is you're trying to achieve, an inability to look in the mirror and be honest will cause you to fail.

There are, I think, two things we all need to do.

SEE CLEARLY

Get the Windex out, spray down the glass, wipe it, and take a good look. Do you want a new house? A better job? A book deal? What's it going to take to get there? How much money will you need? How many hours do you need to spend to get good enough to achieve it? Do you have the discipline to do it? If you hedge on any of these questions, you won't get there without simply getting lucky.

When I first started writing, it still held a kind of mystique for me. I wrote a little, dreamed about it, talked about it. But I was afraid to look in the mirror. My first characters were nothing more than cardboard cutouts, characters that I thought people would like because they were so generic. The more I read, the more I realized that I needed to go further. I needed to stop worrying about what my parents would think or my church would think or what my friends would think.

I needed to lay it bare.

I can tell you, as someone who has battled depression their whole life, this wasn't easy. I wanted to lock away the ugly parts of me. Not look at them. I wanted to lock away my beliefs that didn't make sense and not examine them. I wanted to see myself as the person I imagined that I was, instead of the person that I'd become.

It wasn't until I rid myself of these hangups and recognized that I was human, and that there were other people out there struggling like I was, that I found my voice. After that, the discipline became easier. Words flowed from my fingers. I wasn't writing to make people happy any more, to please certain segments of society, I was, as one writer put up, cutting my vein open and letting it bleed onto the page."

Nothing has been the same since.

RUN CLEANLY

We dreamers are often fed a lot of cliche stuff about how important the process is and that the journey matters more than the destination. That's hard to accept when you have two little kids, a job you hate, and you're frantically scribbling lines or practicing your latest song or taking a night course. Who the hell cares about the journey? It's all about the destination, because otherwise, what have you gained.

The temptation, then, is to take shortcuts. For a writer, that might mean self-publishing before your work is ready. (I'm not against self-publishing. Not at all. But you need more than your friend saying "it's good" before you publish your first novel.) For others, it could mean taking financial risks to get you the house sooner than you could afford it.

Whatever it is, understand this: there are no steroids for dreamers. You have to run the race. You have to cramp up and fall. You have to walk when your sides feel like someone is jamming a knife into them. You have to move when your legs are numb. This is the process. This is the discipline. This is what turns adequate writers into good ones. This is what turns so-so musicians into successful bands. This is what turns your professional life from mediocrity to success.

Running cleanly means accepting the pain that comes with it.

If there was a shortcut to achieving our dreams and goals, one that worked, i would advocate for it. Instead, as Malcolm Gladwell points out in Outliers, "talent" costs about ten thousand hours.

Look, to be a dreamer is a hard thing. We have to ignore what other say. We have to discipline ourselves to do things that many people are not doing. We have to keep our eyes focused on a distant horizon with no guarantee of what's to come.

That's what makes you so special. You can do it.

Now go get it.

We need more of THIS

There a time at night, right around three o'clock in the morning, before the morning risers and after the night owls have gone to bed, when everything goes still. And quiet. From my front porch, where I work, I detect only the barest of movements. A neighbour's cat. The rustling of leaves. A chipmunk scurrying along a telephone wire. The movements are sudden, made larger by the silence around them. This is my favourite time of night to take a short break and just walk onto the sidewalk and stare up at the heavens.

Bethany and I live in the suburbs, so it is not the view that one would get further north into the country. Nor does it in anyway equal the view she grew up with Ethiopia, where the legendary African skies are as beautiful as they are mythical.

No, peering up through the telephone wires and old maples that form the canopy over our street can't equal that. But I like to look just the same. I like to explore the possibility of vastness, and eternity, through the lenses of the stars. There is so much we do not know, and in those moments, more than ever, I am aware of my humanity. Aware of how small I am. Aware of how little knowledge I possess, Google be damned.

It seems, with increasing proclivity, that Western culture is getting louder and louder. Libraries, with few exceptions (Thank you, Richmond Hill Central), offer video games for kids, and allow them to play those games at full volume. Grocery stores have their own radio stations (this is true) and shopping malls are like night clubs. Think about it. Think about one place you can go where there is no background music. No noise of any kind.

As a writer, silence is and must be my friend. Even though I listen to soundtrack music (no words) when I write, I only do it to block out the constant noise in a society that more intent on distraction than contemplation. More intent on dazzling you than making you think. More intent on the parade than the process.

The results are increasingly evident. Our inability to put our damn phone damn while we're in the checkout line or driving or at work means everyone is always talking, but who's listening. More importantly, are we listening to ourselves? 

If we're incapable of self-reflection, we create an increasingly surficial society. And for that, we need to experience silence. As Marilyn Price-Mitchell, Ph.D., explains,

"The function of self-reflection is to make meaning. The creation of meaning is at the heart of what it means to be human."

Look, I know I may sound like I'm getting old and grumpy, but there is no question that literacy is affected by noise. People who read a lot don't mind silence because reading requires reflection, which requires fewer, not greater, distractions. We need our society to move forward, not back. We do not want to fight the same battle that we fought when it comes to equality and justice and freedom simply because our kids want noise all the time. We don't want to lose the gains we've made in medicine because people would rather read a two page Wikipedia page than go to school. And mostly, we don't want to lose the ability to dream because we're always running from one thing to the next, with no awareness of where we're going.

I'm not saying that music isn't important, or that connecting with others shouldn't happen. What I'm saying is that maybe we need to take a bit more time thinking quietly without the flash and buzz and fireworks of the latest Netflix show going on in the background.

Dreamers need to be able to discern where they are before they'll ever go anywhere. So some time this week, turn the radio off on your way to work. Think about what you want in life. Think about what you want to do next. Think about what you need to do next to get there.

Above all, enjoy the quiet. Learn to relish it, embrace it. Even as we sit in those metal coffins, week after week, we can learn to go somewhere else, envision what will happen, and motivate ourselves to take the next step.

And we can do it in silence. 

The One Thing Every Dreamer Must Do

The house is quiet today. Bethany works late on Tuesdays, and its just me and our two Garfields, Octavian and Nelson (17 and 23lbs), who are lounging by the front window. As someone who has waited their entire life to write professionally, it's now time to make up my glamorous to-do list for the day.

1. Sweep
2. Straighten
3. Clean the bathroom
4. Grocery shopping
5. Clean the litter box
6. Edit a piece written by a friend
7. Write a blog
8. Clean Bethany's lunch dishes from today
9. Make and prepare Bethany's lunch and dinner for tomorrow
10. Clean kitchen and put all dishes away
11. Prep coffee for tomorrow.
12. Write 2000 words in my new novel, Storms
13. Edit early chapters from previous novel
14. Spend at least an hour reading fiction (Not a chore, but it needs to be included, writers HAVE to read)
15. Three twitter comments a day
16. Attend to various social media platforms


Welcome to the life of a professional writer! And if it looks vaguely familiar, perhaps something some of you from a certain vintage remember, Yes. I, a 210lb weightlifter with a shaved head, is a traditional housewife.

Four months ago I was fired (something I will talk about later this week. Teaser: let's just say don't stand up for yourself if you don't have a union.) and my wife picked up a new job the same day I was released. For a variety of reasons, I decided to take a shot a becoming a pro. Which meant I needed to assume all those other jobs that my wife had previously shared.

That list may not look like much, but if you TRULY want your house to be clean, that list is a fourteen hour day. And its every day. My one break comes on the weekends, when I don't blog. Can any women relate to this? Anyone at all? (And I know that I have a number of readers who also have kids, on top of that list, and they're still working on pursuing their dreams. Which, I have to say, totally kicks ass.)

Which leads me to the point of this post: I was raised in a traditional home, my mom worked part-time and stayed home with the kids. She did the cooking and cleaning while my dad went to work every day from Monday to Friday. He handled the cars, the house repairs, the bills. back in the eighties, in the small Catholic town where I was raised, this was not unusual.

Maybe it was because I was the youngest, I don't know, but I was a dreamer from the time I was a kid, though it wasn't until I was twenty-four until I figured out what I wanted to do. Only problem was that I had no idea how to get there. I worked as a youthworker during the day and wrote at night. The writing only paid sporadically and the youth work paid little.

It didn't matter. The point was the dream. I liked helping kids and I loved writing stories, so I went my own way.

It's the one thing every dreamer MUST do, and there is no compromise here.

EVERY DREAMER MUST WALK THEIR OWN PATH, REGARDLESS OF WHAT OTHER PEOPLE TELL THEM.

Obviously, that doesn't mean everyone needs to quit their job and become a full-time house husband or house wife. (We must still be responsible.) But you can't be ashamed of it, either. I know a lot of men that would never do what I'm doing, because they would feel (wrongly) diminished by it.(This is particularly true of those of certain vintage and culture. My hope is that we'll move away from that towards the equality. True equality.) Frankly, it doesn't bother me. It doesn't bother me that Bethany knows more about cars than I do (I like the red ones) or that she fixes things around the house or that she handles the budget. What matters is that I do the things I'm good at, like care giving, and write.

You can't let others dictate who you are and who you want be and where you want to go. You have to walk your own path. You have to own it. You have to be proud of it.

This has been a big year for me. When Storms, my latest novel, is done, that will be four novels in sixteen months. I'm proud of all of them. An editor is looking at my last three this month. If the situation for us changes the next two months, I'll find a job, and we'll figure out where we'll go from there as a couple. But no one else will dictate what I can or cannot do. What I should or should not do. Whether it's because I'm a man or because it isn't "normal" for a man to do the cooking and cleaning or for any other reason.

Dreamers choose their own path. Why? Because they must.

Whatever your goal in life is, whatever your dream, don't let anyone tell you what road to take. Choose the one that causes your stomach to dance and your heart to beat more quickly. We only go around this planet once. Why not make the best of it?

22 Years - An Ode to Dreamers, the 2015 Toronto Blue Jays

I remember the first time they won the World Series. I was 21 years old. The Blue Jays had been so good during my teens, however, so good that the championship felt more like a coronation.  What I didn't know was that they wouldn't sniff the playoffs again until well after my 40th birthday, producing mediocre teams that were never awful, but rarely competitive.

What a difference a year makes.

With a lineup so long it extends 3000 miles from Vancouver to St, John, from 1 through 9, the Toronto Blue Jays used some key acquisitions (Price, Tulo, Revere, Lowe, Hawkins), and some long time stars (Bautista, Eddie) as well as some off-season pick-ups (Donaldson, Russell) to fashion a season that any novelist, any storyteller, any dreamer, would love. (I would love to write this screenplay!)

Watching their goggled, champagne and beer soaked festivities when they clinched the division in the clubhouse was as close to I can remember, as a sports fan, of truly living vicariously through one of my teams.(I asked my wife if we had some goggles, sadly, we did not)

I know that this website is about dreams, and one might wonder what a professional sports team has to do with that. But like many dreamers, I grew up a fan. I loved the stories of players being second-guessed, of working their whole life towards a dream. No doubt they heard the same stuff we all hear. "Get a regular job. Become an honest citizen. Why the hell are you still trying to make it by playing a stupid game?"

I think about Chris Colabello, who spent seven years(!) in Independent baseball making about as much as someone working at Molly Maid, still believing he could do it. Or Kevin Pillar, the Blue Jays' highlight reel center fielder, drafted in the 32nd round and being doubted every step of the way.

As a fan, sports can be draining. This is especially true of Toronto sports fans. (I see you Cleveland) The Bills, the most followed team in Southern Ontario, haven't been to the NFL playoffs in fifteen years. The Raptors (God Bless Them!) made it to the playoffs the past two years, but were swept in the first round and didn't look competitive. The Toronto Maple Leafs are a team that plays in the NHL. They haven't been to the Cup Finals since 1967. (I see you, Cubs' fans.)

So when a season like this happens, especially in an immersive sport like baseball, you revel in it. And as a dreamer and writer, with every home run, with every great defensive play, and every key strikeout, it causes you to throw your hands up in joy. Why? Because every single member of a professional sports team is a dreamer, that's why. They've been told they're whole life that the odds were low. That they had to be prepared for failure. That they would only make it if they were lucky.

Why do you think fans buy in so much?

Many experts have picked the Blue Jays, with their thunderous offense and what amounts to two aces in their rotation (Price and Stroman) as World Series favourites. Maybe, but playoff baseball is essentially tournament baseball, so anything can happen.

If they do win though, I will celebrate this more than I did when I was twenty-one. Back then, as a late bloomer, I didn't realize that I wanted to be a writer. Didn't realize that the one dream that would consume me for the next two decades would never compel me to mix the two, that throughout my writing life, I'd never seen my favourite team in the post season. And I didn't realize that the price I would pay for those dreams, or the rewards from it, even as I watched our boys flounder, year after year.

Well, they're back. A bunch of dreamers from all over the world, put together to achieve the ultimate prize.

Go get 'em, boys. And like Wee Will Keeler once said. 'hit 'em where they ain't!'

GO JAYS!

My Ten Greatest Inspirational Movies of All Time (Part II)

When we talk about inspirational movies, we're usually talking about sports films. However, there's a wide range of movies that didn't involve sports that were also inspiring. For my list, the rules are simple.

One, I have to have seen the film.

Two, the film needs to have have an impact on me in a visceral way. I know that sounds strange when you're making a list of inspirational films, It's just, how many times do you see movies like Brian's Song, released in 1971, on that list, and the writer is under thirty. Not that it isn't a good story, but come on.

Like most lists, this is completely subjective. And I'd love for your feedback as to movies I missed and ones that I should have included.

One final note. A movie doesn't have to be about someone achieving something, whether they become champions or famous, to be inspirational. That needs to be said, because I'm sure a number of people will look at some of these choices and may wonder how they're inspirational. That's why a list like this is subjective.

These films inspired me, and as such, have probably been watched multiple times.

If you're looking for films that didn't make the list, but might interest you, check out my Friend's Suggestions on yesterday's post. 

So here they are, my top five inspirational films of all time!

#5 A Knight's Tale

Paul Bettany makes every movie he's in a good place to go, and (the departed) Heath Ledger is wonderful here, too. So is the rest of the cast. Call this movie "airy" or "silly" if you like, but if you want to be inspired, throw this one on. You won' regret it.

Favourite Moment: As with alll these films, there are so many. But I particularly love when the Black Prince exonerates William and knights him. Great stuff.

#4 SHAKESPEARE IN LOVE



This film won best picture, and then was criticized as being "an idealist's choice." Nonsense. It's clever and accessible, and both Joseph Fienes and Gwyneth Paltrow do their best work here. There just isn't anything that isn't inspiring here for me. Wonderful, wonderful film.

Favourite Moment: The final play, when Paltrow plays the role of Juliet. The ending is fantastic as well.

#3 IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE



It has stood the test of time. Surprisingly, it wasn't nearly as popular when it was released. But the basic question is one that can't help but get you, and Stewart's performance may me be his best. A Christmas tradition, and a movie that never does anything but inspire you.

Favourite Moment: Auld Lang Syne. Nothing else needs to be said. Oh, and pass the Kleenex.



#2 ROCKY




I was going to include the trailer, but the trailers they made forty years ago were garbage. Anyway, this film still holds up after so many years. For me, it's one of the best romantic films in the past forty years. (Both I and II) After that, the films devolve into entertainment. But this film won eight Academy awards for a reason.

I watch this film a few times a year, sometimes more. With its low budget and gritty framing and terrific writing (by Stallone), it never feels "untrue." I can't think of a better compliment. Forget how Stallone became a caricature of himself and watch Rocky again. He was great, and so is this is this film.

#1 RUDY




When I first started compiling this list, I thought the race for Number One would be complicated. Difficult.

It wasn't.

Without question, this is the greatest inspirational movie of all time. It's based on a true story, and while the film takes some fictitious license, that license is limited.

I grew up a Catholic, a third-generation Notre Dame fan, but what makes this film work is the earnestness of a true underdog trying to do something that no one believed he could possibly achieve. More, he didn't win a championship, this isn't that kind of film. It's focus remains solely on an underdog who does everything he can to attain his dream. Glorious.

Favourite Moment: When he sits on the rock and finally opens that acceptance letter from Notre Dame. Tears. Every. Single. Time.

And THIS is my greatest inspirational film of all time.

The Best Feeling in the World

Okay, so the title might be a bit hyperbolic. I'm sure there are better feelings. Like having a baby. (I haven't had one, so i don't know.) Getting married was okay. (Just kidding, that was probably the best day of my life.)

But in terms of dreams, the best feeling in the world is seeing your work go out and knowing something is about to happen, good or bad. I suppose getting a call from a publisher that you'd just sold your novel or a call from your agent that you'd just made the NYT bestseller list would be amazing. But those are things outside your control.

Today I sent the three manuscripts I wrote this year to a professional editor. I did this at the prompting of a friend. Sometimes you have to take a risk, and you always have to be willing to let your work go.

You can't be a dreamer on an island. It doesn't work like that.

Malcom Gladwell has some good things to say about that in his book, Outliers. This notion that people "pick themselves up by their bootstraps" and just do it is a myth. We need help to achieve our goals. We need to be humble when we are offered correction. And no matter how good we think we are, we can always get better.

Sure, those sound like cliches. but I've talked with so many young people, particularly young artists, who believe they have to make it on their own.

You can't.

The greatest myth in the world of art is that people achieve great success on their own.

This plays to the individualism of our culture and the mythology that many artists are prone to absorb. But it just isn't true.

And now, with my work sent out, I will wait until October 19th before I hear back from my editor. She will give me an idea of what works in my books and what doesn't, and where to go from here. Even thinking about it causes my stomach to flutter a bit. I'm certain the weeks will pass slowly.

In the meantime, its on to the next book. Two thousand words a day, regardless of how I feel, as well as a a blog five days a week to see if I can encourage all you fellow dreamers.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe sending your work out isn't the greatest feeling in the world. But man, it's up there. The key is control.

If you control your life, if you put in the effort and then do whatever is necessary to see your dream through, it makes life exciting.

I don't know what my editor will say. And even if she likes my work, there's no guarantee that the books will be published.

But I've put myself out there. First with my beta-readers, and now with an editor.

Don't rely on someone else to give you your dream. Go get it yourself. You won't regret it.




  

Prayer Circle Anyone?

I worked with someone (Kathy) a couple of years ago who was, without question, one of the most positive people I'd ever met. Ever time i said hello, she would shake my hand, her eyes going wide like she'd just won the lottery.

"Steve! How are you?" Kathy would ask me, her face glowing. "Isn't this a wonderful day?"

She was very nice, and everything she said needed exclamation marks. While I appreciated her love for life, I did find it difficult at times. Every day wasn't a great day for me. Not just because of my mental health issues, but because. like many writers and artists, I find life upsetting. It bothers me how we factory farm animals. It bothers me that we're more interested in Kim Kardashian's belly ring than the treatment of refugees. It bothers me that we don't care about single moms in this country.

And so there were a number of days when I would avoid Kathy. It wasn't a wonderful day, and as an artist, some days were particularly horrible. All I wanted to do was get through the next eight hours and commiserate about the state of humanity with a friend or a bottle of wine or both.

That hasn't changed. And there are days, like this this week, that life feels particularly hard. I'm sure a psychologist may have a better idea why this is so, but since I'm poor and can't afford one, I don't fully understand the rhythm to it. I only know that waking up today was tough. Just like yesterday. Am I still writing? Yes. Did I still write a blog and two thousand words on my new novel last night. Yes. Do I feel like sunshine and meadows? No.

REDOING THE WEBSITE

When I reconfigured this website a week ago to write about the thing that mattered most to me, people pursuing their dreams, I resolved to give you, whatever reader happened to stop by, some level of encouragement. Something to take with you tomorrow that would give you strength going forward. I resolved that this wouldn't be another writer's vanity site. It wasn't about me. It was about you, as much as I could manage.

Today, I don't have any happy stories to tell. I still have two thousand words to write, and I'm guessing the only reason I'm here is that I'm married to such an amazing person. Bethany not only understands me, but takes the sting out of my misanthropy, when I feel like humanity is nothing but a failure. When I feel like I'm nothing but a failure.

This has been a difficult year. I was fired from my job as a youth worker in June, three weeks before the school year ended. I was fired by someone I thought was my friend, and it was done in a way that left me a nervous wreck. The entire year had been stressful, so much so that I developed IBS. It became difficult for me to eat, and even now, I generally eat only once a day. After I was fired, I started to get the shakes. I wasn't working, so I took over house duties, and when I did the groceries, I'd pull out the bills before the cashier finished so she wouldn't see my hands shake.

I remember one incident at the grocery store where I'd failed to prepare the bills ahead of time. When I reached into the wallet, I couldn't control my shaking hands, and it took about ten seconds for me to pull out the appropriate bills. The cashier was very nice, but her expression was such that I felt my face flush with embarrassment.

Oddly, my writing has flourished the past six months. Depression and sadness are not a hindrance when it comes to art, though it is a hindrance in other ways.

I seldom go out now. And while things have started to improve, there are weeks, like this one, when it is all I can do to get up.

I don't say this to elicit some sort of "touchy-feely" commiseration, I say it because I know some of you are going through the same thing. And while we all want to be encouraged by people who "have it all together," I'd much rather listen to someone who struggles with the same shit that I do.

Artists like to hide their brushstrokes. Unfortunately, fellow dreamers become discouraged when these heroes, who have done such great things, achieve one success after another without understanding that pain is part of the process.

PRAYER CIRCLE?

When I was a teenager, I was part of an active youth group in my church. Once a week we would hold prayer meetings. About twenty of us would gather into a circle and talk about our struggles and then pray together. Sometimes (too often) the meetings would dissolve into gossip. ("I need help with Diana, because she's been flirting with Tom and he doesn't know that God has promised him to me." Or, "I really like Jean, but her family doesn't go to church enough for us to be together, and I saw her hanging out with Jim, who's not a Christian.")

But generally speaking, it was a pretty amazing thing. It was good to share, and even if it went off the rails at times, there was a sense of togetherness, of everyone leaning in together. Leaning on one another.

I thought about posting something else today, because I really didn't want to write about the noise in my life. But if I want this to be a place where we can gather and be open together, we need to feel one another's pain. We need to see that we're not alone. That the dream we chase isn't just meadows and sunshine.

We need to see the brushstrokes.

These are mine.

Yes, I expect things to get better. And no, I understand that as a writer I will probably never think of the world in terms of sunshine and rainbows. There is too much pain for that.

But I remember how I felt in that circle. I remember how privileged I felt when one of my friends shared a private struggle. How connected I felt because I shared that same struggle.

We work towards our dreams, and we want to be encouraged. But we can't forget that part of our journey is to rally around those who are struggling. That we're all human. That we're all going to go through times when everything feels wrong.

My hope today is that this place can be part of your Prayer Circle, whether you're religious or not. I don't have all the answers. No one does. But what I do know is that there is a place for all of us, and that so long as we focus on pursuing that which makes us feel most alive, we have a chance to pull out of any tailspin.

You are loved. You will fail. Together, we can pick each other up again.