Showing posts with label Inspirational. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Inspirational. Show all posts

Friday, May 11, 2018

Ode to the Non-Bios


So it's about that time of year again, where we raise our glasses and toast the womb from which we squeezed out squealing.

Thanks, Mom!

It's a manufactured holiday to be sure, Mother's Day, and there's that other parental holiday, the forgotten stepchild who pokes his head out in June from his nook beneath the stairs to claim another tie and a pair of socks and maybe, if you really love him, a 750ml bottle of fine scotch.

Thanks, Dad!

He ~is~ the one who inserted you into your mom's womb, after all, and that baby was a lot easier going in than coming out, wasn't it Mom.

But really, those aren't two halves of the whole modern parental unit, are they? Used to be we planted a family tree with Mom and Dad at the roots and all their offspring sprouted into clean, well-pruned branches. But today it's more of an unruly family bush, with offshoots of divorce from the wildly popular put-em-all-to-work corporate, everything's-free government culture we embrace in modern civilization.

No more staying at home, Mom! Get a fucking job, you bum!

Anyway, now that moms worldwide have been successfully sewn into the workforce tapestry, we see the proliferation of this Neapolitan-style family unit where parents are no longer defined by their biological ties to the children they are raising and supporting.

In other words, the terms baby-daddy, baby-momma, and biological parent are no longer redundancies.

See, in today's world, the terms mom and dad and parent can mean just about anybody.

And yet we continue to dedicate two days a year to bio-mom and bio-dad, just because one poked the baby into the other, and her choice was not to kill it. These days, being the bio doesn't mean so much as it used to mean, that's the point. It certainly doesn't default you into the mother and father status that we rightfully covet.

No, those terms should be reserved for the folks who do the heavy lifting. Want my opinion? Here it is anyway.

Let's say thanks to the people who are actually doing the work!

Because Mom might really be grandma. Dad may be the boyfriend who coaches the soccer team and pays the apartment bills.

How about the step-parents in remarriage arrangements? Often the ex-wife viciously attacks and sabotages the new wife. This is a theme so common it has become cliche. It is almost mandatory for the ex-wife to poison the kids and wreak financial havoc on the father and his new family.

The wife endures these attacks and drives her step-children to school, to the doctor, buys them clothes and Christmas gifts and plans their birthday parties only to have bio-mom sabotage her efforts through quiet manipulation and wormy words in the child's ear. Bio-mom launches social media sorties, spreads rumors through infiltrating the friend network, ties up the finances and so on. It never ends, and we never say thanks to the step-mom for the pain she endures on behalf of someone else's children.

Step-Mom will never have her day...

And that's a sad fact, folks. There will never be a Step-Mom day. My son will go to his mother's on Sunday, and she will be Mom to him for all his years. She'll be the mom at his wedding, and she'll be the "real" grandma to his children.

And yet my wife, the step-mom who has raised him since he was four, has endured more suffering than a few hours of labor and nine months of weight gain to raise this boy. She chooses to be a mother to him, even during the hard parts, and never once has she asked to be paid for her service.

She loves without reward, and does so while under constant, relentless attack from the ex-wife on all fronts. She has for thirteen years refused to surrender, and she always rises to the occasion when called, and does so with admirable poise. Her love is utterly, totally without condition.

And isn't the definition of unconditional love to love without thanks?

Well, I for one say thanks to those women on Mother's Day. Thank you step-moms. Thank you grandmas. Thank you aunts and sisters and cousins and friends.

Thank you for being the mom these children deserve, even if they they never call you Mom.

Oh, and thank you step-dad for paying for everything in two households. Here's your tie, don't open it until June.


 - Eric



Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels WINKSTEPS and RISEN from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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Haunted by visions of a demonic angel and sold into servitude by his father, young Alberto battles to survive the horrors of a nineteenth century Sicilian sulfur mine. Suffering merciless brutality, Alberto must save not only himself but his deformed older brother, both pawns in their father's mad plan to overthrow a group of wealthy landowners.Bound by a death-debt to his hunchback master, Alberto discovers a door the miners call Porta dell'Inferno, the Door to Hell, deep within the sulfur mines. When he learns the demon-angel of his dreams stalks the caverns beyond the door, Alberto realizes a strange fate has lured him and his brother to the gates leading to the underworld.Now Alberto must face the creature from his visions and rise to become the man his father demands him to be, or remain forever trapped in a hellish world where none escape.







Sunday, February 11, 2018

Remember this on Valentine's Day


I know it's a manufactured holiday, and aren't they all, but still, Valentine's Day is a fine time to remember you should appreciate your significant other. See, not everyone found a partner with benefits, and a lot of couples don't even like each other. Plus, the axe man comes in the night and widowizes us all.

So, if you're thrice lucky -- you found someone, you actually ~like~ this human, and the axe man's still waiting outside your door, tapping his foot and whetting his blade -- then you should take some time out of your busy, tiresome, stressful, just-let-me-sleep day to show some dadgum love to this person.

Thing is, we sometimes believe we can do things like clean the house or cook a meal. Sure, that's nice, but anyone can do that. Hell, hire a maid and go out to eat. Boom. Done. Those are chores, not gifts.

We think maybe we can say nice things, but we all receive compliments (or should) from plenty of other folks. No big deal. Heck, gussy up and post a selfie, let the damn-girl comments roll in.

Buy a house together! Nope. Roommates do that. Boring.

Vacation? That's fun, but again, lots of folks join you on vacations.

I'm not saying those things don't matter, but they are not the most precious gifts you can provide. They're silver and bronze and copper offerings, and I'm saying you should dig up gold and platinum. Consider what you alone hold in your possession that no other person could or should provide to your partner.

How about this one. She's in the kitchen cooking. She's busy. You're busy. You sidle up behind her, hands on her hips, nibble her neck and say, I love you, baby.

Now, there's a gift you alone can give her. Easy, isn't it, and pure gold.

How about another one. He's in the shower, shaving. You stick your head through the curtain, say, Hey sexy, want some company? After he stops the bleeding (because he realized you were already undressed), you jump in and have some slippery fun-time with him.

How about this one. You wash her car. Fun, right? WRONG! Trick question and here's your neck-slap, because I wanted to see if you were paying attention. Take your damn car to the car wash, this doesn't count.

Try again.

She's on the couch watching her shows. She's under her blanket. She wants to be left alone, and you want to cuddle, but instead of messing with her, you sit down and massage her feet, because you know she's been pounding them all day and they're aching her. I know, a masseuse could do it, but it's the act of offering it freely and unsolicited that matters, along with the kind and meaningful words you say to her. Massages kinda go either way, if you ask me. Same with things like painting her nails, shaving his back, or giving her an enema because she's pregnant and three-days constipated. You know, all those blissful pseudo-intimate encounters that don't involve kissing.

In general, you're shopping for gifts that you alone can offer your lover, gifts that, if another person provided them, would breach the limits of your dedication to one another. The foot massage, for instance, would be very inappropriate if a co-worker did it at work, and who wants someone jumping into the shower while you're at the gym.

See, it's the uniqueness of your gift that matters. It's the fact that you alone can offer it. It is the fact that the gift is within the sacred boundaries of the relationship where the two of you reside alone, together.

Jewelry, cards, flowers, anyone can do that.

But nibbles and cuddles, whispers in bed and swinging from the rafters in scalp-numbing ecstasy, these are gifts you alone can give your most-prized and #1 guy or gal.

That right there, folks, is why we have a partner like this in the first place.


Monday, December 19, 2016

All I Want for Christmas...

Periodically I write little comments on my wife's bathroom mirror. Goofy stuff like, Beauty begins here, or, My heart is here, and then I add arrows pointing to where her face will be when she looks into the mirror. Stuff like that.

This week, it being near Christmas, I wrote, All I want for Christmas... and added those arrows pointing to where my wife's face will be. She wrote on my mirror, Is you! She drew a happy face.

And it is true. All I want for Christmas is my wife, and I tell her every year she is all I want, and I mean it. I don't think she believes me, so I decided to write it down. For some reason, writing things down adds a veracity and absolution to events that cannot be duplicated verbally.

So here it goes, My Love! I am making a list of the gifts you have given me over the years, ones you may not even realize you delivered, but which have been received and noted all the same. This is why you are my most treasured gift, and why you truly, truly are all I want for Christmas.


Christmas, 2005: Beauty

I simultaneously finalized my divorce with my oldest son's mother and met an amazing woman named Amanda. It was almost as if I had jumped overboard expecting to land in the ocean, only to find myself laid out on the deck of a passing ship. I had recently written a story about a man in such a situation who met a woman named Amanda, and I let her read the story, and I may post it later because it is short and sweet. She was beautiful. She still is, and perhaps I had not landed on another ship when I abandoned the old one. Perhaps I had washed onto the shores of a wonderful oasis, and she was cold water on burnt lips.

Oh, she was amazing. She still is, and I loved her from the moment we met. No awkward silences. No shy discomfort. I took her hand. I asked her to dance. She said, No, but she danced with me anyway and never let go of my hand. I taught her to two-step. She reminded me how beautiful life could be. One touch, one playful flirt, keep my hands to myself and no kissing on the first date, and is this our first date?

We spun that night, and somehow we were already an old couple. Neither of us felt those pangs and worries you feel when you first meet someone and sort of wonder if this is going to work out. There was none of that. It was absolute in that moment as when you hold a newborn child.

I loved this woman. There were no conditions on that statement, nothing she had to do to earn my affection. This love simply was.

She is a book I must have read in another life, because I already knew her, and she knew me, and with such primal knowledge there was no need for pretense or doubt or insecurity.

And that year, in 2005, the woman who would become my wife and bear me two sons showed me a beauty I had long, long forgotten.


Christmas, 2006: Passion

What else could follow such a beginning but passion? We were in love, and we danced, and we celebrated life and youth and freedom. We lit a gasoline bonfire, and that outburst from the darkness blinded us, seared our cheeks, and we reveled until the flames began to settle, and the light came back to our eyes. We found ourselves hovered together over a glowing warmth neither of us had ever experienced or expected.

Honestly, it scared the ever-living shit out of me.


Christmas, 2007: Patience

Oh, Lord did it scare me. I was terrified, and I had for so long allowed dark angels to perch on my shoulder and whisper in my ear that I followed their advice and ripped the petals off this incredible flower. I threw it in the fire, stomped the ashes and ran. I dove in the ocean and slapped the waves, and I left this beautiful, beautiful woman alone to stoke the embers.

Is patience even the right word for this year? Perhaps it should be tolerance, or faith, or something more befitting and specific, but I do believe patience encompasses these things. An underlying faith exists that things will turn out all right. There is a tolerance for the wait, and what happens while you watch the clock tock. She showed faith. She showed tolerance. She showed patience.

It was not a pretty year, and I did not swim very far from shore before I missed her warmth. My heart beat too heavy, and I sank. There really was no other choice but to turn back, wade ashore, sling off the muck and hope to receive what so few people are capable of giving.

I asked, and in 2008, this woman granted me the gift God himself believes is holy enough to sacrifice his own son.


Christmas, 2008: Forgiveness

She granted me forgiveness. I asked. She forgave. It was that easy, and here is that beauty I have seen since our first dance.

She even shares some of the guilt for my behavior, though she was not to blame. Fault lies entirely on me, and reading this she will likely sway her head, and if I were behind her she would turn and say, No, I did this and that, remember?

No you did not, Love. What you did was suffer, and then forgive without condition. That would be my answer to her, and she still would shake her head and insist on dividing my sins between us. She would probably tell me to go in the other room, now, and quit pestering her so she can read.

Not only did she forgive, but she asked for nothing in return and demanded no punitive damages. We simply sat down at our fire, uncovered the coals because they never died, not really, and began collecting sticks to rebuild something we both knew could be beautiful again.


Christmas, 2009: Determination

We rebuilt. We rekindled. We stacked logs on one another and I shrugged away those dark angels clinging to my shoulder. They fluttered over us, though, waiting, because they never go away, not really. They only shy from the light and crouch in the shadows. So we built up the fire. We surrounded ourselves with friends and family who believed in the light we could envision so vividly, and we bent our backs and poured the foundation of our home together.

Truly, this year my future wife kicked in the door to my heart. She dragged in her furniture and clothes and ensconced herself deep in my core and refused to budge, nor would I ever want her to leave. She is right where I want her, and there is a certain warmth to knowing someone will fight to keep you, or slug through dark waters to find you. I would have my own chance to test my patience and determination later, but first... we had to celebrate!


Christmas, 2010: Joy

Oh, the light began to shine. A boy was born. He cemented two older siblings who shared no blood. He joined a man and woman who both thought they might be too broken to find happiness. This year was pure joy, and this amazing woman spun in the center of it all, and here she would stop me and say, No, I didn't. It was all of us.

To which I would respond, Yes, you did. This was all you, and without your determination and will and grace, none of this would have happened.


Christmas, 2011: Bliss

What is bliss, really? It is living within the light such that you can see none of the dark. That is bliss. We lived in the light, and the dark angels flew far above. We embraced friends and family who would walk with us, and we lived what might have been the happiest year of either of our lives thus far.

Wanna get married? I was not very formal.

Neither was she. Sure, she said. How about Saint Patty's Day.

Perfect, I said.

And here is that old couple so comfortable with one another, married for lifetimes and many more to come. Neither of us felt any compulsion to pretend to be someone we were not. It was bliss. It was heaven. It was a wonderful, wonderful life, and she spun and I twirled her and our children danced around us, and the dark angels circled just beyond where we could see.

We made plans. She bought a dress, and that Christmas we shared a pleasant bliss that the light would forever burn around us.


Christmas, 2012: Strength

We married. Our two oldest children, bound now by one little boy dressed as a Leprechaun, red-headed, blue eyed, fair cheeked and protective of his gold-wrapped chocolates as the fairy creature he was, witnessed this woman give me her hand as she had on the first night we met. This time when I asked, she said, Yes, and we danced, and we celebrated, and the dark angels fell from the sky on a clear summer evening.

They took the little boy and flew him away. The joke was on them, because the boy left his heart with us, inside a little girl, but they knocked down this beautiful woman with their wing beats, stomped our fire and heaped sand on the ashes. They knocked us all down, and in some ways they still haunt our yard and peek through the windows, and we have to chase them away with a torch and a rock.

But here my wife made her own dash into the ocean, and she slapped the water and she screamed, and the dark angels shouted around her and there was nothing I could do but watch.

So I sat at our fire. I found a few embers, and I stoked them, and I waited. See, this woman about to drown herself had taught me patience, and when she waded ashore and slung off the muck and asked for that gift so few people are capable of giving, I said, Sit down, it was my fault, too. She had taught me grace and forgiveness as well.

And we sat for a while. We gathered wood, because she had taught me that steel-willed determination can lift mountains. We watched the flames begin to catch, and those friends and family who had seen the light with us huddled around us and provided warmth while the fire began to grow and a new light shone from the flames.

This new light was strength. These are blue flames, if you wonder, the color of dusk and dawn, and they are closest to the burn and sometimes not visible. They are the hottest flames. They may not chase away the dark angels with their light, but they will turn them to ashes if you can put their feathers to the test.

She and I burned blue that year, as did our two older children, as did our friends and family who could see the blue flame growing within my wife. The darkness shied away from us, but there was work to do and work that remains, because these creatures do not die easily.


Christmas, 2013: Encouragement

This Christmas my wife gave me endless encouragement. We decided to have another child, and at the same time I started a company and abandoned a flailing career. It was hard work and a headlong charge into the unknown. There was doubt. There was uncertainty. The dark angels whispered to us that we would fail, that we were weak, that we were misguided fools owing to the loss of our child and should do as we were told and douse our fire and quit.

My wife met this with the same determination she always meets challenges. She bent her head and got to work. She encouraged me. She supported me. She walked with me and I walked with her, sometimes leading, sometimes following, but always together in lock-step lock-arm, into the unknown, swatting away the doubters and waving our flames to snuff out the shadows. This was a Christmas of healing, still sore but not so wounded, and one in which we looked forward to the next year and the year after that.


Christmas, 2014: Hope

In 2014, for Christmas my wife bagged and tagged a bountiful bouquet of hope for me and our children. Another boy was born. His brother had ushered in joy. This one ushered in hope.

Life had swerved us down a back road that led to a destination unknown. There was only hope that we would find more light, faith that we had the strength and determination to get there. But we had been prepared for this journey, and my wife inspired hope in us all that we would find light amidst whatever the dark angels could drop from the sky.

As always, she was right. I believe she will agree heartily when I say she is always right.


Christmas, 2015: Optimism

In 2015, again the angels swarmed us, but they are no match for the blue flame and we know that, now. My wife casually fought them. It was like watching an ape fight a kitten, almost cruel how easily she dismissed the darkness of a failing business and the flap of wings as the whispers and threats began to surface from mouths we thought we had seared shut.

It was too easy for her. She is that strong. Our friends huddled around us. We stoked our fire. We cleaned our home and honed our strength against the stone of this new challenge. We employed all these skills my wife has inspired in me and our children, and showed the heart she inspires in everyone she meets.

She granted me optimism for Christmas in 2015. She reminded me of the hope she had given me the year before, and regifted her encouragement from 2013 with an extra box of strength she had saved up all year to purchase.

And there again is that beauty. Truly her beauty is the gift that keeps on giving.

She really is that strong, and her youthful, blissful, beautiful, magical optimism is another blue flame. She displays this optimism in everything she does, and she has all along, and I finally put my finger on the source of her strength.

It is an undying optimism that the future will always be a pleasant place to live, and that we should live there together for as long as we can.


Christmas, 2016: Wisdom

This year, I already figured out what she got me for Christmas. She is getting me wisdom. I think by now that should be pretty obvious.


 - Eric



Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Wink and Steps from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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Tuesday, September 15, 2015

Recipe: How to Make a Fear Sandwich

A Fear Sandwich is my favorite recipe. I eat it daily, and have found it keeps me healthy and spry. Your body might give out, maybe even your mind, but your will and faith should always remain as young and strong and fearless as a toddler's.

Ingredients

1 cup Fear
1/2 cup Doubt
1/2 cup Insecurity
2 tbsp Luck (more if you think it will help)
1 lb of Fresh Faith
2 pieces of Hard-Baked Determination


First, mix the Fear and Doubt thoroughly. I find beating them with a whisk not only creates the best mixture, but also makes me feel better. Beat the hell out of these two.

Once mixed, add half the Insecurity. Do not add it all. We'll add more later. Beat thoroughly.

Sprinkle in your Luck and let it settle for no less than five minutes. The Luck takes time, so be patient. I find setting a clock works the best, and if you let it settle for longer than five minutes, it will only thicken the mixture. You can add more Luck if you like, but a little Luck goes a long way.

By the way, I've found my best Luck at a store called Grindnose, on the corner of Workhard and Sweat, here in Dallas. You probably have something similar in your town.

Once the mixture has thickened, add the rest of your Insecurity. Beat it into a well-destroyed, unrecognizable mixture, with the consistency and color of creamy peanut butter.

Spread to 1/4" thickness on a covered baking sheet and bake at 450 degrees for 45 minutes. You must bake at an excessive temperature in order to leach out the Bitterness and firm up the Luck.

Once baked, place on cooling rack for ten minutes. While cooling, grate your Faith into a cup, and sprinkle over the Fear-patty to melt. Your Faith may seem to dissolve, but this is how it clings to the Fear. The Faith will spread and cover the entire Fear-patty if you lay it out properly. Ensure there are no gaps or holes where the Fear can seep through.

Flip the patty and cover the underbelly. Do not forget this, as the underbelly of Fear can be the most tasteless part of this recipe.

If you need more Faith, add it. This is one ingredient you cannot overuse.

Now, you can buy your Hard-Baked Determination at Grindnose, or you can bake your own. Either way, slice two pieces of Determination to fit your Fear. Cut to length and width. Make sure the Determination hangs beyond the edges of your Fear, as you do not want even small pieces of Fear protruding beyond your Determination. A bite of pure Fear, without a mouthful of Determination and Faith, ranks as one of the most repulsive flavors you can create.

You can then season to flavor by adding such ingredients as Joy, Celebration, and Ecstasy (not the drug). I like to sprinkle a bit of Gloat over the top, since that helps subdue the Fear, but this is a personal preference. Too much Gloat can be spicy, and can cause unseemly side-effects, so use this with caution.

Whatever your taste, enjoy your Fear Sandwich!

What about youDo you have a favorite recipe you would like to share?



Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Wink and Steps from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Do That Which You Fear the Most

So I'm walking home from dropping off my son this morning. His mom works at an in-home daycare in the neighborhood, and I work from home, and on kind-weathered mornings I put him into the backpack (he's a little over 18mos) and haul him down there on foot.

And I'm walking back thinking about fear.

I think about fear from time to time, because it is one of the greatest measures of a man. (I mean human and include women, don't get your panties in a knot. Geez. Is it that time of the month already? People are so easily offended these days which is way more fun, isn't it!)

You can tell a human's (better?) demeanor by how they react to fear.

Some run and hide. These we call either cowards or survivors depending on whether you are looking out of or into the hiding den.

Some charge at their fears like dumb salmon up the stream into that goddamned bear's mouth. All that work to get your fat ripped out by some grizzly cub. Nice one, karma, very nice, but the next joke's on you, ya bitch.

These second types we call either fools or, well, something else. Usually we call them fools.

See how they failed? we say. See! See what happens when you swim upstream, ya dumb fish! See!

Well, not all of us say that. Some of us stand back and call them heroes. We mourn their passing and admire their bravado. We swim with them next time and face our fears, knowing full well we could at anytime be chomped, flayed, spread on the bank and our heart swallowed beating.

Me? I admire these guys. Sure, I fail. I have lots of failures to report. Heck, I'm in the oil field. I quit my job in semiconductors in 2013 to get into the oil field. Do the math, folks. It's not good math. I missed med-school by half a point of GPA. I'm divorced. I'm short and have small hands. So yeah, I've failed.

I also made it upstream a few times. Missing med school, I created a great career in semiconductors. I remarried a beautiful woman and had two children with her. I published a few novels and shorts, two from a decent publisher, even. I earned respect as an author from friends, family, and enough strangers to measure on both hands and half of one foot. I created a business and established myself in a niche market as a genuine player, albeit a very quiet player as oil prices refuse to rise up (stupid bears!).

The point is this: Do that which you fear the most.

If you fear heights, climb up there and look down. Afraid to try something new for fear of failure, ridicule, mockery or debauchery? Do it anyway. Try it. Fail. Fail often. Fail happy or die dreaming.

Chase out your fears and leave them on the bank with the other dead fish. Swim hard. Slap those bear-cheeks with your fins, and don't forget your teeth. Fight hard, die hard, live hard.

Anyway. Jump in and swim.

How about you? Are you afraid to swim through the bear's mouth? At least I made you a salmon and not a chicken.

 - Eric





Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Wink and Steps from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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Thursday, August 20, 2015

What is your ~Why~?

I want you to ask yourself this question: Why am I doing this?

Pick your "this".

For me, I will pick writing. Why do I write? Most writers, when addressed with this question, reach in their back pocket and pull out the Stock Writer's Response to All Questions:

1) What are you writing?
Answer: It's top secret. I'm not allowed to speak of it.

2) Wow, you're a writer. Are you published?
Answer: (Lie) Why yes, yes I am.

3) Where can I get your books?
Answer: Amazon

4) Where do you find the time to write?
Answer: I don't. I make it up as I go.

5) Why do you write, anyway?
Answer: Because I have to.

Now this last one is super-common among writers, but I want you to stop yourself and do me a favor: smack yourself in the forehead. That's right. Smack it good. Make it sting.

Because that's a stupid answer.

You don't "have" to write. You don't have to do anything. Jesus, you make it sound like it's some burden to write, sort of like sex after marriage. "Well, I have to. It's just part of the job."

No, it isn't. It's not part of the job. You don't write because you have to. You write because you ~want~ to.

Figure out what you ~want~ from writing, and maybe you'll be a better writer. Is it money? Is it a career? Is it a little bit of fame, or is this just a hobby for you that will spin and spin and never go anywhere but up and down?

All of those things are fine, but understand ~why~ you are doing whatever it is you are doing. I tell my kids:

Smart people know how to do something. Geniuses understands why. That's the difference.

So try not to just know ~how~ to write, but understand ~why~ you're writing in the first place.

Me, I want to make a career of this. I want to write full-time, and support my family on a sic-six-figure income, maybe seven, and I'll do it not through savvy marketing, but by writing something truly phenomenal that even my writer friends will gawk and and say, Damn, I actually read one of his books, and Eric Trant doesn't suck. Go figure.

That's my goal. That is my ~why~.

What is your why?

 - Eric




Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Out of the Great Black Nothing, Wink and  Steps from WiDo Publishing.See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

** BE A SUPER-HERO! BE AN ORGAN DONOR! **

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Obstacle Popsicle

You know, I run into this all the time: Obstacles.

Many folks run. Some hide. Others turn around and go home. Me, I tend to curse a little. Stomp around a little. I spin a few circles, flip it off, think about going home, and then either I or my wife talks me out of quitting.

Then, after all that (and it is sort of the way a dog goes to sleep -- three laps, makes no sense, but that's their method), I buckle down and lick it.

I lick it like a popsicle.

Obstacle popsicle. Get it?

- Eric


Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Out of the Great Black Nothing and Wink from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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Monday, July 8, 2013

The Milky Way, Einstein, Two Tweener-Teens, an Old Man, Aristotle, and Other Meanderings

The Milky Way is still up there. I have visual confirmation, along with second-hand verification from several other people. Good to know it's still there, because I haven't seen it in quite some time.

I went to Garner this past week with my family. That's Garner State Park in the Texas Hill Country outside of San Antonio. The nights were so clear I could see all the way to the edge of the universe like I did when I was a kid in East Texas. There were the stars, the constellations, and for a while I thought it was a cloud bank way up high and clear.

Then it hit me. That's the Milky Way! Holy crap it's been a while since I saw that thing. See, I've been in the city since I was twelve years old. I moved to a small town, but it was outside of Houston toward Beaumont, and all those refinery lights bled out the Milky Way. You can see the stars, but not that cluster-cloud so deep in space that you can feel it tugging at you.

I saw it and stared at it for a while, and then I called the kids over and we all looked up at it. Funny what happened next. There was this long moment of silence after I explained what it was, and then my daughter, 13, says, So I wonder if we can see Dastan's star.

I said, Nope. His star is not visible with the naked eye.

Silence. Then she said, I bet if all the stars were visible, the whole sky would be one big star.

Probably.

Then she explained how right and left were relative to the way you were standing, and she turned and showed me the MW was now on her left, turned, now on her right, but it was always in front of me and to the right of her brother.

I said, Now you understand Einstein's Theory of Relativity. Same thing, only he uses a lot more math to make that simple point.

I wasn't trying to be smart, she said.

You don't have to. This is what happens when you get outside the city and de-hypnotize yourself from all the advertising and consumerism and look up and see the universe. You feel it, don't you.

It's like there are strings everywhere. That was my son who said that.

What do you mean?

I mean it's like you can feel the stars tugging at you. Like there are strings.

That's what scientists used to think. They thought there was this thing called Aether that everything flows through. It wasn't until Einstein chunked that theory and developed relativity that they abandoned the Aether. Even so, Einstein and his contemporaries believed the Aether would probably come back into play later, after we evolved better theories. That's the string you're talking about.

Hmm. I wasn't trying to be smart, he said.

It's the Milky Way. It does that to you.

So we talked about Dastan, and who else we wanted to see when we died, and that got us onto the subject of God, and at that point we had to sit. So the three of us sat on a parking curb-stop and kept looking up. I saw a shooting star but they missed it. They missed the other one I saw later, too. Maybe I was seeing things.

Why don't some people believe in God? my daughter asked.

There are only two types of people in this world. It has nothing to do with belief. There are only those who realize God, and those who do not. It's like discussing whether a fire is hot or cold, but you never touch it.

Like with a tub of water, she said. Like if you never get in, you never know if it's hot or cold.

Like that. You have to experience God. You feel him, don't you?

Yeah, she said.

Yeah, my son said.

But why don't people believe when you tell them? my daughter said.

Well, it's like explaining a rainbow to a clam. They don't get it.

You think every planet has its own God? That was my son again.

What do you mean?

Like, we have our God here, but way out there is another God, and we all see something different. Like different rainbows. Like, do they see the same red we see?

That's actually a common philosophical argument. They wonder if your red is my yellow, and her blue is your green, and so on. We don't even know if we see each other the same, like does my human look like your dog, and so on. Some people believe there is either one universal consciousness, or maybe patches of consciousness in the universe. That we all seem to see the same red when we see red implies a common consciousness.

So we all have the same God.

Right. And if there is other life, which there is bound to be, we may not even be able to see each other. We'd pass by and never even know we'd passed.

Like one is a clam and the other is a rainbow. We'd have no common God and would never see each other.

Right. You know we have five senses. You know there is only one that is common to every known living creature.

Sight? My son said. Then he thought about the clams and ran through his senses with his sister. They touched their noses, tongues, ears, eyes, and finally my son said, TOUCH!

It was a eureka moment for him, and I said, Aristotle reached that same conclusion.

I wasn't trying to be smart.

It's not you. It's the Milky Way. Keep looking up. Even trees have touch. They feel gravity and the sunlight and know when it's cold and time to drop their leaves.

They like water, my daughter said.

Yep. Touch is the common link between life. Feeling. What you feel right now looking up is life. Can you feel the Milky Way?

Well. Can you?


- Eric


Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novels Out of the Great Black Nothing and Wink from WiDo Publishing, out now! See more of Eric's work here: Publications, or order directly from Amazon, or wherever books are sold.

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Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Do you feel LUCKY?

This is a post on LUCK and how it applies to writing.

Let me start with the famous quote from Mr. Eastwood:

I know what you’re thinking: "Did he fire six shots, or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I’ve kinda lost track myself. But being this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you’ve got to ask yourself one question: "Do I feel lucky?" Well do ya, Punk?

Ask yourself that question: Do you feel LUCKY?

As a writer, much of our success is determined by luck. I don't have the numbers, but I bet luck makes up better than 70% of whether we are published at all, and the number goes up from there as you chase larger and larger publishers.

If you don't believe luck plays a huge role, then you have not been paying attention. King is famous for his ~wife~ submitting his breakout novel Carrie, in a unique manner, to someone who just happened to read it and appreciate it. How lucky is that!

Well, this post is about creating your own luck.

HOW TO GENERATE YOUR OWN LUCK

There are two ingredients to luck. The first is Persistence. Every time you try, you play the odds that you might get lucky (and land that publisher!). As you try less and less, your luck approaches zero, until at last you quit, and the chance of you being lucky is now an absolute zilch.

So Persist! Keep trying! My goal with writing is not to get published. My goal is to write until I die, or no longer have the mental and physical capacity to write. I hope at some point I will be picked up by a large publishing house, but I cannot control that event. All I can do is keep trying, keep trying, keep trying.

Which I will.

The second ingredient to luck is Intelligence! If all you do is Persist in the same way, over and over, you will never increase your luck chances. Instead, Persist in a SMARTER way each time.

If your book is not getting picked up, write another book. Make it better. Invest in some How-To books on writing, publishing, editing, and so forth. You are an expert on any topic if you read at least 5 books on that topic.

Are you an expert on writing? I am, a couple times over. Most published authors are.

Persist with Intelligence.

If you question that these are the two ingredients of luck, I want you to watch The World Series of Poker sometime.

These gamblers Persist by coming back to the table over and over, win or lose. They also are Intelligent about their craft.

Nobody argues that Poker requires luck, but as every Poker player will tell you: It isn't "gambling" if you know what you're doing.

The point is this: If you Persist Intelligently, luck will find you! You ~can~ beat the odds.

For my current novel, which I am querying, I plan to collect 30 rejections. Maybe one or two will result in a full-read, and maybe one will land a contract. This is Persistence.

I am also researching not only agents and publishers, but also studying for my next novel, and polishing up my editing skills (as always, keep the axe sharp!). This is Intelligence.

If you Persist Intelligently, if you are Intelligently Persistent, you ~will~ eventually find that luck that so many have missed.

Keep the faith.

Do you Persist Intelligently? Name a success of yours, a time when you earned a Blue Ribbon 1st Place, and tell me you didn't get there with Persistent Intelligence. I dare ya, Punk.



Eric W. Trant is a published author of several short stories and the novel Out of the Great Black Nothing. He is currently represented by Debrin Case at Open Heart Publishing. See more of Eric's work here: Publications

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