Recently, a friend asked me this — “why do you like to read?” Of course, my first thought was “why not?” But then I got to thinking a little. Why is it that we (or at least some of us) feel compelled to read and enjoy it?

My second thought in response to my friend’s question was that reading makes us think. And, though it sounds simple, I think I might be on to something. I find that often, we’re bombarded by so much…well, stuff. Television. Movies. Video Games. Cell phones. The list goes on and on. It’s so easy in our day-to-day lives to slide through on cruise control and not really think at all about what we’re doing, where we’re going, who we are, who we want to be.

A good book allows us to slow down a little. A good book gives you some serious quality time with your thoughts. And, not only that but, it lets you see into someone else’s thoughts. This is something that I look at as very precious — a little gift, a privilege.

Why do I write? Why must I write? I’ve been pondering these questions lately. Why is it that I’ve been able to just jump in and do it at this point when I couldn’t before?

For me, personally, it was a distinct void of satisfaction that caused my writing to really take off. I’ve always been the kind of person who enjoys working hard on something that has a definite end. Working on it, seeing it through and, then, be able to look back on my work and say, “I did that.” That feeling of purely personal accomplishment had been lacking in my life recently.

I had ideas. I had started things but I wasn’t really serious about it. Then, one night, I was having dinner with a friend. I listened to her talk about her job. The business had just turned two years old and, as I heard her talk about how very overwhelmed she was by the people who had contacted her in order to communicate their thanks for the difference this company had made in their lives, I found myself wishing, hoping that I, too, would, one day have the privilege to do something so meaningful.

It was, in fact, at that same dinner that I expressed my desire to follow through with the ideas I had started. A writer at heart, it was something I knew I enjoyed. It was something I could do endlessly. All I had to do was find a reason to write. Without a reason, even passions often fall to the wayside. Though it didn’t come to me right away, I found that reason over the next few months. Who knows exactly at what point I found my reason but, now, I’m sure of it, fully. Why do I write? Because it makes me feel good. Because it allows me to escape. Because it allows me to relax. Because it gives me an outlet for my thoughts. Because I know that I’m accomplishing something, even if it’s just for myself.

Obviously, every author wants to be read. Every author wants to influence people. Every author wants to leave something behind… but that’s not why we write. We write because, quite frankly, we can’t not write.

Why do people write books? OK, now, I know it might sound like I’ve already answered this question when I talked about why I am compelled to write, but it really is a completely different (and intriguing) question.

A book begins, purely, as an idea. It originates in the author’s mind, started as a speck here and a couple grains there until it grows and grows and grows. It grows so big, it gets so unwieldy in its physical prison — your mind — that it needs to be let out, needs to be released. The idea continues to grow until it gets to a point where it is so pervasive that it seems there is nothing you can do except to write it down.

Now, obviously, it takes dedication and determination in order to write daily, in order to concentrate all your efforts on something but, for me, it truly was the feeling that “this thing isn’t going to be contained anymore” that was one of the starting points for my novel. As I’ve started to write, that seed of an idea has continued to grow, slowly maturing, growing branches, springing even smaller branches off of those.

In fact, the growth of a tree is the perfect analogy to writing a book. When I started, all I had was that “seed”. As I began working to plant and cultivate that idea, I started to see it grow. First, I grew the roots by providing background, context for my story and my characters. Then, finally, it breaks through the ground and you’re ecstatic… but it doesn’t stop there. As I continue to feed and nurture my little sapling, it keeps growing — fast. Sometimes it feels like it’s growing too quickly, too suddenly and in too many directions that all I can do it attempt to guide it.

But that’s the beauty too, isn’t it? The truth is, I don’t necessarily know how many branches there will be, how big it will end up being or in what direction and manner it’ll grow. It’s just the nature of these things. The idea is simply the starting point, the seed. What you end up with is something you never could have imagined, something maybe completely different than what you imagined… but it’s yours. You made it, and your idea is no longer just an idea — it’s real.

One of the most important aspects of writing is being able to set a scene, create an interaction, simulate a dialogue realistic enough that your reader can connect, emotionally, with what’s going on. I know I wouldn’t read a book that didn’t make sense from an interactional standpoint because, quite frankly, if I don’t believe the interactions in a written work are happening or could happen, why would I even bother reading it?

In practice, as a writer, this is something that becomes part of your life, part of your daily “study”. As I’ve gotten farther into my work and further into the idea of “being a writer” I’ve found myself also becoming a student of human interaction and emotion. This study has, for me (and I think it must for any writer), transcended the page and made its way into my day-to-day life in the way of examining encounters with friends and strangers, alike.

I’ve found myself noticing things — a gesture, a look, a connotation — that I wouldn’t necessarily have picked up on before. But, that’s the flip side: it’s because I have also made it a point to do so. Now, this is not to say that I’m sitting around watching a scene play out, looking on as an outsider, scrutinizing people’s actions. Instead, it is more, as an insider — noticing that stray glance and asking, “what was that for? What did it accomplish and/or why did they do that?” I have found that asking these questions is helping me, slowly, I think, to understand better some of the intricacies of our daily interaction.

Obviously, no one can claim to read people (and their interactions/intentions) flawlessly, but the real idea here is: if you understand more about how and why people communicate you can more effectively weave those aspects of real life into your story. It enables you to truly draw the reader in and show them what is happening, yet allow them to interpret your characters’ actions and words for themselves. In order to do that, you need to not only have experienced similar interactions, yourself, but also, to some extent, understand (as I mentioned before) the “why” and “how” of those interactions.

The job of a writer is difficult. You, many times, want to say something, get a particular idea across, change your reader’s mind or make them think about something they might not have, otherwise. I know, personally, that the idea of social commentary and the positive effect that commentary could, potentially, have on a reader is one of the main motivations of my work. But you, as a writer, have to be able to effectively communicate what you want to say to your reader in a way where they are able to take ownership of that thought and make it their own. How do you do that? You mustn’t tell them. When was the last time someone believed something because you told them they should? You must show your reader and allow them come to that conclusion themselves through the characters and interactions you’ve laid before for them. All you can do is suggest, they must do the rest.

This is the beginning of my first novel, which I have been working on since December – please read it, tell me what you think and, (maybe, just maybe) if you like it, share it. What did you like? What didn’t you like? Would you keep reading?

JACKSON BROWN (working title)

A novel by Jabril Faraj, Draft 1

Chapter 1

I think all men, at some point in their lives, wonder if they’re destined for greatness. As for me, it was something I’d thought about a lot in the last two years. I can’t really explain what it’s like to be thrust into a position such as I was but I can tell you it isn’t a responsibility I would wish on anyone. Deep down, it’s true, I’ve always been a natural leader. But having men place their belief in you and their lives in your hands is a heavy burden to bear.

It has been a hard couple of years. Our little band has had to make our share of sacrifices and we’ve had our share of loss, as well. The victories have been few and far between but when you’re fighting for your very dignity it is those victories, however small, that you cling to with every ounce of the strength you have left.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you how it all started…

Most of us who were infected never really had a chance. By the time the government went large-scale with their containment effort, most of the general public still had no idea about what the Agency had termed “The Infestation”. Only a few were able to get away – the rest were rounded up and taken to the containment camps.

As for myself, I was lucky. Well, lucky might not be the right word. You see, about two weeks before it happened, I started getting phone calls from a line I didn’t recognize. At first, as I always do, I simply ignored it. But they kept calling. Even the debt collectors aren’t this persistent, I thought. So, I searched the number. What I found surprised me – nothing.

Then, they called again; this time I picked up.

The male voice was crisp and commanding. “You are infected,” It said. “When it happens, leave immediately, take the West Highway to the house exactly thirty miles outside of town – you’ll know which one it is. There, you will be safe.”

The voice sounded so assured, yet a tinge of fear and foreboding was palpable in its tone.

“Who are you?” I said, “What are you talking about?”

Only silence answered.

I couldn’t help thinking about what he had said. I was infected. Infected with what? The words gnawed at me incessantly. I made a visit to the doctor a couple days later but nothing wrong could be found and I was sent away with assurances of my regular, above-average bill of health. However, instead of belaying my fear, the doctor’s promises only intensified it. What did the strange voice know about me that no one else, even I, did? It was this curiosity; this wondering that caused me to be on edge, day in and day out. When the time came, I was ready…well, as ready as I could be.

I remember that morning like it was yesterday. I woke to the sound of my phone ringing. I groggily reached at my bedside table for the sound that had interrupted my sleep. I pulled it towards me and looked down at the screen. It was my brother’s wife. Sam worked for the local police department and I knew that she worried about him constantly but she had never gone so far as to call me this early. Something must be wrong. I reluctantly picked up the phone and before I could even get it to my ear I heard her spastic appeals.

“Jackson, Jackson, are you there?” she blurted out, desperation coursing through her voice.

“Yes,” I replied. “What’s wrong?”

“Sam’s not here, Jackson – he’s not here! He was working a late shift last night but he didn’t come home…and I didn’t get a call, either; something’s wrong.”

I don’t know what it was, exactly, but I believed her. She spoke with the unwavering assuredness women possess when someone they love is in danger. It’s not always rational but, though I never could quite feel it myself, it was an instinct I had learned to trust.

I stumbled out of bed and across my room to the window. It was still early enough that no one was on the streets and I could still barely see anything outside of the many illuminated streetlight-islands. I scanned the street and couldn’t make out anything except for what looked vaguely like the silhouette of two vehicles and two or three people in the middle of the road a couple blocks down, closer to the square (the center of the city), but I wasn’t sure. I was still groggy and my eyes very well could have been playing tricks. But something didn’t feel quite right – it was too quiet. Even in the dead of night, the city didn’t sleep – the sound of sirens, a lone vehicle cruising the streets or the cries of a stray animal could be heard every once in a while. Tonight, there was nothing. The voice from that haunting call echoed in my head: “When it happens, leave immediately…” I heard again.

I was instantly awake, snapped out of the haziness by that sudden impulse of danger, that feeling you get when you know – you’re not sure how you know, but you know – deep inside that your survival is at stake. What is it? Is it conscious voice? An action of instinct? I’m inclined to say the latter but the clarity with which the voice in my head spoke was so manifest I couldn’t really say. Either way, I knew we wouldn’t be safe if we stayed where we were.

“Julia, pack only necessities. Do it quickly. Get in your car, drive fifteen minutes out-of-town, directly west, pull to the side of the road and wait – I’ll meet you there. Tell no one.”

“But, Sam…” she pleaded.

“We can’t do anything for him right now. I’m not sure exactly what’s happening but it’s not good. We have to leave now. Once we’re safe, we’ll figure out how to help him. I promise. You have to trust me.”

“Alright,” she answered.

“I’ll meet you in an hour,” I commanded. “Hurry.”

I also gathered a pack I had kept prepared after receiving that warning phone call, quickly dressed myself and stepped out into my hallway. Still, to this day two years later I have not set foot back in the place I used to call home. Had I known as much, I might have lingered for a moment, but the circumstance left no room for such a thought. I walked quickly and quietly to the stairs, bounded down the three flights and slipped silently into the empty parking lot. My eyes darted as I slowly crossed the divide towards my forest green jeep. No quicker was I next to the car as the key was in the ignition and I was on my way to meet Julia.

As I left the underground lot, I shot a glance to my right where I had seen the silhouettes. In that instant, I couldn’t make out the outlined figures I’d witnessed before but, still trusting the foreboding feeling in my gut, remained vigilant in my escape. Turning the opposite way of the blockade, I stayed to the middle of the street and out of the light cast on the sidewalks; the fortuitously dark shade of my vehicle took care of the rest.

I kept to the side streets as much as I could until I got to the edge of the city. At that point, my speed matched my urgency and I raced to meet Julia – the quicker I could get to her, the quicker we would be safe. Thankfully, she had followed my directions to the letter and I found her silver sedan parked to the side of the road, lights and engine off. I pulled up directly beside the vehicle; the road was empty except for a family of ducks making the perilous journey across some distance ahead. I leaned across the dash to get the door – Julia was there the instant it swung open. I could smell the faint odor of bacon and sausage cooking but the sky was still dark enough to mask the final leg of our flight.

With my missing brother’s wife in the passenger seat and only slightly more than an hour removed from my downtown apartment, we headed even farther to the west and north, directed by the mysterious voice’s instructions. I wondered what it was we were running from. Why was this happening? What was happening? In that moment, I had the distinct feeling that things would be very different from then on. I couldn’t have been more right.

From where we’d met, the drive didn’t take long but the endless stretch of country road and nervous silence, of which we were both guilty, multiplied the minutes. We had questions – who wouldn’t? But we both also knew that we couldn’t hope to find any answers until we reached our destination. So, we quietly agonized, stiff in our seats, eyes trained forward, focused on our goal. When we had reached the end of our journey, though, we weren’t sure exactly what to do. The place was unmistakable, though not unlike many of the surrounding homesteads. A metal fence lined the front of the property and opened only for the gravel drive leading off of the main road. Set about a hundred yards back in the middle of a large field and against a backdrop of woods was the farmhouse. A large front porch led up the to a battered blue screen door and effectively framed the three stories that rose from its sturdy foundation. The chipped white paint told a story of perseverance – this building had obviously stood for some time and would stand for some time longer.

We pulled into the drive. As we approached the house I could feel the tension built up over the journey here begin to subside. The place looked almost abandoned; there were no vehicles in front and the only signs of life we could see were the half-dozen goats and couple cows grazing in the field to our left. I pulled off the thin gravel path and brought the car to a stop. As I turned the key back, silence enveloped us – a silence so complete that neither of us dared breathe. For an instant, we sat there, still. I started to move for the door handle and instantly felt Julia’s hand on my arm.

“Wait,” she said.

I paused.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

I grabbed the handle and opened the door. “I don’t know but we don’t really have a choice, do we?” I offered, stepping out of the car. She followed.

We closed our doors and came together directly in front of the hood. Walking side-by-side we covered the last twenty-five feet or so to the stairs. After pausing for a moment, I stepped up, feeling out each step as if they might betray my presence. Julia followed and soon we were at the threshold, the screen door the only thing between us and the unlit interior. I leaned forward and peered through the mesh, searching for any sign of activity. I didn’t see or hear anything that satisfied our uneasiness until I began to slowly reach for the doorknob. As I clutched it, I heard a familiar voice echo from the recesses inside.

“Come in. There is nothing to fear – you’re safe.”

I opened the door and stepped inside; Julia slipped in after me, just as the screen crashed shut behind us.

*****

Two nights ago I was at a memorial service for the mother (let’s call her Jill) of a family that has been very close to mine over the years. They have a large family — six kids, one of whom passed away only six years ago last month. This family, a great family, a loving family, a family, had gone through so much in the recent past that it genuinely feels unfair for something like this to happen again. During the service, Jill’s husband got up and talked about how he had to cling to the feeling — a feeling he knew to be true — that some good came out of the deaths of his wife and son. He stood up on the stage, the epitome of strength and empathy. He stood up on the stage and said what I don’t think many people could, under the circumstances.

The family and their mother were praised, endlessly, as examples of loving and of unconditional acceptance. Even though this is the case at most memorials, this time I believed it. The accounts were too many, my own conviction was too strong and the throng that assembled was a testimony unto itself. At one point, Jill’s husband recounted an instance, while she was in the hospital fighting to recover from the eventually-fatal aneurysm, where a visitor (and friend) asked, “Who’s your best friend?” a veiled suggestion that he talk to someone, find someone else to lean on. In response, he replied that his best friend was lying in that hospital bed. It was such a painful, yet beautiful, moment…and it got me thinking.

Writer and modern-day philosopher Joseph Campbell believed that the best stories are myths that call audiences to higher human values, values such as community, justice, truth and self-expression. And it’s definitely true: we want to hear about epic individuals and noble quests. We want to be challenged to be better than ourselves. And, most of all, we want to hold on to hope, hope that anything is possible. Once in a while, though, we like to be reminded that not all good stories are myth.

Yes, this particular story isn’t all good — it isn’t even mostly good — but it is still able to give us hope. The strength Jill’s husband and her children, as well, were (and are) able to display gives us hope. Their strength gives us the hope that, were we in the same situation, we would be able to exhibit that same strength. Other people give us a mirror to both examine ourselves against and to see ourselves in: they did it, and so can we. Is this true? Can we, truly, say that someone else’s actions inspired us to find our own inner strength, to do something we might not have, to follow a dream? I’m not one to say.

What I can say is that these stories are worth telling. In fact, they need to be told. I recently read or heard somewhere that writers write in order to bring to light truths about the world that we live in. I believe this to be true. However, I might also add that the truths we bring to light are those that are rare, too often glazed over or unappreciated. We write so that people don’t lose hope. But, sometimes, hope is real. Sometimes, hope is standing on a stage in front of us.

We walk through the world each day. We see things happen, we see people act, we see the effects of the emotional world around us. But what really happened? Why did you get that look from the stranger you passed on the street? Why is your friend acting differently today? “Why?” is the real question. “Why?” helps us ask the questions, which bring the answers, that help us understand the reality of our world and existence a little better.

What is reality? The reality is not always what we see. Reality is up to interpretation. In reality, what we see are only the effects of actions and how they play out in the world. For example, the same phrase could be uttered by the same person to two (or more) different people and, almost every time, the reaction or result will be different. People “take” things differently because their reactions to a certain action is based on their experience of the world as well as their direct experience with a certain person, place or thing. This is the reality we live in – interpretation is everything.

Sometimes effects directly correlate to the actual action, or “reality”, but, often times, they do not. When this is the case, it’s our job to sort through the actions, words and other signs in order to determine the appropriate response. What lays underneath and what comes to light when we ask “why?” is, most often, emotions, feelings which are the driving force behind all actions. Emotion is what moves us forward, what causes us to act and what, sometimes, causes us to act irrationally.

It is these emotions that the writer must tap into. My character goes to the grocery store every Saturday. Do you care? No. What if, however, through the story, you find out that the reason he goes to the grocery store every Saturday is because it was the last place he and his wife went before she died fifteen years ago and, since then, he’s gone every week? That, immediately, tells you something more about this character and makes the story more interesting. No one cares that he goes to the store. We care why he does it.

And, in the same way, it is more effective for the writer to show this than to tell it. I could tell you, “Jim goes to the store every Saturday to feel closer to his dead wife.” Does that captivate you? Does that make you wonder? Does that help you to better understand Jim? Again, the answer is no. However, if I show you Jim, if you see that he kisses a picture of his wife in a frame with a layer of dust on it before he leaves the house, if you see how the grocery store employees know him well, if I describe to you how Jim lingers in the frozen foods isle and buys a carton of strawberry ice cream because, presumably, it was her favorite…well, that just paints a different picture, doesn’t it?

Yes, there are times to be blunt with your words but handle those instances with care and use them sparingly. If you are told how someone else feels, if you are told what someone else does, you’ll understand what is happening but you won’t be able to experience it with them. When you are shown, however, it allows you to feel what the character is feeling (or feel something different based on your experiences), you are able to see the world through their eyes, you are able to empathize with them.

Being shown allows you to fill the story with your own feelings and, through this, to identify with that character (or characters). When the writer shows instead of telling, it allows you to make the story your own and, when that happens, the words become a piece of art, different in everyone’s eyes.

Today, I’m inspired. I’m so inspired I can’t write fast enough. I’m bursting at the seams with hope, I’m filled to the brim with excitement, my veins are coursing with enthusiasm. Why, you ask?

This last Sunday was the end of Milwaukee’s second Young Professional Week, a week-long of twenty-two different events with a message of community, collaboration and vision at its core. It was a week when the city’s young people came together and said “We’re changing our city, we’re going somewhere and we’re doing it together”. And to cap off this fantastic week of programming, Tony Hsieh, CEO of Zappos.com, gave a talk on company culture, community and his vision for what they’re trying to do in Las Vegas to change the city for the better.

Yes, his presentation was focused on companies but that didn’t take away from the fact that the things he was saying truly apply all the way down to the lowest common denominator – everything starts with people. Here are a couple of the things he said which really resonated with me:

Don’t worry about short-term ROI (Return on Investment), worry about long-term “Return on Community”.

What exactly does this mean? Return on Investment is a results-based phrase. People who rely on Return on Investment as a measurement of their success often miss the bigger picture and the reason for what they’re doing. They rely on the “what have you done for me lately?” philosophy. There is often little room for mistakes and failure. There is no trust, it’s all about results.

Return on Community, on the other hand, is not results-focused and, yet, it reaps results. What’s the difference here? It’s the mindset. Instead of people being there to do something for you or to get you something, it’s the realization that we’re all in this together. Treat other people as you would want to be treated, give them a real stake in what you’re doing and they’ll come alongside you, they’ll fight with you till the end.

You have to care about something bigger than yourself.

This basically means: don’t go into business for the money. Why are you doing what you’re doing? Are you doing it to make money? Yes, all of us like to be rewarded for what we do but what kind of reward are you really striving for? The idea here is that the quest for wealth is meaningless and short-sighted. The idea is that we should, instead, try to create a society that values social responsibility and responsibility to each other – an Economy of Community, if you will.

Do what you love, do it for a reason other than money and the money will come. Do you want to transform a city? Do you want to educate people about something you have passion for? Find that thing, find that reason and you will inspire people.

Now, go forth!

I can honestly say that, in the end, if I am able to inspire people, if I am able to make people think differently, if I am able to challenge people’s beliefs, then I’ve already accomplished what I set out to. If I am able to accomplish those things, I will count myself lucky, I will die a satisfied man. And it is that satisfaction that is your true reward.

In the end, what is true success – money and fame? I, instead, choose to view success through a different lens. A wise man once said, “all you can take with you is that which you’ve given away”. And it’s true. Nothing you have, nothing you “own” will be able to follow you to the afterlife (if you believe in one). The only thing you really “have” is how you affected the people around you, the ideas, the concepts, the different ways of thinking that you left behind. The way you impact the world you live in – the world that has allowed you the opportunity to change it – that is the only thing you will be remembered for, that is the only thing you truly have.

So, go forth, do what you love, do it well, make an impact and you will have more than anyone could ever ask for.

I’m glad to be able to share with you something more than a blog post today. I often have flashes of stories in my mind – usually, simply a situation or a moment in time – or what some people would call “flash fiction” or “short fiction”. In the last few weeks I’ve been able to explore that aspect of my writing and storytelling a little more and I’m excited about what I’ve found.

In the last three weeks, I’ve written two such pieces, the first of which I’m sharing with you today. I will continue to write these. I plan on sharing a short piece, such as this, every two or three weeks. In addition, these short stories will be accompanied by an original illustration from my brother Rashid Faraj. I’m very excited to be working with him and I hope that the combination of our talents will be able to provide you with something that’s intriguing and enjoyable. Something you can look forward to every other Sunday. Something that’s fun. Something that’s different.

With that said, and with no further ado, I present “The Moment”.

——

I let out a sigh as I reached for the door handle. It had been a long day. What was I saying? I hadn’t had a “short” day in, oh, more than five years or so; it was starting to wear on me.

Around me, everything was just peachy. I lived in a nice flat by myself in lower Manhattan and had, almost in spite of myself, learned to cook and found time to work out on a regular basis. Even my job at a large, international consulting firm, though it hadn’t really interested or challenged me for quite some time, wasn’t anything to complain about.

But I wasn’t happy, either. Maybe that’s what I was doing here. There had been a point when I enjoyed my own company but more and more I had taken to seeking out anonymity in the mob, drinking heavily and disappearing into the maw of numbness they provided.

As I ducked out of the cab, the warm breeze of early summer hit my face. I straightened myself up, showing my full six-foot frame, displaying myself as a lion before the hunt. Though, on this night, all I was hunting for was a good gin martini and a warm seat at the bar.

I climbed up the hotel steps, which felt like they would have been more appropriate on the Lincoln Memorial, and greeted the doorman with a nod.

“Good evening, sir,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, deftly opening the door with one hand and inviting me in with the other.

I crossed the threshold into the lobby and was instantly taken aback by the unassuming beauty it projected effortlessly. How breathtaking, I thought, what a shame that I’m sure more people don’t stop to appreciate it.

The double-sided marble staircase framed the lower level perfectly, rising out of the floor below yet, at the same time, creating the very chasm that stood between. Between the copper-topped bannisters and the steps you could almost see yourself in, I nearly missed the entryway’s crown jewel: a massive, crystal chandelier that sparkled spectacularly. This was the closest to a starry sky you could get in New York.

I found myself walking forward, up the stairs, still admiring my little room of magnificence, my little ray of light. At some point, however, the shimmer of the crystal began to blend with the glow that radiated from the entrance to the Grand Ballroom. Now at the top of the steps, I stood alone, my destination before me.

I gazed over the sea of people, all finely dressed and finely mannered. They stunk of sophistication. “Fake” was in the air, insincerity permeating every conversation, every look, every self-serving compliment. I wondered if I was the only one here who could feel it.

With that, I stepped inside, into the belly of the proverbial beast. People use that phrase often, however, it is rarely so apt to describe the situation as it was on this night. Bankers, lawyers, congressmen and others whose occupations were delightfully ambiguous – you didn’t want to know – were all here.

These people had one thing in common: they had done whatever it took to get where they were and they weren’t going to let anyone take it from them. They would bite your head off in a second. But this is what I was used to. They knew me and I even cared to know a few of them.

That’s when I heard it. From across the room, the sound of that familiar bellow:

“Well, if it isn’t Daniel fucking Byrd!”

Senator Max Fallwell was what many would call a character and I’d be inclined to agree. A good-looking, white-haired man of sixty-five he’d been class clown in high school, ladies man in college and faithfully-married, bombastic president-in-training ever since.

I extended my hand. “Max, it’s been a while.”

“Nonsense,” he dismissed the assertion with a wave of his hand. “We were at that gallery opening, what, two months ago? There are staff members I don’t see for two months.”

We talked for a couple more minutes about The Hamptons, his golf game and their new house in Hyannis Port. I filled him in on my latest professional exploits but I didn’t feel the need to bore him with the personal struggles so we left it at that and I continued on.

I enjoyed the man’s company, what could I say? But when it came down to it, I guess we just didn’t see eye-to-eye on some things. I suppose that’s why I’d stayed in consulting instead of going the staffer, lobbyist or elected route – I’d seriously thought about all – because I couldn’t handle toying with people’s lives like that. And I couldn’t understand how those doing the “toying” were okay with it, either.

I continued on to my left, eyes searching for the closest bar. It didn’t take me long to spot and I was on a beeline. Please don’t let me run into anyone else before I can get something in a glass. Preferably something strong; it would have to get me through the whole night with these people.

I weaved through the line waiting in front of the bar and propped my elbow on the counter. It didn’t take long for the bartender to come over. He wasn’t quite what you thought of when you heard “bartender”, though – this guy was clean-cut, proper and well dressed.

“What would you like, sir?” he said.

“Tanqueray martini. Extra dry, up with three Bleu Cheese olives.”

“Right away, sir.”

As he went about preparing my order I couldn’t help but think back to the saying about the martini I’d often repeated to friends. I believe it was Dean Martin who said: “Martinis are like breasts – one is too few, two is perfect and three is just weird.” It was a phrase to which I often adhered but had absolutely no intention of respecting tonight. Gin was my anesthetic for the hypocrisy I would have to endure and I wasn’t going to spare any.

The barman skewered the final olive and, after topping it off, slid the glass across the counter. I took a quick, careful sip and then scooped it up. As I turned back around, I couldn’t help surveying the crowd. Spotting the Senator again, I noticed that his wife, Jane, had joined him. To the left of them was Leah Taylor, the New Yorker’s film critic, with three or four of the usual suspects from that group – other prestigious journalists, they were fascinating people but, at times, got dangerously close to “self-important”; more so than even for my taste.

As I scanned further to the left, I saw a group of marketing executives talking about, well, let’s be honest, probably the latest and greatest campaign they’d seen. I detested their feigned creativity. Next to them, some Wall Street bankers – now, those guys were crazy – were doing a bang-up job of drawing attention to themselves, Red Bull vodkas in hand. With them you really never knew what could happen. Then came Mark Whitcomb and the few of the other big lawyers in town, a circle of fellow consultants making polite small talk and a couple of artists teasing the edges of the crowd with their presence. The potpourri of society had been laid out in full tonight.

My eyes finally fell back near where I’d started and landed happenstance slightly to the right of the room’s middle. As I raised my glass to take another sip, my view came to rest on two piercingly brown eyes staring back at me. I didn’t know these eyes and that surprised me; the presence of a stranger was as intriguing as it was unforeseen.

I pulled my frame-of-view back, revealing a perfect nose and prominent, yet delicate, eyebrows. As my gaze retreated even further, my attention was drawn to her fair, smooth complexion, which was interrupted only by the playful smile that adorned her pursed lips. She was staring back at me over her half-drank cocktail, golden-brown hair flowing behind her.

She stood with an air of genuine confidence – something that, despite the stature of some of the people in the room, would have been hard to come by, otherwise. These people had developed mannerisms, intricacies that effectively masked their insecurity but they were no match for this woman: stripped bare, comfortable in her own skin and unabashedly unapologetic about it.

Suddenly, we were sitting in a nice restaurant trading life stories and family histories over duck and a bottle of wine. Then, we were in a coffee shop, laughing, eyes twinkling with the hope of possibility. From the coffee shop, I saw summer walks on the pier at sunset and nights on the porch at my place.

The leaves changed and Thanksgiving with families came and went. Fall changed to winter and winter to spring until I found myself standing right back where I’d started, her eyes still locked with mine. As I came back to my senses, I found myself wondering many things and, yet, one thing. What was her name?

I had to know her name. This woman needed to be described, spoken into being, because she wasn’t real to me yet. Catherine? Elena, maybe? My head raced with anticipation. I was walking forward, now, determined to solve this most important puzzle. I couldn’t help smiling a bit and, in return, received a flash of recognition.

As I came to a stop in front of her, I extended my hand.

“My name’s Daniel. I couldn’t help but notice you’re new here.”

“You seem to be the only one who did,” she said, the corners of her mouth curling up even further.

“What’s your name?” I coolly played off both the courage it had taken me to ask the question and the anticipation with which I awaited the answer.

It seemed like hours I waited but must have only been seconds. Her answer came easily. Shaking off the inconvenience of pretenses, she said:

“Oh, I’m sorry, my name’s…”

This is a short piece I wrote for my friend Berni Xiong and her project Letters to He, which she launched in order to raise awareness for Parent Alienation by spreading personal stories of those affected by family strife. The piece was previously published on her site.

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Original Illustration by Rashid Faraj

“Okay, class; time to pull out your drawing pads,” Ms. Brackens said as the children settled into their seats.

This was David’s favorite part of the day. He just loved when they got to draw. People were always asking him what he wanted to be “when he grew up” – well, he didn’t know what he “wanted to be” but, as long as he could draw, he didn’t really care.

He reached into the canvas backpack on his lap and pulled out the sketchpad he’d gotten from his father the last time they were together. It had been almost three months – just before his eleventh birthday. They’d gone to Milly’s for a burger and ice cream the Wednesday before; it was their favorite place. David liked it because, no matter what was going on, they could always just sit there on the stone steps outside and enjoy each other’s company.

Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t need to say anything. Those times, all you could hear was David slurping up the rest of his water or his dad licking the cone obnoxiously. David knew they didn’t always look the most “normal” but, no matter what kind of night it was, it was always exactly what they needed.

David’s father was especially quiet that night. He knew his mom and dad got on each other’s nerves sometimes. His dad tried not to show it when he would see him but David knew when his parents weren’t getting along. He hadn’t even had to do any guessing this time – he’d heard the muffled yelling when his dad came to pick him up that night. They were at it again. But he told himself that as long as it didn’t turn into the middle-of-the-street yelling match they’d had a couple summers ago he’d be okay.

Actually, David had found that if he closed his bedroom door and put on his headphones he could hardly hear them. It was really the “afterwards” that was the worst: dad was quiet and mom complained – David knew more than he should, more than he could forget. So, even though he and his dad didn’t always talk too much, it was nice to be able to simply be with him and sit. They liked the silence.

“Alright, if everyone has their pads out, we can begin, now,” Ms. Brackens’ voice brought David back from his daydream. “Today, we’ll be depicting our families. Yes, you heard that right, you get to create a piece that describes or, somehow, explains your family. I know many of you have different situations, different experiences so please be creative.”

David looked to his left and then his right. Bobby Graham and Julie Hill were already opening their pads. Bobby went straight for the colored pencils. Of course he would, David thought. David resented how bright and cheery Bobby’s drawings always were. He knew that life wasn’t always “sunshine and butterflies”, as his grandmother said, and he couldn’t bear the naïveté that accompanied constant gratification. Julie was also already at work. David could see the crisp lines of a family forming around a proper fireplace, wisps of lace and satin adorning the idyllic image. It was so clean, so perfect, and her hand was the definition of steadiness; he envied it.

David looked back down at his empty paper and, all of a sudden, his mind went blank. He reached into his bag for a pencil and, sharpening it quickly, leaned over his canvas intently. He’d have to come up with something, he thought – this couldn’t be too hard. But after poring over the question of “family” for quite some time the only mark on David’s page was the spot where his pencil’s point had landed two minutes before.

Be creative, huh? That’s exactly what he’d have to do. He began slowly, stumbling slightly at first but, after a while, pretending became a little easier. As he began to hit his stride, David started to think more and more about the last three months – the last three months without his dad.

He remembered that day so clearly. The day of his birthday came. First thing in the morning, he jumped out of bed and bounded down the stairs. It was a Saturday and his mother was already in the kitchen cooking a big birthday breakfast for him.

“Good morning, honey,” she said as soon as he turned the corner from the staircase. “How about some cheddar eggs, sausage, bacon and pancakes for the birthday boy?”

“Yess,” David said, sustaining the final note through the rock-star-like, sock-glide he performed across the kitchen before hopping straight into his chair at the head of the table.

His mom left the eggs, which were still cooking on the stove, and brought a plate of pancakes over, fresh off the griddle. “Why don’t you start with these and the rest will be done soon.”

“Thanks, mom.” David dove in.

He wolfed down the three giant flapjacks just as his mom placed the main course in front of him.

“This is all so good,” David said in between bites. “I can’t wait to see what dad does with the cake, this year.”

A hobby of David’s father’s, it lent itself well to birthdays especially and was something David loved looking forward to. Variety was the name of the game – cheesecake one year, angel food the next and a German Chocolate Cake for good measure. Seven other cakes had been made (one for each year) and never, not once, did they disappoint.

“I don’t think there’s gonna be a cake this year, David,” his mom answered without looking up from the egg pan she was cleaning.

David swallowed the mouthful he had been working on and turned to look at his mother.

“I’m not getting a cake?”

“No, I mean…we just won’t have one of your father’s cakes here, this year,” she said. “He’s not coming to the party.”

At that moment, so many thoughts raced through David’s head he couldn’t keep track of them all. He’s not coming? Why isn’t he coming to my party? Does he not want to? Did she tell him not to come? Did I do something? He was dead silent, not knowing what to say first…or what to say at all. David felt like a deer in the headlights – he hadn’t expected this.

Finally, after a silence long enough to have been noticed, David was able to muster a response. All that came out was, “Why?”

“Your father, well, I’m not sure when you’ll see him next.” she said, still averting her eyes.

This just added fuel to the fire of David’s disbelief. Why not? Why is this happening? Completely blindsided, David was in shock; speechless. He felt like he was being crushed by an endless deluge of heaviness, the weight crushing him, making his breathing harder to come by. Now, he was seeing stars. Breathe, David, breathe, he had to remind himself.

He took a deep breath. His mother was still talking in the background – it was something about his dad “not being a good influence for you, anyway.” Sometimes he didn’t understand her and, right now, David was glad his mind was on other things because he didn’t have the will to try.

The fuzz had finally receded from the borders of David’s eyes and he could think clearly again. Well, as clearly as you could after just being told your father wouldn’t be at your eleventh birthday party. David knew he would never get a straight answer from his mother – he was on his own, with this one.

Back in the classroom, David’s drawing was shaping up nicely. He was surprised at how well he had been able to mask, on the paper, the uncertainty that plagued his thoughts. He glanced back over at Bobby and Julie’s pieces – they were putting on their finishing touches. Both were pristine and unapologetically pure.

David looked back down at his paper and was, suddenly, overcome with guilt. The pride that had accompanied his earlier assessment of success vanished into shame he had spent three months nursing. These feelings welled up in David until he could barely keep his mouth above the rising tide. Every day without his father, every day of pretending he was all right had finally gotten to him and, though he tried, he couldn’t see his way out. David reached at the surface, grasping for something, anything, but found nothing more than other questions.

He had lied so elegantly that many people would never be able to guess the scene he would have portrayed, had it been what he really felt. But he knew. And, because of this, the purity of his classmates’ pieces gnawed at David’s insides.

He still couldn’t explain why he hadn’t seen his father or why he hadn’t called – every time he tried to broach the subject with his mom, he got the same “he’s not good for you” line followed by a hasty change-of-subject. But the longer his dad was away the more David looked for him. He started seeing his face in others’. He heard his voice in the wind. He might have even seen his car parked on David’s street at night a couple of times.

It wasn’t fair but it was life, he’d learned. It was for this reason that, despite the temptation, David resisted his envy for the rose-colored lives of his classmates – existences that appeared so enviable and untarnished – for he knew too well that, often, no one knows the whole truth.

So you want to write, huh? Alright. Now that we have that settled, where do you start? It’s, honestly, quite a difficult question to answer – and one that almost everyone will have a different answer to. But, first, you need to ask “why?”, “why do I want to write?” Whether you’re writing simply for pleasure, writing as a pastime or whether you’d like to don the revered title of “writer”, the motivation is what’s most important – it’s what will help push you through the hard times and will keep you writing regardless of all the reasons you “shouldn’t”.

In a 1938 response letter to family friend and hopeful author Frances Turnbull, F. Scott Fitzgerald critques her work (a short story) saying, “You’ve got to sell your heart, your strongest reactions, not the little minor things that only touch you lightly”. He essentially goes on to question if Turnbull has the dedication to make a career out of what Fitzgerald calls, “one of those professions that wants the ‘works.’”

Though he isn’t “brutal”, Fitzgerald conveys honestly what he believes to be the defining trait (or undertaking) of a writer. It is that fullness of feeling, that dedication to your craft and the wholly all-encompassing nature of “writing” that defines the professional from the amateur. And, though he doesn’t say it, Fitzgerald hints at the idea that a “writer” is one who has honed their craft. In spite of this, however, I believe that he would agree with my assertion that “wisdom” or “experience”, per se, isn’t necessary in order to write – all that is necessary is the ability to feel deeply and to convey that same feeling to your reader.

Recently, I was actually involved in a twitter debate with someone over this very question. When asked “where should I start?” by an adoring follower this man responded saying, essentially, that you should live first, experience first, and then you will be able to write. Here’s where I had to chime in. Why wait? Yes, I’m sure he’s right that more experience – both in interacting with people and, just generally, with the world around you – will give you a better grasp on the idea of “conveying feeling” but is it necessary to write? Do you have to, in a way, earn your chops as a writer by living before you write? I say not.

If you have the inclination to write, I’ll bet you’ve got some experience to draw on. If you’re aching to put your thoughts down on paper, I’m betting you have something to say. Why wait? Just write. Just do it. Writing as much as you possibly can will make you that much better at writing. Some people like to say that everyone has a certain amount of bad words in them…you just have to get them out. So, how are you going to get those bad words out, how are you going to get better if you never practice and are just waiting for the time when you’re “worthy” of being a writer?

Writing doesn’t wait for anyone. Yes, as Fitzgerald points out, you absolutely need talent. In any profession (if that’s your aim), talent is the prerequisite, if you will. But a close, close second is hard work and determination. No one gets good at something by hoping they will be. You only improve at those things for which you work the hardest. Again, I do believe Fitzgerald would deny some people the title of “writer”. However, I believe he would reserve that lack-of-distinction only for those who have not put in the time and effort, not because you “haven’t lived enough to be a writer yet”. Better yet, do your living while you’re writing (or vice-versa). Live (and read) and write and, who knows, you might just get where you want to go.

I’ll leave you with this: don’t be afraid to write, because the world needs to hear what you have to say. Yes, that’s right, the world needs what you have to say. I have found that, in writing, you write because you need to get those ideas you have out onto paper… and there are others (no matter how large or small your audience) who need to read what you have to say. Don’t be afraid. It might not be perfect. It might never be perfect. But I tell you with absolute certainty that no idea that hasn’t been written down has ever changed the world. So, go. Change the world – or, at least, change your world.

One of the things I have found to be true is that many people have a limited scope of experience with the world — more aptly, the many different “worlds” that exist within our society. Now, in no way do I claim to have experienced everything the world has to offer; far from it. However, I do believe I have a unique experience that merits sharing.

Growing up in the “city”, I was, as a child and adolescent, exposed to many things that most of the people I know were not. There are many who would call my neighborhood “unsafe”. Yes, there is the occasional break-in or theft and one of my good friends was held up for his bike when he was 10 years old. But a little bit of “insecurity” is a small price to pay for perspective.

In fact, in America we put such a high premium on security that sometimes it’s hard to imagine that the majority of the world (and even many people in our own country) live every day in fear. Fear that their children won’t be able to do any better than they could, fear that they might not be able to eat or feed their family and, yes, fear that they might die or be killed. These are the realities that many people live with on a daily basis, yet we often choose to ignore.

I was home-schooled (surprise!) until high school, which allowed me to read and read and read. Fortunately, I had parents who cared enough to teach me. Unfortunately, literacy is still the largest deciding factor in whether or not children will be successful, so much so that local governments could reasonably project prison budgets from third-grade reading scores — it’s that important. I, then, attended public high school. Yes, you heard that right: public (boogie, boogie) high school where I where I was, as a white male, a minority for, most likely, one of the only times in my life.

From there, I had the fantastic opportunity to attend Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism, the top school of its kind in the country. At Northwestern, I was surrounded by many very smart, driven, talented people who, for the most part, had one thing in common: they were decidedly well-off. It was a different world, for me — something I had, truly, never experienced before.

The thing that really impressed itself upon me is the gulf of experience between the rungs of society.  First, there is the issue of expectations and how a parent’s station in life and their prodding can, almost singlehandedly, determine that child’s aspirations in terms of schooling and education. And, then, it was the general lack-of-understanding of what it is like to live a different life than the one you’re given. This fact was even further impressed after I left school. I realized that many people do not “know” the realities of the world — not only in terms of economic inequality but inequality, in general. Put bluntly, this inherent difference in people’s lives is something no one can really understand. But we can try…and experience is, I believe, the best lens through which to view those things we do not know, ourselves.

I believe that inequality and the dearth of empathy (or sympathy) is the great disease that plagues our world. When will we be rid of it? The answer is both encouraging and disheartening. We could be rid of it next year…or tomorrow…or in the next moment if we would only step back and say “I’m like everyone else and everyone else is like me”. Alright, alright, we’re not all the same but, as humans, we all have the same desires: to be loved, to be treated fairly and with kindness, to be able to determine what our life will be and to have that same hope for our children. Yes, we are all different but, in the end, we really aren’t that different.

Am I arrogant to think that my experiences can help people (or help people to change their minds)? Maybe. But, I also think that many of us have valuable experiences to share, that each and every one of us have experienced something our fellow human beings have not. These are the things we need to share because if they are not known they cannot be understood and I believe a little bit of understanding can go a long way. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: nothing that hasn’t been written down has ever changed the world. So, write. Tell us about you. Regardless of how you do it — through prose, through poety, through journalism or through journaling — just write. And, who knows, maybe you’ll change some minds; maybe you’ll change the world.

As a note, I’ll be blogging on the Huffington Post about many of the issues surrounding inequality. I will continue to write about and share my fiction here but if you would like to hear some of my more political commentary, please feel free to follow me there, as well.

Hey, there! I know, I know – it’s been a while. I’m sorry. And, yes… I’m still writing.

In case you were wondering, that’s the Twitter hashtag abbreviation for National Novel Writing Month. This writing challenge takes place in November and the goal is 50,000 words over the course of the month. I started with big goals. I hadn’t touched the novel in months and, quite honestly, hadn’t done any good amount of writing in a while.

Even so, I had lofty ambitions of finishing (or nearly finishing) my book. Well, alas, when the end of the month hit, I had disappointed myself. Only 5,000 new words. I had only written ten percent of what I’d set out to. I wasn’t very happy. But, then, something funny happened – I started to write a little more every day. I was immersed back into the story and I started to feel it again.

It turns out November didn’t give me a finished novel but it did give me a push in the right direction. As of last Friday, I broke 20,000 words and am full steam ahead! The last month and a half have seen me almost double my word count and I can’t wait to see what I can do in January. I’ve realized in the last few months that time is our most valuable asset – you can’t get more of it or get it back. At this point, I’m just thankful for what time I do have.

As they say, “nothing worth having is easy” and I’ve come to embrace this fact. Sometimes, when other priorities, whether personal or professional, demand your attention, you start to feel like you’ll never reach the end, you’ll never be able to devote enough time for you to be able to finish. This is a lie – don’t listen. Look that doubt in the face and tell it to go screw itself because, damn it, you’re going to accomplish whatever you please, no matter what. Just remember this: you cannot fail if you do not stop.

No matter how small the progress, if you determine to trudge forward day after day you will reach your destination or goal, regardless of what it is. It is the will to continue on in the face of defeat or failure that separates dreams from reality. It’s that simple. So, go do what you want to. Make it happen. Make something great; cause that’s sure as hell what I’m going to do.

I saw someone say recently that “Goals are nothing but dreams with deadlines.” That resonated with me. So often, we put things off until tomorrow – paying bills, making that phone call, doing that thing that needs to be done – and constantly avoid committing or fail to put ourselves out there for fear of being rejected or let down. We think “If I don’t expect anything then I won’t be let down.” But, in the end, it isn’t the time you failed that you will regret; it’s the time you didn’t try.

From the outset, I’ve made a point of setting goals for my writing. I haven’t met all of those goals but, in the course of pursuing them, I continue to get closer and closer to my ultimate goal: publishing my first book. I participated in National Novel Writing Month last November. The goal (for everyone who participated) was 50,000 words. At the end of November, I had about 5,000 new words. At first, I was disappointed – I’d hardly dented the goal I’d set out to achieve. But, looking through a different lens, I realized that, though I hadn’t achieved the lofty goal I’d set out after, I had achieved something: 5,000 more words I didn’t have at the beginning of the month and my most productive month writing since the beginning of the year.

In January, I set another goal for myself: 10,000 words. I didn’t make that either but the (approximately) 7,000 words I wrote over the course of that month was another huge encouragement and achievement, in itself, and helped me to continue writing on a regular basis. With every day and every new word, I slowly chipped away. Two weeks ago, I got to see the fruits of that chipping when I finished my first draft (yay!). Though I know there’s still work to be done, it feels great to have the entire story. Yes, of course, I would prefer to be able to write full time and finish a first draft in six weeks or so but that’s just not the way it happened.

And, to be quite honest, that’s not usually the way anything happens. The sorrow of failure and the elation of success go hand-in-hand – without one, the other wouldn’t exist. This is the constant challenge we face: “How do I persevere when it seems hopeless?” Just keep going. Set goals – big ones (and smaller ones). Bite off more than you can chew. And don’t get down on yourself when you didn’t get everything you set out to. Instead, focus on what you do have, what you did get. Dream big… but don’t just dream. Put a deadline on that dream and keep your eyes on the goal.

My next goal? Publish by June 2015. Will I make it? I’m looking forward to finding out.

DISCLAIMER: this is not an April Fools joke. You can find a first chapter excerpt of my novel here.

Here is an excerpt from my second draft. If you haven’t read the first chapter excerpt I’ve already published and/or would like to read it again for context, you can do so here. Please enjoy, share and let me know your thoughts! Thank you.

My Name Is Jackson Birch

A novel by Jabril Faraj, Draft 2

Chapter Four

After a few months at the farm, the sun had fully set on our previous lives and we found ourselves in the midst of darkness. Many of us were relatively handy but this, this was an entirely different plane of existence; we had to learn how to survive all over again.

When you have nothing you start from whatever you have and try to make the best of it – that’s exactly what we did. We’d brought some small items with us and a few more had awaited our arrival. In all, we had in our possession a few older weapons, some tracking gear, other simple tech and the farm, complete with a few cows, a dozen or so chickens and a field or two of corn and wheat. It wasn’t much – it wasn’t what we were used to – but it was more than we could have asked for. We were thankful.

In the first week, we divided labor as best we could and set to work. Most of the band had the task of tending the farm. If we were to survive, we had to maintain it well – but I knew we wouldn’t be able to live on milk, eggs and bread alone. To that end, Simon was set, with a few of the others, to clean, ready and account for the small amount of weapons and ammo we had. They also found a way to fashion, as best they could, crude bows and arrows from metal ties and rods to aid in our efforts.

Before leaving our stronghold, however, we set to fortifying it. David and Ruth, with their engineering and environmental backgrounds, found the responsibility passed to them. With the small amount of technology we had, they constructed a makeshift monitoring system with which we lined the border of our fortress. Though there were some weak spots and coverage was often spotty it would have to do. If anyone came for us, we would know.

With the farm secured as best we could, a hunting party was finally organized. We’d survived, so far on the bits of what had already been there but we were running low and, since neither slaughtering the cows and chickens nor starvation was an option, we chose to do what we must. You could say we had no choice but that would have been a lie – we chose survival over death, though, at times, to some, death might have been more enticing.

It became clear, over time, that Simon, Ruth and David had emerged as dogs among sheep. Their drive, determination and ingenuity intrigued and impressed me – they were all fighting for something that they weren’t yet ready to give up. So, when it came time to choose who would accompany me in the search for food, the choice was clear.

We set out on a gloomy morning, armed each with a pistol, skinning knife and a bow and quiver. We left the house after a paltry first meal and made our way over the fields separating us from our destination, the tree line. None of us had ventured in yet except for a few trips to scavenge for firewood, and those parties had not gone far. We didn’t know what we would find and the walk invited speculation, increasing the anticipation we already felt.

“So, what do you think we’ll find, out there?” David broke the silence halfway to the trees.

“You’ve heard the stories, Dave.” Ruth wasn’t one for small talk. “What do you think?”

We’d had a few refugees come through the farm in the months since The Purge. Infected as well, they were now fugitives in a strange land – one that used to be theirs, but no longer. They told stories of the country they had traversed. The infected who hadn’t been rounded up fled to the wild, forced to fend for themselves, in an attempt to survive. They talked of some like them and us, “normal” by most standards, and then they spoke of the others – humans on the far end of the spectrum – who were, perhaps no longer that human.

According to some that had come from the northern end of the city, Protectors had been sent to the mental health facility northwest of the city limits. Some of those housed there were dangerous, others not so much. Some were infected, others not. But the Protectors did not discriminate. They surrounded the grounds and a team traveled room to room, with the simple task of unselective execution.

One of the passersby recounted the beginning of his journey on that first night as he passed the facility. “I can still remember the screams – the pain, the hurt.”

He’d stopped and watched at the edge of the trees. Once the patients figured out what was happening they went wild, attacking Protectors in the same way they had been attacked – indiscriminately, without questioning or respect for their humanity. Both sides had become animals. A battle ensued and the casualties stacked on top of one another. Some of the Protectors were killed and others wounded. But those who didn’t make it were only overcome by sheer volume – they still held the advantage of weapons and, in open space, they decimated the inmates. Some escaped that day with nothing but their lives. The spilled blood seeped into their hearts. Though they were still alive, they were civilized no more, if ever they had been, stripped of any last thread of their humanity.

But I knew it wouldn’t help us to be anxious. “Just keep your wits about you…”

“That’s about all I have.” David cut me off. He wasn’t particularly skilled with either the pistol or bow.

Simon, who was at the front of the company, turned his head and smiling. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you if that’s what you’re asking.” David scowled, un-amused.

I stepped over the low border of shrubbery lining the forest. “Whatever we find, we’ll deal with it, then.”

I turned my head, beckoning the others to follow, and continued on. As the trees swallowed us, my mind raced against my better judgment and in spite of my recent warning, wondering what we would find. We hadn’t had much, if any, contact with the outside world since The Purge and all of us feared what the world we’d known had so quickly become.

We walked for at least an hour with nothing in sight but trees as far as we could see. The miles came quickly, as the first months at the farm had served to kick our bodies into shape if they hadn’t been before. The lack of food and work had done its job, hardening us for the struggles we had yet to face. Our forging wasn’t over, though – there was much more we would have to see, do and endure before this was done.

Eventually, we reached a break in the trees. The clearing was covered in long grass and a small pond of transparent blue peeked through the blades on the edge to our right. We sat still, surveying the open space for any trace of movement. My eyes moved, left to right, over the entire glade, settling at last on the water. As my gaze lingered, a large doe stepped out from the trees and gracefully covered the grass and dirt between her and the pond. She reached the edge and, with one more cautious glance about her, lowered her head to drink.

This was our chance. Motioning for David, Ruth and Simon to hold their positions, I crept through the brush. I reached behind me for an arrow and placed it in the bow without taking my eyes off the prize. She drank still, unaware of the impending danger that awaited her. After a minute or so, I stopped, crouching no more than thirty yards away. I raised the bow with care, pulling the arrow to my ear. I felt the cold touch of steel on my cheek. I held my breath and let go. The cool metal sung through the air straight into her left shoulder and she staggered, falling at the water’s edge.

I turned to the others and motioned for them to follow. Rising out of my stance, I approached the body. It was still, a mirror of the doe’s last moment. Her tongue lay limp from her mouth. I wondered whether it was beauty or irony that shielded her from the knowledge that this drink, the last lap before my arrow hit her hide, would be the last she would ever taste. Her blood spilled into the water, polluting the pureness it had once known – but no more. Though the red would wash out, indistinguishable to the eye, part of the doe would always lay on the bed of the watering hole, changing it forever.

I approached the deer to claim its body. Crouching again, I surveyed the prize that would feed us for a few days. Drawing my knife, I plunged the blade under her ribs to ensure the kill. After closing her eyes with my hand I reached for my rope to bind the two pairs of legs. It was then that I heard Simon’s voice.

“Jackson, look up but don’t move.”

“Oh shit… what is that?” Ruth whispered.

I raised my head to see what they had already witnessed. Engrossed in the deer, I’d missed what I could only describe as a semi-human being a quarter way around the pond in front of me coming my way. The person – the thing – had eyes that burned with the fire of the wild mind, the mind that could not be contained by reason or logic, the mind that followed its urges in order to survive. It still wore clothing but that, as well, was beginning to tatter. The mouth bore the color of blood and a small mammal lay discarded where it had been crouching only seconds before.

“Why is it coming still coming toward us?” David’s voice wavered with uneasiness.

It either wanted us or the deer and I decided pretty quickly that I didn’t want to be around when it came time to make the decision. I rose slowly into a crouched position and began backing up.

“That’s it, just come back slowly,” Simon said, “back up slowly.”

I took one step at a time, feeling the way with my feet, as my eyes stayed trained on its every move. It seemed to look at me with desperate sorrow and somehow I found myself wondering if it would hesitate to kill me if it had to. That thought, however, didn’t make me feel any better and I hastened my retreat. Just as I was a comfortable fifteen feet behind the doe and starting to feel safe, a duck took off from the pond as the “semi” burst out of its curious, meandering walk and into a full sprint. Halfway through my step, I tried to turn as the creature hurtled toward me. I tripped, falling on my back. It reached the deer hide, jumped over the doe and into the air as I felt the hiss of an arrow past my face. The metal found its home as I heard someone let out a sigh from behind. Turning, I saw Ruth kneeling with her left arm extended, bow in hand, and her right lingering by her cheek. Simon had drawn his weapon too but him and David were frozen, staring at the creature. It had crumpled to the ground and now lay, limbs sprawled in all directions, with Ruth’s arrow buried between its eyes.

David heaved a large sigh before bending over, hands resting on his knees. “Let’s get out of here. For some reason, I don’t feel like sticking around.” His breathing was quicker and more labored.

Simon’s body resumed a relaxed posture and Ruth stood. As suddenly as it had begun, the danger was over. I was still sitting up, arms supporting me from behind, as Ruth crossed the ten or so feet between us and extended her hand. With her help, I too stood and tried to shake off the adrenaline I felt pumping through my veins. I had stood only a few feet from my mortality but the company of my companions brought a sense of security unattainable by other means.

“You alright?” Simon followed Ruth’s lead and was by my side in seconds.

“Yeah.” I brushed myself off and set back to binding the legs of our prize. “We’ll have to be more careful now that we know what’s out here.”

“Yeah, let’s keep moving.” David rejoined the group. “For some reason, I don’t feel like being around here when its friends come, if it has any.”

I looked up as I tied the last knot and studied the face that lay frozen not far away. Did it – he or she – have friends once? The wild, animalistic brutality I had witnessed only moments before was gone and, from beneath it, humanity had returned. Would death be the only way to bring these prodigals back to humankind? There had to be another way – no one, or thing, deserved such a tortured existence. As we made our way back, wary of another attack, I pondered these thoughts.

Do you subscribe to Netflix? If so, you are one of the more-than-50-million people who do. I have the service, myself, and love it. I prefer to consume television shows (content) from beginning to end and Netflix allows you to do this better than anyone before. Oh, and It’s also only, what, $9 a month?

Basically, Netflix delivers a lot of value at a low cost. But it also does some other things. They have the ability, given the platform they’ve created and the subscribers they’ve accrued, to provide us with something even more valuable: original content. In the last couple years, Netflix has released the multi-Emmy-nominated House of Cards and Orange is the New Black to critical acclaim and cult-like fan followings. There are other projects as well, including Hemlock Grove and continuations of previously created content such as the fourth season of Arrested Development.

In the rapidly changing environment of content production and consumption, though, Netflix has been able to provide an attractive space for creators such as Beau Willimon (House of Cards), Jenji Kohan (Orange is the New Black, formerly Weeds) and Mitchell Hurwitz (Arrested Development) that has allowed them more creative control and latitude than ever before. Essentially, Netflix has become not only a curator of content but an actual content creator. What does this mean? You — the consumer, the people — are directly funding some of the best artistic work ever done in television.

And, doesn’t it feel good? Not only do you get to experience these fantastic creations but you go to bed at then end of the night (most likely around 4 or 5 a.m. if you’re watching the latest season, right?) knowing you helped make this thing happen. You contributed to Kevin Spacey’s quest for the White House. You allowed us to see women’s prisons in a whole new light. You demanded that possibly the most misunderstood Sit Com (if you can even call it that) ever, loved by all yet canceled halfway through its third season, got just one more. I’ll spell it out: if it wasn’t for you, these things never would have happened. We might never have had the privilege to experience these fantastic stories. Now, I’ll ask again: doesn’t it feel good? Good.

Now, here’s what I propose. Those creators — Willimon, Kohan and Hurwitz — were already successful to some degree, had creations or careers of their own in the industry. But there are other creators out there — artists, writers, photographers, videographers, musicians and more — who aren’t successful yet. That doesn’t mean they don’t have great art to share with the world.

In fact, there are already success stories that have been and are being written in the “mainstream” by people like this. These people, instead of going the traditional funding route (cause every artist still has to get funded) of a music label, publisher or otherwise, have, instead, asked people, their audience, you, to contribute and allow them to continue their work. There’s Amanda Palmer, a musician, who, in the wake of mainstream “failure” (she only sold 25,000 copies of her debut) and not being able to support herself, turned to crowdfunding and raised $1.2 million via a Kickstarter campaign that, turns out, had just about 25,000 contributors. There’s Ksenia Anske, a budding author, who quit her job in 2012 to write full-time and is in the process of publishing her fifth novel. Ksenia is giving her art away and asking for contributions from readers to support her writing. Zach Braff and others have funded films with this model. I, myself, am working on a journalistic project, Milwaukee Stories, that I’m funding through Patreon.com, an awesome website that allows people to support creators of all kinds. This is the new artistic economy.

So, if you’re excited about contributing to these recently brilliant series’ from Netflix, why not try and double — or even triple — your money? By that, I mean: there are tons of fantastic talents who are just starting out, who the Internet has allowed to put their work out there for all to see. Why not take that $9 you put toward Netflix every month and put that same amount toward an independent creator or two? What do you like? Writing, painting, music, cartoons, photography, maps? Whatever it is, you can find someone who does that and who does it well — just because they’re not making a living off it right now doesn’t mean it’s not good. And, if you think about that investment over a whole year, it doesn’t sound so bad, does it? So, go out there, find some people who are making cool shit and consider contributing to their work. You never know, they could be the next big thing. Either way, you’ll be putting your money toward something that directly supports creators, directly enables their creations and makes you feel good. How can you beat that?

Today, I’m inspired. I’m so inspired I can’t write fast enough. I’m bursting at the seams with hope, I’m filled to the brim with excitement, my veins are coursing with enthusiasm. Why, you ask?

This last Sunday was the end of Milwaukee’s second Young Professional Week, a week-long of twenty-two different events with a message of community, collaboration and vision at its core. It was a week when the city’s young people came together and said “We’re changing our city, we’re going somewhere and we’re doing it together”. And to cap off this fantastic week of programming, Tony Hsieh, CEO of Zappos.com, gave a talk on company culture, community and his vision for what they’re trying to do in Las Vegas to change the city for the better.

Yes, his presentation was focused on companies but that didn’t take away from the fact that the things he was saying truly apply all the way down to the lowest common denominator – everything starts with people. Here are a couple of the things he said which really resonated with me:

Don’t worry about short-term ROI (Return on Investment), worry about long-term “Return on Community”.

What exactly does this mean? Return on Investment is a results-based phrase. People who rely on Return on Investment as a measurement of their success often miss the bigger picture and the reason for what they’re doing. They rely on the “what have you done for me lately?” philosophy. There is often little room for mistakes and failure. There is no trust, it’s all about results.

Return on Community, on the other hand, is not results-focused and, yet, it reaps results. What’s the difference here? It’s the mindset. Instead of people being there to do something for you or to get you something, it’s the realization that we’re all in this together. Treat other people as you would want to be treated, give them a real stake in what you’re doing and they’ll come alongside you, they’ll fight with you till the end.

You have to care about something bigger than yourself.

This basically means: don’t go into business for the money. Why are you doing what you’re doing? Are you doing it to make money? Yes, all of us like to be rewarded for what we do but what kind of reward are you really striving for? The idea here is that the quest for wealth is meaningless and short-sighted. The idea is that we should, instead, try to create a society that values social responsibility and responsibility to each other – an Economy of Community, if you will.

Do what you love, do it for a reason other than money and the money will come. Do you want to transform a city? Do you want to educate people about something you have passion for? Find that thing, find that reason and you will inspire people.

Now, go forth!

I can honestly say that, in the end, if I am able to inspire people, if I am able to make people think differently, if I am able to challenge people’s beliefs, then I’ve already accomplished what I set out to. If I am able to accomplish those things, I will count myself lucky, I will die a satisfied man. And it is that satisfaction that is your true reward.

In the end, what is true success – money and fame? I, instead, choose to view success through a different lens. A wise man once said, “all you can take with you is that which you’ve given away”. And it’s true. Nothing you have, nothing you “own” will be able to follow you to the afterlife (if you believe in one). The only thing you really “have” is how you affected the people around you, the ideas, the concepts, the different ways of thinking that you left behind. The way you impact the world you live in – the world that has allowed you the opportunity to change it – that is the only thing you will be remembered for, that is the only thing you truly have.

So, go forth, do what you love, do it well, make an impact and you will have more than anyone could ever ask for.

Tired.

And disappointed.

That who I am is never good enough —
That being me does nothing to measure up.
Our definitions skewed, reality obscured,
Success turned on its head.

That caring doesn’t count for much;
Money does the talking.
One fills my belly, the other my soul —
The echoing refrain.

That, though all lives are equal, some lives matter less.
That preachers preach instead of practice
And talk is cheap.

We miss the value among the noise,
Buried in a cacophony of copies,
Tempted with our eyes and blinded by our tongues.

I want to be
And have that be enough.
But no,
At least that’s what I’m told.

How so
When what I know is different,
What I know is real.

That beauty comes from caring,
Value from fraternity —
Toil illuminating truth.

Want to regularly support my writing and get sick discounts on published work? Visit my Patreon page.

So far from where I once was
I find myself, now —
But not so far —
My gaze only focused,
My steps perfected.
I am me and me is you.
My feet, not so tender as they were,
The ground not so soft.
Though I am one with
Where I am
Heavy objects hurtle past,
Never stopping,
Never asking,
What I need.
Is peace
Me and you, and I and they
Here and now,
Never stirring or colliding,
But stopping to ask?
The light finds my hand
As I hold it open,
Moving up and down my skin.
I and me, and you and they and
We.

Want to regularly support my writing and get sick discounts on published work? Visit my Patreon page.

The drum of time ticks
with the rhythm of eternity,
its veil burned away
by a flame that never dies.

Want to regularly support my writing and get sick discounts on published work? Visit my Patreon page.

Image by Jennifer Espenscheid (Order a print)