Neighborhood Watch.

Every morning, I’m greeted by one of two things: a wet nose and a “sudden” sneeze, or a steady whine, a whimper starting in the subconscious recesses of my dreams, like an approaching siren or wailing bank alarm, then breaching reality when I realize the sound is actually coming from the beast at the foot of the bed. My dog doesn’t have to go out or need his bowl filled, though he’d go for either if given the chance. No, Jackson is ready for his walk. He’s gotten spoiled. This, he’s grown to think, is how a day should begin. I try to take him every morning, which translates to four or five times a week. Sometimes we leave before the sunrise, and get home as it begins to peer over the Cajundome, and others the sun paints the whole path before us. He has a certain pride to his stroll, his head held at the same upturned angle as his fluffy, flag-like tail. We see other dogs, behind fences and on leashes, but Jackson never barks at them—though he will pee on the nearest tree to let them know he was there. If he finds discarded food, left over Taco Bell or chicken bones that have been tossed out of a car window, he vacuums them up. There are smells. Everywhere. And Jackson investigates them all.

He’s got a route, he’s got a neighborhood to patrol. And when he gets home, after a period of pant and shake, he collapses on the hardwood floor. Most often, he spends the rest of the day there. His job is done for the day. Sometimes, I watch him when he sleeps, watch his breathing hitch and paws twitch when the dream hunt is on, when sheep or goats or maybe even people need to corralled and brought back in from the pasture. And honestly, I’ve never seen a more perfect picture of contentment. He seems to sleep like he’s got nothing plaguing him, no worries or anxieties. Sure, I know I’m talking about a dog here. What does he have to worry about besides the next bowl of food, or how far the ball has been thrown? But you know what I see? I see a certain calm, a serenity that comes from doing exactly what you were meant to. 

That’s how I feel when I finish writing, after I’ve gotten on a roll, when I see a story taking on a life of its own. When I’ve saved my progress and closed the laptop lid. There’s a sense of: okay, now I can relax. Because I’ve done what I know I’m supposed to. It is, for lack of a better term, my job. The save button is how I punch out. And the paycheck? That doesn’t find its way into my mailbox every two weeks, and I shouldn’t expect a W2 anytime soon. Christmas bonus? To me, that just means more days off, which translates into more time to write. 

So why do we do it? Why do we stick with a position that is devoid of medical benefits, and 401K plans, and two weeks paid vacation—where there isn’t any room for “advancement” or managerial training? This is a job that pretty much every person in our lives (save for those along the same path), thinks is more of a “hobby” than a career, though they would never dream of saying it aloud. There are conferences and retreats and Facebook pages and support groups to remind us that there are others like us, that share the drive, the desire to create, but really, writing is a solitary endeavor. Because at the end of the day, after the line edits and end comments and networking with agents and publishers and the inevitable off site conversations about what Camus was really trying to say, we go home to our saved manuscripts, our misplaced commas, and our unparalleled insecurity about the ability to create the world, the characters, and the lasting impressions that only our minds can see. So, again, I could have been a firefighter or an astronaut. Why the hell did I decide to be a writer?

Because when I’m done for the day, after I’ve carved out five pages or two or even a single snippet of dialogue, I can circle the hardwood, pick the most comfortable spot and fall down, relaxed enough to let my paws start kicking, and dream of chasing down another story tomorrow.

Sweets to the Sweet.

I know, I know. I keep saying that I'll come back more often, I'll post more, I'll keep whoever is happening upon my website or blog abreast on the current state of my life. Of my career. But I haven't. My most recent post was the last day of February. I aim to rectify that. Let's check the pedals and get up to speed. Today, let's talk school.

To my credit, I have been busy. For a good chunk of the last few months, I have been engaged in the application process for the Creative Writing PhD program at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette. This was a battlefield of deadlines, essays, and lost transcripts, but with the help of those on staff in LA, and the support of my friends and family at home, I got the letter. Well, I received a phone call first, telling me I'd been accepted, but I don't think I fully let myself celebrate until the letter came in the mail. Official Letterhead and all. And riding shotgun with the letter was the terrifying notion of leaving this city behind. Portland, the place I call home. 

I came to this city almost a decade ago, with little more than a backpack full of cigarettes and paint pens. And the youthful lust that urges a twenty-year-old boy to leave everything in Southern California behind after a chance encounter. That tryst lasted, as you can assume, the appropriate three week period and I was left, by myself, in the City of Roses. I've lived in every neighborhood, drank in every bar. I've lost almost as many friends as I've made. This city helped me find the love of my life. Paige, my partner, a woman without whom I would never be the man I am today. And here I discovered who I want to be. Not the guy I pretended to be, not the badass I thought I was, but who I am. I'm a writer. 

We've got two months. Eight weeks to figure out the move, to pack our books and spatulas. To fill out change of address cards and say our goodbyes. But I'm not ready. Not yet. We've got the summer to hash out the details. And to spend as much time as we can on the river, around the bbq, at the old haunts. And I plan to savor every last second.

So, where does that leave me right now? Well, the clock is creeping up on 10am and my dog is stretched out on the hardwood like a rug, panting. Candyman, the criminally underrated horror masterpiece, is chugging and burning on the TV just beyond the glow of my laptop. Paige is plugging away at her work in the other room, finishing her last week of undergrad. And I couldn't be more proud. In a little more than a week, I'll lose myself in the clapping, the cheering, the shimmer and sway of her gown and she walks across the stage and receives her degree. 

And then we are off, off to the land of crawfish and glittery beads. To Southern hospitality and thunderstorms. To make new friends, and to encourage the old ones to visit. I cannot wait to see what life will bring next.

Don't call it a comeback.

Months of radio silence. Though, it hasn't been because I am opposed to updating this blog. No, I've been busy finishing the novel. I haven't been doing much else besides the continual polishing and shaping of what is now known as, FLAT BLACK. But now that the manuscript is finished, I'll be back on here.

For the foreseeable future, I will be posting about my experiences with finding an agent, including query letters, novel excerpts, etc. The whole nine. I want a record of this process, because I'd like to look back at all this, no matter the outcome, with fondness. And maybe the occasional grimace.

Here's my new goal: I hope to receive 100 rejection letters from literary agents by April 1st. I just got my first—a short, kind "no, thank you"—which I aim to print, frame, and hang next to my desk. I'm looking forward to the coming months, and hope that anyone reading will enjoy following along with me as I navigate the treacherous terrain of the publishing world.

Also, watch True Detective. That's all.

New Year - New Goals.

I will post some of my writing here everyday. Today's sample is pulled from Chapter Five of my novel in progress, "Written on the Walls."

Hope you enjoy.

"Paul watched Helen’s transformation over the years and had, on more than one occasion, considered that what he gave her on a weekly, sometimes daily basis was contributing to her decline. For drug dealers, at least those with some moral compass, justification comes with the territory. Paul had a checklist of responses to each of his own mental accusations: A. I’m not forcing it up her nose, right? B. There’s no gun to her head. C. She’s a big girl and can make her own choices. D. I’m a good person. Each of which satisfied him only slightly until the person in question had gone away. If Helen ever told him that she might have a problem, Paul was confident that he’d not sell even a granule to her, no matter how evergreen her trust fund was.

“Whatever. No big deal. She’ll come back. She ain’t gonna find anyone better than me.”

“I’m sure she’ll come back,” he told her, thinking that there was no way in hell that could be true. Paul retracted his arms from around her neck and slid the small baggie into the collar of her v-neck sweater. He made sure that it was tucked securely in her bra before pulling away fully. Paul added a new mental justification then, E. I’m leaving tomorrow, she won’t be able to get anymore once I’m gone. She’ll turn herself around, before settling on F. Fuck it, All of the Above."

Thanks for reading guys!

Drew

Countdown.

One week from today I will be leaving for my last residency at Pacific University. Barring any unforeseen meltdowns, I will have my thesis review, deliver my critical introduction and graduate with my Masters in Fine Arts. I can't believe two years have already come and gone. But in that time I've learned more than I thought possible and made some of the best friends, colleagues, and connections I could have hoped for. The first ten chapters of my novel are truly something for me to be proud of. I worked my ass off to get them into shape.

It's been an absolute blessing to be a part if this program and to feel a part of this community. And honestly, I don't think I'm ready for it to be over.

At the Gay Bar.

After work last night (mind you, I work at a bar so clocking out can be between 230-3am) I decided that I wasn't happy with the choice of my novel being told first person through multiple characters. When I got home and sat in front of my computer, I cracked open a beer and got to work on the 48 pages i had. I fell asleep about 430 with my head on the desk and about halfway through the pages.

When I woke, I realized there was no turning back and i finished out the project. In the course of transferring, I began to add new depth that just wasn't possible through the lens of first person. Don't get me wrong, I love to write in first person, present tense. In fact, most of the short pieces I've written have been structure in just that way but for this (much longer) story, I needed a change. I'm not as comfortable writing this way but I can almost bet I'll learn more about the craft and the characters I'm imagining by stepping outside my comfort zone.

I'm off to work again tonight. Just in case you were wondering, I work security at a gay bar downtown. Makes for some interesting scenes I paint into my stories. Some of which has found its way into the novel. I'll post a sample below.

Daily Update
Page Length - 55
Sample -

Paul got to work and found Persephone Chase, the club’s drag queen emcee doubled over near the double glass doors. Drunk, she had let her mascara run down the length of her face making her look like a cross between the Crow and Cruella DeVille. She was hired at Circcles a short time after Paul was and not a week had passed in two years without her alcoholic ass coming close to a nervous breakdown because of a bra strap malfunction or girdle being one size too small. Sometimes she’d come out of the dressing room in sweatpants screaming that she wouldn’t go on stage because she couldn’t get her package tucked between her butt cheeks comfortably. It was always something.