Running the 10K

I think this blog entry will do it. At some point, somewhere, a reader of this blog entry will become the ten-thousandth visitor. Well, okay, not visitor. They will be the ten-thousandth time someone views my blog. I was secretly hoping this significant event would happen on September 8. Why? Because that would be exactly one year. My blogiversary. It would seem kind of cool to reach 10,000 hits at the one-year mark. Then again, now I can say, "more than 10,000 hits in less than a year." Sounds more impressive, I suppose.

It is hard to believe I've been blogging for almost a year. And what have I accomplished in this year? Well, I finished the final draft of a manuscript (three times...because "final" on one day isn't necessarily "final" a couple months later). I wrote a bunch of stories, and even managed to get one published. Another story has been accepted for publication in a print magazine, though I'm still waiting to find out which issue it will appear in, which makes it not quite feel "real" yet.

I also made improvements on my goal. Remember that, everyone? Do you remember what I planned to learn through this blog? Five stars if you do...

...That's right. I wanted to learn how to be funny. Or at least write things that are funny. And, more or less, I made some strides there. I'm no David Letterman or anything, but thanks to everyone who put up with my silliness at times in the past year, I have a better feel for writing something humorous. But I also learned that I'll, for the most part, stick to what I know. At least I can toss in some humor now and again. I even wrote a script for a banquet that was nothing but humor. That was quite a challenge, but somewhat liberating. (Then again, we haven't actually had the banquet yet, so it might still turn out that my script won't generate a single laugh, in which case it's back to the drawing board.)

I'm still trying to find an agent. The good news is that I've had some agent interest, so that is a positive thing. Just not enough interest (yet!) to offer representation. Soon. Hopefully. In the meantime, I think God is teaching me that while I might be a patient person, I'm not patient enough.

Oh, right...I also set up a new website.

What is disheartening, however, is that I have more trouble figuring out what I accomplished as a father and husband this year. I mean, really, who cares if I have a story published or new website? Have I grown closer to my children, shown more love to my wife, strengthened the familial bond in any way? I like to talk about the importance of family, but I realize, now, that I don't really have a measuring stick. I've run 10K on this blog, but being a husband and father is more like running a lifetime ofl 10Ks back to back.

How many times did I hurt my boys with the things I've said...or the things I haven't said? Could I have spent more time with them? Done more with them? I'm sure the answer is yes. But, like too many men, I often get caught up in my own ambitions to notice until it is too late.

I come home from work, and my boys are excited to see me. My daughter tells me the most intimate parts of her life (which, for a two-year-old, pretty much amounts to the fact that she didn't have an accident in her pull-up) and wants me to put nail polish on her nails or get her dressed in pretty clothes.

I suppose that means I'm on the right track. At least when I come home, they don't hole themselves up in their rooms or disappear into the backyard. Still, I fear I may squash them too often.

"Hey, Dad! Look at this spaceship I made!"

"Not now. Not until after you clean up the playroom!"

So, I have another 10K to run. Another chance to make a positive difference in the lives of my children, and while I'm at it, minimize the negative damage I might inflict at the same time.

Thanks to all of you who have taken this journey with me this far. Ten-thousand views of my blog is only the beginning!

Contemplating Friendliness

I'm not a friendly guy. Just ask my wife.

Okay, I'm friendly. I just don't look friendly. Or necessarily act friendly.

Thing is, being friendly, or at least looking friendly, takes effort. I can't speak for others, but my face just isn't naturally smiley. To lift those corners of the mouth can grow tiresome, so why bother?

And beyond looking friendly, acting friendly...well, that's even harder. It is an act, after all, right? I mean, you have to work at that, too.

"Hey, there, how's it going? Good to see you!"

I feel like a greeter at Wal-Mart or something, except that it is really awkward. It feels fake. Oh, sure, people like it. People are attracted to friendliness. Me? Well, they aren't attracted to me.

It doesn't help, either, that I try to avoid eye contact. I mean, come on. If you make eye contact, you have to either smile, or say something polite, or at least give a faint little nod that says, "Hey, there, hi, there," and be done with it.

It makes me kind of wish this was more like the Asian custom of bowing to greet people. To me, bowing is far easier than smiling. A bow doesn't feel fake.

So, I walk down the sidewalk, or through the halls at work, with my eyes staring at my feet, glancing up just often enough to ensure I don't run into anything or anyone.

But then I feel guilty. What if I pass someone I know? Would it appear like I'm just ignoring them? And just how painful is it really to brighten someone's day with a little smile from a stranger?

I admire those who are naturally peppy, who seem to be perpetally bubbly. How do they do it? Are they really that happy? Is it an act? Are the muscles in their face just sculpted differently? Whatever the reason, I think my wife secretly wishes I were more like that. Because it would reveal some emotion. Well, some positive emotion. Now, she always thinks I'm depressed. Or at least I look depressed. Personally, I prefer to call it "contemplative". Yes, that's it. I'm just thinking about something. Really hard. About being friendly.

The Man of the House

I try not to be controversial on this blog. But I'm going to make an exception today. Although, hopefully, in the end, you won't think it controversial.

But recently I heard a story about a husband and his wife. A true story. One going on right now. Now, this husband and wife are Christians, and as any good Christian knows, the "husband is the head of the wife" and "wives, submit to your husbands." And so, in good Christian form, this husband is over-bearing and controlling.

Thing is about this that makes me mad is that while the words are from the Bible, and therefore mandated in Christianity, there seems to be a bit of misunderstanding as to what it means. It is the interpretation above, however, that turns a great many away from Christianity, or at least turns people away from truly accepting what the Bible has to say. They become selective, picking and choosing what parts they will follow. Wives and submission, however, don't make the cut.

But this husband...and a great many other husbands, Christian and not alike...has it wrong. Because when the Bible talks about the husband being the head of the wife, it isn't placing man into a place of control. It isn't giving a man permission to dictate that his wife waits on him day and night. It is placing responsibility on the man. It is saying, "Listen, you man, you...straighten up. You have a responsibility, so you'd better take heed."

Imagine a business where the man running the company doesn't actually do work. He simply orders people around. Sure, he is the man in charge, but that kind of behavior isn't really being the head of a company, is it? And if he keeps it up, all he'll accomplish is annoying his employees. The company will go nowhere.

A marriage works the same way. A husband must lead by example. Just as the company president leads by example. He has moved up through the ranks, learning as he went.

Which brings us to that little issue of submission. See, the problem is that the Bible doesn't just say wives should submit to their husbands. It actually says everyone should submit to each other. Not only that, but in the original Greek, it doesn't actually say, "Wives, submit to your husbands." Rather, it is a continuation from the previous sentence that should read more like this:

Submit one to another. Wives, to your husbands...

Wives had the unfortuate honor of being the first example given of that "submitting". But jump down a paragraph, and you get to the next example. Husbands. Yep. Husbands are to submit to their wives. Not only so, but the explanation of how a husband is to submit is actually more severe. It alludes to a self-sacrificial love. It talks about that responsibility with being the head. The one who will face the consequences of choices made, even to the point of death.

Nowhere in the scripture do we see husbands ordering wives around, being controlling, etc. And nowhere is submission a one-way street.

It ails me when I hear about relationships that justify all kinds of power struggles, or wives being squashed under the thumbs of their husbands. Come on, men. Step up. Be a man. If you aren't loving your wife every day, being self-sacrificial on her behalf, being responsible enough to ensure your marriage is stronger today than it was yesterday, then you risk jeopardizing the truly beautiful relationship you should be having.

And, of course, it goes beyond the husband/wife relationship. The Bible seems to recognize the struggle with power men have, even with their own children. It talks about fathers not exasperating their children. Exasperate. I cringe when I think about that, because I can't help but think to times in my own life where I'm certain I've exasperated them, when I briefly lose sight of the fact that I'm dealing with little people, not just "kids".

Listen to your wives and children, men. Listen to them, love them, encourage them. Help them to grow, to be stronger people. When you are doing that is when you are being the "head" of the household.

Matters of Health

Well, yesterday I had my four-month check-up with my endocronologist. Yes, four months, not three. Thing is, I go to my endo for two main reasons. First, to get my A1c and other lab work done on schedule, and second, to get my prescriptions. I don't really need my endo for matters of improving my control. I pretty much handle all that on my own...and frankly, anytime my endo gives me advice on what I might try to improve things, it usually ends up not working.

Take, for example, the "formula" that 50% of your daily insulin intake should be basal insulin. For me, it is more like 25%. His advice is to increase my basals and decrease my bolus factors. Only problem with that is then if I don't eat on a certain schedule, I'll end up low. My way, I can go all day and never eat a bite and my BGLs stay in range. I'm guessing the whole 50% rule comes from people coming off of a old-school diet for Type 1 diabetics who have traditionally had set times they ate with set exchanges or carbs.

So, I handle it myself. I've managed to keep my A1c's at or below 7.0 now for quite a while. This time was no different. A1c was 7.0. Woohoo!

And this time around, my endo decided not to schedule my appointment for five months out instead of four (which was instead of the usual three). I'm glad about that.

He still pushed statins on me, which I declined. I've been trying to stick to a low saturated/trans fat diet, etc., so I think my next cholesterol test for LDLs will be even lower. In the meantime, he did tell me that I should at least start taking 81 mg asperin a day. Good for the heart, even at my age. I can handle that. (And don't you just love the taste of baby asperin?)

In other health matters, however, I'm falling apart. Well, not really. But I think my age is starting to catch up to me. For the past couple months, I've been experiencing joint pain in the hips, and this weird, apparently related, "burning" pain in the top of my leg just above the knee. It doesn't hurt for most normal movement, but if I move my leg just the right (or wrong?) way, it is painful.

My first thought is that it is cancer. Then arthritis. Then I think it is an injury from me walking up and down the steps constantly at work. (I avoid the elevator in the name of exercise.) Then I go back to thinking cancer, and then I think it is gone, but then it is back and I have no idea what it is. But whatever it is, it has grown to the point where I'm pretty sure it isn't just a temporary injury that will heal itself. So, I'm forced to make myself a doctor appointment. I didn't raise the matter with my endo because despite the fact my endo is a medical doctor, typically he doesn't like to deal with anything that isn't diabetes-related.

It is funny, because my "primary care physician" I see maybe once every few years. So infrequent, in fact, that the last time I saw him he shook my hand and said, "Pleased to meet you." Nevermind I've been seeing him for about fifteen years! So, it'll be interesting to know how it goes this time around. I'm expecting the whole, "Take some ibuprofen for the pain," routine. But ibuprofen nor Tylenol seem to do much for the pain, so I'll have to press for more.

What then? I've been watching too much House, MD lately, because I imagine having to strip naked and they'll run me through one of those MRI machines. Then I imagine I'll have forgotten to take off my Medic Alert bracelet, and the MRI machine will rip it from my arm, and I'll have lost my right hand as a result. Or maybe they'll have to do X-rays, find nothing, admit me, and I'll be on the verge of death twice before they finally realize that it was a reaction to a change in our laundry detergent or something.

Nah, I know. That's not really how it will go, I know. I'll keep you updated as to what I find out. First I have to make an appointment though, which means making a phone call. I hate making phone calls!

Okay...finally, another reminder. E. J. Knapp still needs your help. He is partway to his goal of $3000 to get his car back. (See my "Down, but not Out" thread below.) So if you haven't already, go buy a story. And just to make it more enticing, more personal...there are a lot of stories there. But one of those stories is mine. [i]Butter Knives and Sun Spots[/i]. Very different from anything I've posted on my website. More literary, I suppose. So go buy my story. Or buy someone else's story. I don't really care! He only has a few weeks before he loses any chance of getting his car back.

Keep Trying

We have a pool where I live. A fairly decent pool, as well. Thing is, we rarely use it, despite all the times my sons say, "Can we go swimming?"

My response is usually, "Maybe." And, of course, we never do. Trouble is, neither of my boys know how to swim, and the pool is four feet deep at the shallowest point. So, until they learn how to swim, I don't see a lot of point.

Ah, yes. I know. They'll never learn to swim if I don't take them down to the pool, so stop getting technical with me! If I told you that I took them swimming yesterday, will you leave me alone?

Good, becaue I took them swimming yesterday. My oldest claimed he had learned to swim in the three foot pool that some friends of ours own. Turns out, that was only half true. He knows how to swim underwater. But when it comes to staying above water, he floundered. So, we spent 45 minutes holding onto the edge of the pool practicing kicking techniques and eventually how to do the doggie paddle. By the time we left, he was doing pretty good, able to swim unaided across the short length of the pool.

But it is my second son that is truly fascinating. Or frustrating. Or maybe infuriating. My second son is the emotional one in the family. He wants to do everything as well or better than his brother, despite being more than a year younger, and he beats himself up if he can't.

So, after nearly drowning three times in a desperate attempt to swim by himself, he finally decided to listen to me and hang onto the edge. Then, for the next 40 minutes he spent the entire time crying... or on the verge of crying. I'd ask him why, and he'd say he wanted to learn to swim. I tried to tell him that he shouldn't expect to learn to swim in one day, it wasn't like riding a bike. (And yes, he actually learned to ride a bike without training wheels in a day. In under an hour, actually, from start to finish.)

But that wasn't good enough. He kept getting frustrated that he could kick his legs and paddle with his arms at the same time, or that he couldn't tread water, or that when I held him on his back to try to float, he couldn't let go of my neck so that I could actually breathe. Of course, by the time we left, he had learned to kick pretty good, but it didn't matter. He couldn't swim, so he was a failure. At least in his own eyes.

Failure, however, is not trying but failing to achieve some preconceived expectation or level of proficiency. Failure is trying and giving up.

My oldest son does the same in other areas. He is used to things being easy for him, especially academically. So if something is hard. If something takes work, such as learning a particularly difficult passage in a piano piece he is working on, he wants to give up after just a few tries.

I think everyone has some area of their life they do this. But think how much more successful we could be, how much more self-esteem we would have, if we recognized the attempt as a step forward. If we could look at our "failures" and say, "Hey, perhaps it isn't good enough yet, but I'm learning, and I'm better today than I was yesterday." I think any highly successful person will tell you that they didn't get there because everything was easy for them. They got there because they worked hard at it.

Sure, for some, certain things are easier than for others. God gave each of us unique strengths and weaknesses. It isn't necessarily because we are to only work with our strengths and avoid our weaknesses, but because it is through overcoming those weaknesses that we are tested and refined.

So go on. Try something difficult. Try something you have to work at. And when you fail, look at what you learned...then keep trying!

By the way, don't forget to stop by E. J. Knapp's page and buy a story or two to help him get back on his feet. (See my previous blog entry on "Down, But Not Out" for details.)

Down, But Not Out

Have you ever been in a situation and couldn't see a way out? Perhaps depressed, unable to think clearly, and perhaps a solution to the problems are obvious to others, but not to you? Or, maybe the solution isn't obvious to anyone?

There is a fellow writer-friend (E. J. Knapp) in need right now, and so I'm soliciting your help. I've known EJ for a few years now through Backspace. He has been struggling, financially, due to a number of circumstances, the most significant of which is that he is on disability. And now, he has lost his car.

But EJ is a fighter. He needs his car back. He needs to make it to appointments. But what do you do when you don't have the money?

Well, he turned to his friends. Fellow writers. He has put together "1500 Story Sales in 20 days". The idea is to sell 1500 short stories in 20 days at $2 each. Not just his stories, but stories other writers are willing to "donate" to the cause.

As of this blog entry, he has seventeen different stories or poem collections available from several different authors. I've read many of the stories before, and they are quite good. And guess what? I have a story available as well. For each story, you can read an excerpt, and if you want to read the entirety, there is a option to do that.

So, I'm hoping some of you would consider helping out EJ. Buy a story. Only $2. But it will be immensely helpful to get him back on his feet.

You can read more about EJ's plight on EJ's blog. Or, you can go look at the list of stories on his 1500 Story Sales - 20 Days page.

Where's the Story?

If you click on the little "Stories" link, you'll notice that the last story I put up was in June. Today, it is August. It seems I missed July altogether.

It isn't my fault.

Okay, it is my fault. I actually had two stories I started working on, with the intention of one of them being finished in July. Didn't happen. I've been working on a script for a banquet at my church, as well as doing editing of my manuscript. The stories were sort of left alone to amuse themselves. Unfortunately, neither story made any progress without my attention.

So, there will be no July Story of the Month.

But, I'm beginning to wonder if there is any point. Are any of you actually reading these stories? Maybe you don't care. And if you don't care, I'm certainly not going to go out of my way to get stories up. When there is story I think deems worthy, I'll post one, but forget the whole "a new story every month" idea. (Especially since I wasn't able to really keep up with that anyhow!)

What do you all think? When I check my site logs, the stories are getting some hits, but not many. If I were to post another story today, would you even bother reading it?

Come on, now. I want feedback. Honesty. So fess up!

Your choices are:

1. Yes, I like to see a Story of the Month.
2. I like to see stories, but just post them as you feel inclined.
3. It is great that you write and all, but frankly, I just don't care enough to read your stories!
4. Are you kidding? I only popped in here because I did a search for numb fingertips and ended up at your blog, angry to find out it doesn't have anything to do with numb fingertips!

Super Mom Returns

Last night, my friend and I went to see Superman Returns. I was a bit mixed on how I thought the movie might turn out, but all in all, I was very pleased. About an hour into the movie, I thought things were going to turn out to be a bit predictable. But from that point forward, it wasn't. Kudos to Bryan Singer. While it wasn't as good as his efforts in X-Men, it was a movie worth seeing.

Which brings me to another super character. Super Mom.

Come now, surely you've heard of her? Able to squirt cleaning fluid from her hands, and scare any misbehaving teen into honest behavior?

If you don't know about her, well I'm about to tell you.

Super Mom, aka Birdie Lee, is the character created by Melanie Lynne Hauser, author of Confessions of Super Mom. If you haven't read it, you should. And nows a good time, because while the sequel isn't scheduled to hit bookstores until next year, Confessions is available in paperback now (or will be soon). That's right. Paperback.

For those of you who remember, I blogged an interview with Melanie several months ago. So if you didn't buy the book then because of the high price of hardcovers, now you can pick it up at paperback pricing. No excuses!

It is a great story. Humorous, touching, and a fun take on the world of superheroes. Check it out! And check out Melanie's blog, as well. Whereas I've been trying to learn the art of humor, she already has it down!

Sadistic Agents!

Sometimes I think literary agents are sadistic. Sure, they claim to just be busy, but I have to wonder if they take secret pleasure in torturing poor writer-wannabes.

Their number one method of torture? Silence.

This is how it goes. You send them a query, and then they say nothing in return. You, the overly-anxious writer, start the clock the moment you hit "send" on the e-mail, or stick the envelope in the mailbox. Each hour, day, week, and month passes in silence. Yet, you can't help but allow your heart to leap with excitement when Outlook tells you that you have new mail. You expect it to be a request for a partial, or a rejection. Either would be the kind thing, setting your mind at ease.

But you wait and wait.

Of course, if they do request a partial, this process repeats, often for even longer periods of time. You go through phases of thinking that the longer they take the more likely they are considering your work. Then you think that the longer they take, the more likely they don't care. Then you think that the longer they take, the more likely the partial ended up lost somewhere between you and the agent.

And, when they eventually request a full (presuming they didn't reject the partial), you go through it all over again.

Torture. And they know it, I'm sure of it! Perhaps that's what they want. If a writer can survive the torture of waiting, then the writer might have what it takes to be a full-fledged author.

All the while, you sit at his computer, twitching, nails chewed to the quick, and muttering things about yourself in the third person. You may even start sputtering "gollum! gollum!" every once in a while.

Maybe agents figure writers have to be insane, and this helps ensure their insanity. Insane authors mean great authors who write best-sellers sitting nude in the back of some closet.

Not that I'm insane. Or, at least, no more than usual. But I'm quickly approaching the level of insanity.

I've been waiting and waiting and waiting now. Four weeks, actually. Not really that long in the grand scheme of things. But when you have a full sitting on the desk of an agent, the ability to perceive time changes, and what is only a day feels like a week, and a week feels like months.

I imagine that the agent already read my manuscript. The agent probably read it a few days after receiving it. But then the agent decided to set a reminder on her calendar to only contact me after months have passed. That is, assuming they are simply going to reject me. Then again, if the agent plans to take me on as a client, then she must not have read it at all. Yet. So, then the question becomes "when!"

The worst thing about all this is that when my wife calls me at work, it ends up being a let down. I love my wife. I enjoy talking to her. But in my mind, when the caller ID says it is my home number, it can only mean one thing. My wife is calling me. She is calling to tell me that the agent called and wants me to call her back. So, I pick up the phone, excitedly, only to find out my wife wants to know if I can pick up a pizza on the way home. (Really, honey, I do enjoy talking to you, it's just when I sound disappointed, it is nothing personal!)

And so the torture continues. Sadistic agents!

The "I Need To Brush My Teeth" Symptom

Yesterday, for whatever reason, was one of those mornings that I left the house and forgot to brush my teeth. So, I had to go the entire day making sure I stood a safe distance away from everyone, horribly self-conscious, imagining my teeth rotting away. You know?

I used to keep these little pieces of "paper" made from Listerine in my wallet just in case this kind of thing happened. While I hated how they tasted, they would at least take care of the self-consciousness. Thing is, I rarely ever used them, and after a year in my wallet, they were more or less melting and infested with pocket lint. (Have you ever wondered how lint gets inside your wallet?)

Anyhow, I do have a point to this...and it relates to diabetes, actually, and being self-aware of BGL symptoms.

You see, one of the sure signs I experience if my BGL goes high is a sticky mouth. Now, just because I have a sticky mouth doesn't mean I have high BGL, but if I have high BGL, you can be sure I have a sticky mouth. (Well, high as in over 200 for more than a few hours.)

Trouble is, my failure to brush my teeth yesterday also left me thinking I had high BGL all day long. And quiz time here...when that happens, what is the first thing you should do?

That's right. Test. Problem was, my BGL really wasn't high most of the day. Regardless, it is another case of utilizing every change in the way your body behaves to keep tabs on your BGLs. Sticky mouth? Test! Because if it is sticky because of being high, it gives me an opportunity to bring it down quickly.

But in order for it to work, you've gotta brush your teeth, as I learned yesterday. So don't forget to brush!

Superheroes, Revisited (Again)

As a follow up from my blog entry about Superheroes a few days ago, I wanted to share something my wife found: What's Your Superhero Name?

Sure, it asks you your name and whether you are a boy or girl, but I honestly don't think it matters what you put. Everytime you reload the result page, you get a different result.

It's a lot of fun, actually, and might even cause you to burst out laughing to find out that while your super power might be "Radiation" (which, honestly, I'm not sure how that is a superpower...unless you use it to heal tumors or somethig), but your weakness is "Peanut Butter stuck to the roof of your mouth."

Clearly, it isn't meant to be taken seriously. But I can't help imagine what if some of the combinations they present were really true about superheroes. I'm thinking maybe I should write a short story from two or three randomly-generated Superhero characters.

Well, if you'll excuse me...I have to go save the world by irridating cancer patients as Stone Jack, all the while avoiding Vince Vaughn. He makes me all weak in the knees, you know. Just gotta find my Invisible Whip and then I'll be off in my Chariot!

Have fun!

The Art of Small Talk

I'm a thinker. Not necessarily a great thinker, mind you, but a thinker, nonetheless. Because I have to think about things all the time. Sometimes I'm thinking about small, inconsequential things like who decided that there should be a deposit on bottles containing carbonated beverages, but not on those without. Other times I think about deep or gradiose ideas, like how does Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son Isaac impact my life today?

Usually I tend toward the inconsequential end of things.

Anyhow, it takes time to think, to formulate a conherent, logical thought. Normally, when I'm thinking to myself, this isn't a problem. But when it comes time for conversation, that's when I run into trouble.

You see, small talk is an art. (Not to be confused with SmallTalk, which is a programming language.) It is an art that I'm particularly horrible at. So bad, in fact, that I come across, at times, as terribly rude.

To give an example, take a recent trip to the grocery story. As I was standing in line, an elderly man got behind me and noticed that I had my daughter with me. (He seemed oblivious to the fact that I also had my three sons with me.) He started talking about how little girls are cute, but wow, are they trouble when they get older, blah, blah, blah. I smiled, and desperately wanted to say something in response. You know, to be friendly.

But there I stood, smiling with nothing coming out of my mouth. My brain was frozen, trying to work out a response that was friendly, not rude, and had to do with the subject at hand. I came up with nothing. So I just kep smiling, nodding, and laughing when I thought that perhaps, just maybe, he was being sarcastic. Then, I tried to act busy by discplining my son for doing nothing more than standing next to me looking at the candy. Because if I have my hands full with my kids, then maybe the man would stop talking to me and I wouldn't have to come up with any small talk.

I was saved when it came time to load up the conveyor with my groceries, but even that didn't take long, and the man was still talking.

I felt bad, really. The man was trying to be friendly. I wanted to be friendly back, but my over analytical brain didn't know how. I probably rather looked like a codfish.

Sadly, this isn't an isolated incident. I'm like this all the time. I've even practiced on my own figuring out what kinds of things to say to people or ask if I don't know anything about them. Yet, in the heat of the moment, I turn out to be a dud.

Back when I was still in high school, I once brought my wife with me. (Well, at the time she wasn't my wife. She was just "a friend". But she eventually became my wife.) She didn't attend my high school. In fact, she had already graduated from high school. But I had a meeting, so she waited for me.

As we walked the hallway, several classmates passed by and said, "Hi, Ryan." Me? Well, I didn't saying anything in return. My friend-who-would-eventually-be-my-wife told me later that I was terribly rude. No, really I wasn't. Instead, I was just a doofus, lost in my own little world.

And today, as I paid the cashier at the cafeteria for my Diet Mt. Dew, I stood there trying to think of something to say. Some small talk that might brighten her day. After all, she is always rather friendly.

Me? I stood there like a dunce. The only words that came from my mouth? "Thanks." This, in response to her chipper, "Have a nice day!"

Small talk is definitely an art... I guess I need to head off to art school.

Speaking of Superheroes

I don't have a lot of time today, so I thought I would leave you with this. I rather like superheroes, in their various forms. So, what kind of superhero are you?

Here are several on-line tests to help you decide:

Which Superhero are you?

I came out to be Robin.

HeroMachine

I used this to generate my superhero, which you can see on my About page.

I'll have more later...

The World According To Ryan

So, I finished Ender's Shadow. I blogged about it not long ago, if you recall. Anyhow, great book. Also, I'm a member of this writer's board, Backspace. On the forums they have a section for book reviews and discussions. So, I posted about my undying love for author Orscon Scott Card and his two "Ender's" books.

Then something interesting happened. Turns out, there are some others who have read Ender's Game as well. Not only that, but a couple of those didn't really like it all that much.

Uh...hello! We're talking about Ender's Game, right? What's not to love? I then go into why they must be mistaken, or must have missed something, and why anyone who has any taste in great science fiction literature should love this book...not to mention a great deal many who don't have great taste in science fiction literature.

But they aren't convinced.

So it occurs to me...could I be wrong? Could it be that Ender's Game (and Ender's Shadow, for that matter) are simply mediocre books? Maybe I'm a geek for enjoying them. Then I think to another science fiction work I absolutely love: The Matrix trilogy. Because you see, I think I'm in the minority of folks who found all three movies, as a set, to be some of the greatest science fiction movies ever made. Still can't ponder why that is, and so anytime I get any resistence to the idea that Reloaded and Revolutions are incredible works of art, I feel the need to educate the person as to what they are missing.

Usually they stare at me blankly when I'm done and say, "Huh."

That's it. And so I'm convinced that my apparently superior intellect is the reason they didn't grasp the layers of symbolism embodied in the movies, and it isn't their fault at all. I'm happy believing that, because it means I'm smarter than everyone else.

But, see, it is happening again with Ender's Game. There are people who don't get what I get from it. But these are smart people. These are writers, who comprehend literature often at a level far beyond my own understanding. So I can't use the "I'm smarter" card.

Which means I'm not smarter. In fact, it could mean quite the opposite. I'm stupider. Or worse, naiver. (Yes, I realize that isn't a word.) Maybe I'm finding things that aren't there. Which means I'm not naive at all, but a hallucinator!

And I know who to blame for this (because it can't possibly be my own fault). It is the fault of one Eric Rabkin. Also known as Professor Rabkin.

See, I took his science fiction literature class back when I was in college. I thought it would be fun, you know? A class where you get to read science fiction? How hard could that be?

Well, aside from the fact that I couldn't keep up with the book-a-week pace, due to how slow I read, it turns out that science fiction had a whole lot more depth than I ever imagined possible. So, I struggled. Came really close to failing the class, too. But something clicked. By the end of the class, Professor Rabkin had opened my eyes to a new level of understanding. He had shown me how to dig deeper, beyond the surface of the story.

But it is only now that I see that what really happened was he made me see things that aren't there.

Thing is, I rather enjoy the hallucinations, I think. I rather enjoy finding deeper meanings that may or may not actually be there. So, while I may blame Professor Rabkin...I also thank him.

And just where does this leave me? Well, I see that every one of us gets something different out of what we read or watch. Just as the humor in the Monty Python and the Holy Grail eludes me, despite the lectures I've been given by countless friends insisting it is funny, perhaps I get something from The Matrix and Ender's Game that eludes others. Perhaps it isn't about anyone being smarter than anyone else at all, but rather a reflection of life's influences and experiences and beliefs, not to mention a side of personality (or lack thereof).

Maybe I Don't Want To Be Funny

Some of you may remember, back in the good old days of this blog, that I started out with a goal of trying to become funny. I wanted to learn the art of humor in writing, since it was an area I was seriously lacking. See, I've always had a knack for taking myself, and everyone else around me, entirely too seriously.

But I do enjoy a good joke. I love a sitcom that makes me laugh out loud. I nearly pee my pants reading a short piece of humor. So I wanted to bring that kind of humor into my own writing.

I've learned a lot since then...the good old days...you know, about ten months ago. I'm certainly no expert, and most of the time I still make things too serious. But I've figured out how to interject a moment of laughter into my writing now and again.

But one thing I've also learned is that I'm not sure I actually like reading humor. At least, not anything of any serious length. A short snippet here or there is great. But anything longer?

See, I started reading The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams. Some have suggested that I certain cannot call myself a fan of science fiction if I haven't read this book. I put it off a long while, but finally, while sitting in the back row before Sara Gruen's booksigning event for Water For Elephants, I noticed that the back of my chair was up against the science fiction section, and right next to my head sat Doug Adams' books. So I bought one.

When I bought it, I read the introduction, and thought it was hysterical. I laughed out loud several times over the course of a mere two pages. This was going to be good.

Chapter one was also funny. But then, by chapter two, I was getting rather tired. I got it already. The book pokes fun at the seriousness of the world, with absurdities all around. Fine. Great. Original. But now let's get on with the story already!

Last night, I finished chapter five, and the humor has become tedious. Rather like watching one of those Ernest movies. You know what I mean? (Vern?) Funny in small doses, but not quite able to sustain itself for a full two hours.

I recognize that Adams' isn't at fault. It is me. I'm just not the right type for those kind of writing.

So I started thinking about this and decided that maybe I don't want to be funny. Maybe I prefer being serious. And just maybe if I like reading stuff that is serious, others do, too. Maybe I can survive as a writer taking myself too seriously. Maybe.

We'll see.

Oh, and on a complete unrelated note...last night I had a dream that I sold my book and got a $30,000 advance, allowing my wife and I to use this as a down payment so we could finally move out of our cramped home and into a "real house". It was a rather nice dream. Too bad I had to wake up.

Losing My Mind

Several weeks ago, I was with my wife and kids at Walmart. Not sure why it is, but for some reason, my wife and I seem unable to go into Walmart and come out without spending more than $100. This is particularly perplexing since we go to Walmart because of their "Always low prices".

Anyhow, after loading up the cart, two separate trips to the restrooms (once for the sake of my son, and the other for the sake of my daughter), having said, "No, we can't buy that," about fifty times, and then making the all-important decision as to which line not only is shortest but least likely to end up with a blinking lane light, it was our turn to pay. I reached for my wallet, only my wallet wasn't there.

"I don't have my wallet," I said to my wife.

She stared at me, blinking.

"Do you have your purse?"

She stared at me, shaking her head.

"Is it at home?"

She stared at me, nodding her head.

So, there we were with more than $100 worth of merchandise and no way to pay. Not to mention I drove to the store illegally!

Do you know how often this has happened to me? Pretty much never. And if it has, never in such a situation where I actually needed my wallet for more than to just ease my nerves while driving. Yet, it happened to me.

I chalked it up to one mistake. Happens to the best of us, right? (I assume you are nodding your head in agreement.) So, the cashier "suspended" our transaction, I drove home, and returned forty minutes later with my debit card in hand.

But then, last week (okay, not just last week), my wife sent me to the store to pick up three things. I have this rule. If I'm to pick up more than three things, I must have a list, otherwise I'll forget something. But three things? I can always remember three things. Especially when the reward for going out to get said three things was going to include a romantic evening together! One of those three things included Snyder's Honey BBQ pretzel pieces. No problemo!

So, I returned home with considerably more than three things. And when my wife sat down to watch a movie with me, she said, "Uh, where are my pretzels?"

I'm sure my face turned white in the terror of realization. I forgot to buy the pretzels! Was I losing my mind? I apologized profusely, and she gave me this pathetically sad-looking expression and said, "It's okay. I'll manage."

Rip my heart out, why don't you!

But, you know, even the best of persons forgets things like that on occasion. Right? (And again, I assume you are nodding your head in agreement.)

Then, a few days ago, I was heading off to work in the morning. I dutifully kissed my wife goodbye, patted all my kids' heads, and headed out to the car carrying a bag of garbage to the curb for trash day. Reached into my pocket, and what is missing? My keys! So I headed back to the door, but it was locked. Of course I locked it. So I pounded the door. But my wife was still asleep. I pounded again. But we taught our kids not to open the door to strangers (and father's who are hopelessly going insane). It took about five minutes of pounding before someone finally opened the door.

But, you know, even the best of persons can forget... oh, who am I kidding!

Now then. Yesterday. We hopped into the van and headed to Kroger for a bit of grocery shopping. When we arrived, I reached into my back pocket and discovered I had, once again, left my wallet at home!

Which only supports my fears that I truly am losing my mind. Or I've lost my mind already. I mean, sure, I've never been an altogether organized person, but this is downright ridiculous!

Ordinarily, I'd pin the blame on my kids. They've driven me mad. But this time, I'm going to blame my wife. Why?

Well, in the first case, she should have had her purse with her just in case I ever forgot my wallet while we were out. Clearly, she's to blame there.

In the second case, she should have made me a list. I know the rule is more than three items...but honestly, when the stakes are so high, there is no reason to make such a gamble on one's husband!

In the third case...well, I'm not sure why that is my wife's fault...but I'm sure I'll think of something.

In the fourth case, having proven myself unreliable once before with regards to remembering my wallet, my wife should have either reminded me to grab my wallet, or else she should have brought her purse along. So, yeah, most definitely her fault.

In the meantime, anyone know any remedies for lost minds?

New Pin-Stripe Detailing

Each time the lease on my wife's van is about to expire, and we muse over what the next vehicle should be (hmm, should we go with the minivan this time, or the minivan?), my wife has one rule.

It must be black.

I noticed this pattern early on in our relationship. We would be driving down the road, and we would pass a shiny black Cadillac, and my wife would ooh and ahh over it. Next, it would be a Chrysler 300m, or a even a Mustang. I thought she had a fabulous taste in cars until she declared her love for a shiny black Escort. All that time, it wasn't the car, but the color.

So when we picked out our first minivan...a Ford Windstar Sport...can you guess what color she went with? Black. And we've had three black minivans since.

Black does look pretty, I admit. Sure, it looks dirty pretty quickly, but that's what they invented the ability to buy a car wash at the gas pump for.

And so for the past year, our Mercury Monterrey (which is just a codename for a rebadged Ford Windstart/Freestar) has remained in pristine condition. Until now.

My four-year-old has been spending a bit more time outdoors in the past few weeks. And, oddly enough, I've begun to find little tiny scatch marks in the paint. Nothing major, and from more than a few feet away, you'd never know they existed. But they weren't there last week.

Alarms went off. Or, at least, alarms should have gone off. They didn't, however. Instead I offered a warning.

"Do not touch the van. Not with your fingers, not with sticks, not with toys, not with bikes. Nothing. Nothing is to touch this van, do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," all my kids said back to me. Such obedience. It makes a father proud.

But then yesterday, as we loaded into the van to head to a friend's house, I noticed some pin-striping along the door. White pin-striping. Not really even striping. More like petroglyphs.

I stepped back and looked. I ran my hand over the markings, then stepped back even more.

"Boys!" I yelled, and they cowered in fear.

"I didn't do it," one of them cried.

"This one wasn't me," another said, which of course sidestepped the fact that the other one, then, must have been their doing.

My four-year-old looked at the ground shamedly and said, "I did it, Daddy."

After a few deep breaths, and a brief reminder to myself that killing your own children is still illegal in most states, I got the full story from them, about how they ran into the van with their bikes. Nevermind they had the rest of the driveway to ride in. No, they had to pick riding on the one foot border between the edge of the driveway and the van.

So, bikes have been declared off limits until further notice. They took the news well, considering. I think they were relieved to still be alive.

Me? Well, I'm learning to love the new pin-stripe detailing. My car has some as well, but since it's red and not black, it isn't so bad.

My wife? Well, I think I might have to sedate her for a while until her heart recovers from the shock of seeing her black van is no longer just black.

A Little Sensitive, Aren't We?

I'm a sensitive guy, and I can prove it. Just hand me any form of ice cream bar or popsicle, and let me have a bite. I'll yelp. Or I'll cringe. And it seems no amount of Sensodyne toothpaste can eliminate the pain. (Although, it does help reduce it.)

I've learned to accept my sensitivity. I've adapted my eating methods to be able to enjoy a bowl of ice cream, for example.

When it comes to fillings, however, I'm a big baby. Oh, I put up with it. Better to do that then end up with a toothache. But it amazes me that in this modern world of medicine, there isn't a painless method of filling a tooth.

Or at least, if there is, no one told my dentist about it.

When it comes time to numb of mouth, just the sight of the needle is enough to...ugh...okay, I won't even talk about it. But it hurts. It hurts a lot. A lot a lot. My hands clutch the arm rests, my muscles stiffen, and I count down the seconds in my head to when it is over.

Thing is, one shot is never enough. I tell the dentist this, too. I say, "Listen, one shot is never enough. So can you give me extra in the first shot so that we don't have to do this again?"

He smiles at me and says, "Well, let's just see how this one works first."

I can tell him how it works. It doesn't. Oh, sure, I could poke a hole through my cheek, and I'm certain my eyeball has gone numb, but as soon as they start drilling, I can feel everything. They might as well be hammering a nail through that tooth.

So, I scream, and they stop drilling. Then the dentist says the silliest thing.

"You feeling that?"

Uh, no. I just screamed to clear the saliva running down my throat is all. Carry on, please.

Of course I'm "feeling that"!

So, out comes the needle, and another ten seconds of horrific pain, followed by another ten minutes of watching the clock to let the anesthetic start working. They come back, and start drilling again. Of course, by this time, the entire side of my face has slid off, I'm quite certain, because if I try to touch myself, I'm not there. But at least the drilling can continue pain free. Well, almost pain free. I still feel pain, but at least by now the pain is less than the pain from another needle poke, so I bear with it.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, if you've read this far, perhaps you can't really relate. Perhaps you're one of those lucky people who can skip the novocaine altogether. But I'm bringing it up because I'm in a predicament.

My son got his first cavity, and he has an appointment in a couple weeks to have it filled. Thing is, he is scared. And just what am I to tell him? What can I do to ease his fears? Truth is, he might not really feel much at all. He might not have inherited my propensity for tooth pain. But then again, he might have.

Do I tell him he'll be fine? That there will just be a tiny pinch at first to numb it up, then it is smooth going? Or do I tell him that he should consider practicing for the pain by driving staples into his own arm?

Poor boy. And what makes it worse is that I'm his father. I mean, if he were just someone else's kid, I could detach my own emotions and think, "Poor boy," and leave it at that. But he is my son, which means if I could, I would die for my son. I would take up his seat in that dentist's chair and put up with the drilling on his behalf.

Problem is, his teeth aren't in my mouth, which means I'm helpless. Kind of like watching the nurse stick a needle in my son's arm for the fifteenth time while trying to draw blood. It is worse on me, I think, than my son.

There is, of course, one plus that is coming out of this. Suddenly my son has become a far more prolific brusher. Too bad that can't undo the cavity that is already there.

The Superheroes Won't Leave Me Alone

A couple days ago, my wife and I were discussing my writing. I hate discussing my writing, actually. You know how it is. My ideas, the things that consume my thoughts every day. Me, me, me. I mean, of course I prefer not to talk about my writing. But she made me. Really, she did.

Okay. So, she didn't make me. Truth is, she gets tired of me talking about my writing, about some new ingenious story idea I came up with. She is very gracious, however, and doesn't roll her eyes at me. Usually.

But anyhow, a couple days ago we were, in fact, discussing my writing, and she told me that I only know how to write about superheroes.

"That's not true!" I said, pretending to be hurt.

I mean, it wasn't true. I can write about more than superheroes. But, there was a bit of truth in her comment, because the fact is, I love to write about superheroes. And a great many stories that I start out writing intending to be speculative in nature do end up with an angle that could at least be construed as superhero related.

Case in point, the story that was just accepted for publication (date of publication yet to be determined) is a superhero story. And I have another story my wife read called Choice, that is a superhero story. And Mindburst could easily be considered a superhero story.

What can I say? I love superheroes. I spent my childhood either pretending to be a superhero, or...well, I guess that's about it. Everything we played as kids seemed to be tied to superheroes in some way. So, it is only natural that I write about them.

But I like all kinds of superheroes. X-Men, Superman, and Spiderman, of course. But also the very intellectual angle portrayed in M. Knight Shamaylan's film, Unbreakable.

Anyhow, I figured I needed to prove my wife wrong and write a story that was undeniably not a superhero story. So I started working on one. Here is an excerpt from this story, which is a work in progress:

I sat in silence, hoping and praying it was my imagination. Yet their silence told me I had every reason to be afraid. They were going to do something to me. They would transform into bullies for no other reason than because they could. They would have their fun, and when it was all over, the two of them would laugh as though it was nothing but a harmless game. But something was different this time. Something within myself. I could feel it deep down, but not label it. Something powerful. And I wouldn't know what it was until it was too late.

See the last sentence in that paragraph? Do you know what it means? It means that along the way to writing this story, it turned into a superhero story.

Whatever you do, please don't tell my wife. She'll tell me, "I told you so." I hate it when people say, "I told you so." It implies that I was wrong. And clearly, that can't be.

*Sigh*

Don't Worry, Be Happy

I think that writing turns people into worry warts. Because I'm not one to worry a whole lot. The Lord is in control, and as His Word says, all things work together for the good of those who love him and are called according to his purpose.

Thing is, I don't exactly know how writing fiction falls into His grand plan. God might look at my writing, and shrug, thinking to Himself (if "thinking" is what you would call it), "Well, if he must, I'll allow it. But he's on his own."

Clearly, I don't know the will of God. Instead, I know the will of Ryan. And Ryan wants to become a published author. Well, okay, so I accomplished that with a short story credit. (Actually, soon to be two short story credits, as I just found out yesterday!) But I mean, Ryan wants to become a published novelist. And without any heavenly signs, I can't be certain how that will ultimately turn out.

I'm a confident person, actually. I'm pretty sure I'll eventually have a book published. Hopefully that book will be Mindburst. But this is where the worry kicks in.

You see, what if Mindburst is good enough to be published, and it sells fairly well, enough to convince the publisher to publish book two? Yet, the readers read book one and say to themselves, "Hmm. That was a decent story." Then, they forget about me. They instead, move on to another author. While my writing might have been interesting, it wasn't enough to make them want to read another novel by Ryan Bruner.

Which then means book two tanks, and my writing career is over.

Or, worse yet, what if book one makes it to the market, but sells poorly. Yet, due to how much I've learned as an author, book two is infinitely better. Thing is, book one leaves a sour taste on the lips of readers, and so they give up on this Ryan Bruner author altogether.

It is early to worry about such things, I suppose. But in the meantime, I can't seem to get my head out of book one. I keep analyzing it, trying to figure out ways it might not be good enough, and perhaps I should rewrite this chapter or that chapter or change a character's motivation or any other 1001 things I could do to the story. When does it end? Well, from what other authors have said to me, that desire doesn't stop until it is finally published and on the book shelves. And even then, the worry continues.

So, here I am. A worry wart. I've never been a worry wart. I don't even think I've called a worry wart. So, I keep humming the tune in my head, and sing the lyrics to "Don't Worry, Be Happy." It doesn't seem to be helping.

My Feminine Side

Due to the infinite wisdom of high-level management in my place of work, a decision was made to distribute our teams around the world. We are a global company, after all, and must compete in a global environment. Really, this means we can save mega-bucks by giving my job to some folks in India or China. But, whatever...truth is, companies have to do what they have to do.

Anyhow, the point is, sometimes this arrangement is good for the company, and sometimes it's not. Today, it was not, and quickly ran into a situation where having the team in three countries basically means no one can get to the solution of a problem. So, the discontented side of me came out, wanting nothing more than to just commiserate with a fellow coworker about the state of things, and how things could be better if they would have only listened to my private rantings about this very thing years ago. Of course, had those rantings not been private, they wouldn't have listened to me anyhow, so either way, I needed to vent.

But then my coworker had the audacity to do something that is altogether male. Do you think he nodded his head everytime he was supposed to agree with me and shook his head everytime I said something that was unbelievable?

No. Instead, he tried to offer me a solution.

Can you believe that? I mean, would I have bothered to walk all the way around from my aisle over to his aisle in order to complain, and then expect a solution? He was supposed to just play along, complain about the state of the union, so to speak, and wallow along with me.

But he didn't. How utterly typical of a guy. I should have sought out a female colleague instead. You know, the feminine touch. The type of person who knows that when I'm complaining, I don't want someone to fix the problem, I want someone to listen!

And so it hit me. The problem wasn't that my coworker was "being such a guy." (You can just ask my wife, and she'll tell you that I suffer the same affliction.) The problem was that I was stepping perilously close to being in touch with my "feminine side".

Shudder.

No offense to all my women readers. There is nothing wrong with the feminine side. I love it, in fact. After all, I married a woman! She is the greatest thing since sliced bread, which is saying a lot since everyone knows sliced bread is the greatest thing ever!

But the truth is, I'm a guy, not a girl. And for a guy, being feminine isn't a compliment. (At least, not usually...although, my wife does find it incredibly cute when I admit to tearing up at the latest Hallmark commercial. Or so she says.)

So I guess I'm gonna have to just buck up. Take it like a man. Stop being such a girly-girl. (Insert any other feminine related insult to men you can think of.) Because the world ain't perfect, and there's no point in crying over spilled milk. Hmm. Any other cliches? No, I think that'll do it.

How Do You Say "Family" in Russia?

I mentioned in my last blog that over this past weekend, my family got together to celebrate my parent's 50th Wedding Anniversary. They are two love-birds, probably moreso today than they were even ten years ago.

Anyhow, with the exception of one of my five brothers, everyone made it. For the record, that was a total of four brothers and their wives, one sister and her husband, each of the children from those respective children, for a grand total of thirteen grandchildren, plus a newcomer to the family: Dan.

Dan is a newcomer because just a few months ago, my sister and brother-in-law adopted him from Russia. He's ten years old. And so new to America, in fact, that it was a bit difficult to communicate with him. While he is absorbing English at an amazing rate, as children seem to be able to do, he still couldn't find the right words for much of the time, nor could he fully understand what we were saying. When my sister was trying to explain who, in this family, was an aunt, an uncle, and a cousin, he seemed thoroughly perplexed. It took some doing, but we finally got him to understand the aunt and uncle part...but forget about "cousin".

What was fascinating to me was how Dan, in some ways, parallels the main character in my book. In Mindburst, Alex longs to know her family. She wants nothing more than to hold her parents in her arms. She spent her whole life locked away in an asylum for kids like herself.

Dan also spent most of his life longing for parents. Of course, Dan doesn't have any mental powers (at least, none that we're aware of!), but that longing for someone to call "Papa" and "Mama" was there. So much so, in fact, that almost from day one, Dan took to calling my sister and brother-in-law these affectionate names.

It takes a lot of courage, on his part. He came from a small village where technology as we know it was virtually non-existent. Even the idea of a freeway overpass was new to him. Yet, he travelled literally around the world to discover a whole new life, to become part of, for the first time, a family.

I'm relatively untraveled. Oh, I've visited around thirty-five of the fifty states, and I've even been into Canada, but I can't say I've ever truly been somewhere foreign. About the closest was the time I stood in line for Disney's Twilight Zone Tower of Terror behind a group of young adults from, I believe, Peru. Or Venezuela. I can't rememer for sure. But they hardly spoke a lick of English, and I spoke just a tad over a lick of Spanish. So, in the half-hour we were in line together, we managed to communicate that I was from Michigan, which was north of Florida. That's about it.

Thing is, even that little bit was mentally exhausting. So to come to a new country with a new language where no one speaks your native tongue deserves a round of applause, I think. Anyhow, I'm proud to say Dan is a part of our family now. It's a shame that he lives on the other side of the country, though. We won't get to see him much.

Making Men Squirm

There is a topic that men love, but hate to discuss. Although, they seem more open to it recently given the popularity of Viagra, as well as the growing fear of prostate and testicular cancers. Women, it seem, can talk openly about their breasts. (I even saw a recent breast cancer event where all participants receive an "I love boobs" T-shirt.) Men and their genitals, however...forget it.

Thing is, it is an important topic on various levels. And so, I'm daring to delve into a below the belt discussion here that will likely affect Type 1 and, possibly, insulin-dependent Type 2 diabetic men at some point in their sexual lives. Impotence.

When I was a teenager, my parents didn't speak to me about topics involving sex. At least, not very much. I mean, my parents were passionate people, and I never doubted their own sexual relationship. (In fact, we just celebrated their 50th Anniversary this weekend!) Yet, the times the subject has come up, it seemed rather spontaneous and shocking.

I could share each of these, but really I'll focus on one. When my mother was lecturing me on the importance of being able to detect my own blood glucose levels, to sense them, and to check my BGL frequently. Among the list of reasons?

"Listen, you don't want to be trying to have sex with your wife some day and can't have an erection!"

Uh, excuse me Mom, but I'm not even dating anyone, let alone having sex! Besides, the state of my penis was my own business, thank you very much! So, I tried to get past my momentary embarrassment and change the subject (by insisting I am very good at sensing lows).

But, alas, I grew up, got married, and ultimately have to live with the reality that sexual disfunction can and does accompany lows. I'll admit, I've kind of lucked out in this area, and had very few instances where my diabetes has interfered with my sex life. Yet, there have been times. Usually, if I can tell my BGL is hovering at that border of being low, I'll grab a snack, and prolong things until I'm feeling ready. But there have been times where I wasn't quite to the point of being "symptomatic" with my lows, yet when the time came for the little guy to, uh, grow up...well, it just wouldn't happen! None of these times were really a big deal. My wife is understanding.

Yet, I recently learned something interesting. Failure to have an erection isn't the only consequence of a low. In fact, there can be "after effects" of a low.

A few weeks ago, I had experienced an on-going low. You know the kind? Where you start out low, eat something, but it isn't enough, and pretty soon you've been borderline low for an hour or two. This doesn't happen often with me, since I usually overtreat a low. But it happens. And so, in this case, I had been low for a couple hours.

During this time, I tend to experience a tingling numbness in my extremeties. (No, not that extremity!) Usually my lips, my ears, and my fingertips. This can be misleading because even after my BGL has come up, the tingling persists, leaving me thinking I'm still low.

So, anyhow, there I was with all this numbness and tingling. I tested, and found out I was safely at the 120 mark. My wife and I decided to have some fun. I had no problem achieving an erection, so I didn't think anything of it. But here is where the prolonged low still had its effects...because I found that it took an abnormally long time to reach the point of orgasm. A really long time! Not that I was complaining. Ah, yes, the things we diabetic men must suffer...

Anyhow, the point is, I learned that being in a low state isn't the only problem. Having been low can also affect your performance. Which only goes to prove my mother right.

Which leads me to one more taboo subject related to lows and men. Size matters. And I'm not saying this because of the umpteenth advertisement I've received in my e-mail insisting I'm not big enough to satisfy my wife. No, I'm talking about how incredibly tiny the penis can become when you go low. I mean, really tiny. Puny, even. It is a humbling experience. Yet, it is, in fact, another sign.

I've preached about the importance of detecting lows here before, and even brought up some of the more peculiar things I look for. Well, this is one of them. Because when I'm small...really really small...it is a sign. It means I need to test my BGL. Men should use this sign as yet another means for detecting the state of their BGL.

So there you have it! That wasn't too painful, was it? It could have been worse...it could have been a discussion on the importance of the Digital Rectal Exam!

What Are You Reading?

What are you reading right now? (Well, not right now now. Because obviously the answer to that would be Ryan Bruner's blog.)

Typically, I'm reading two things at once. One in the form of an audiobook that I listen to during my drive to and from work. The other, a book by my bedside.

Admittedly, I get through more audiobooks than those in paper form. Mostly, it is a time issue. I'm a slow reader, and so by the time I have a moment to read before bed, I'm tired. Sometimes too tired to read. Othertimes, tired enough that I can make it through a chapter before my eyelids no longer obey. I pry them open to just finish one more page, but they insist on sinking to the closed position.

Currently, I'm in the middle of two books. (To be clear, I use the term "middle" loosely, meaning some point after page one, but before the last page.)

In audiobook, I'm reading Ender's Shadow, by Orson Scott Card. Shadow is a kind of sequel, in a way, to Ender's Game. Yet, it isn't really a sequel, since it takes place simultaneously as Ender's Game. I won't give anything away here, don't worry. But if you enjoyed Ender's Game, which might just be one of the greatest science fiction books I've ever read, you should enjoy Ender's Shadow.

I'll admit, I don't find Ender's Shadow quite as compelling as Ender's Game. But Ender's Game is a hard act to follow. Yet, despite this, I think that Ender's Shadow might just be altogether more brilliant. Card managed to write a story that parallel's Ender's Game, and even takes place within the same setting and time as Ender's Game where you ultimately know the outcome, presuming you've read Ender's Game...yet, the book is written in a way that still draws you in, wants to know what is going on. It adds new depth not found in Ender's Game. For those who read the first book about Ender Wiggen, it is an amazing ride. Yet, if you never read Ender's Game, you could come into Ender's Shadow and read it and completely enjoy it. There might be nuances you don't pick up on, but all in all, a wonderful read.

I haven't finished Shadow, yet...but I can already say it is a highly recommended book. This comes from someone who found the true sequel to Ender's Game, Speaker for the Dead, not compelling enough for me to finish.

The other book I'm reading (in hardcover) is Jodi Picoult's My Sister's Keeper. I'm not yet far enough along to give an in depth analysis or anything, but I will say that the premise and writing are most definitely compelling thus far. If the books holds up as well as the first 100 pages have, it will definitely be a recommended book.

And don't miss Sara Gruen's Water for Elephants! I finally got a chance to meet Sara in person after having known her on-line for a few years. She did a book signing at a bookstore near me. This is Sara's third book, and it has been greeted with rave reviews. I haven't had the chance to read it yet, however. My wife stole it from me, and then quickly informed me that I won't get it back until a few of her friends read it.

I Didn't Finish. Sigh.

This week is all about church. Not for you, perhaps...but for me. It started on Sunday, which is usually about church anyhow. Except that instead of going from our worship service to our bible school class, my wife and I had to sub in the three year old room. (Although technically, everyone in the class has already turned four.)

Unlike the twos, which my wife and I used to "teach" (which is frankly a gross misrepresentation of what you do with two-year-olds..."babysit" would be a more appropriate term), the threes actually know how to play together. They also know how to turn moody quicker than scat (my new favorite phrase after hearing it on an episode of Little House on the Prairie).

But I discovered something the threes also like to do. They like to play games that they honestly believe is a game, but really is a manipulative technique to get them to be quiet. Simply, I called the game, "The Quiet Game." The goal? To see who can be absolutely silent the longest. Surprisingly, they absolutely loved the game. So much so that when we were all done, they insisted we continue playing it. All the better for my sensitive ears!

So that was Sunday. So, you may be wondering, what's up with the rest of the week, then? (And if you weren't wondering, then this is a gentle nudge for you to wake up and pay attention!)

Three letters. V. B. S. (That's Vacation Bible School for those of you who should know, but don't because you don't go to church. Tsk tsk tsk.) Anyway, yes, it's that time of year...at least at our church. And this year, our church is being transformed in a Jerusalem Marketplace. Kind of cool, actually. There has been a team of guys working for several weeks chopping down some brush and building shops along the side of the church. Looks wonderful. Except now they are predicting rain all week, which means it was likely a waste of effort because everything will have to be moved inside.

My role in this? Well, I do have a part to play. Even had to make myself a costume. I spent hours and hours cutting out patterns and sewing them together. Then, eventually my wife took over because I'm just too slow.

But I have my costume, so I'm set.

I doubt anyone cares about this. But I thought I should mention it when I came to the part where you feel sorry for me. You see, several weeks ago, I had an agent express some interest in my manuscript. However, she had some "concerns". After chatting on the phone for a while, I came away with a list of things that could make the manuscript better. She wants to see the manuscript again after I make said changes.

So, I've been working diligently, and I'm almost done. My goal was to be done by yesterday. Why? Well, because I'll be busy every day this week with VBS. And then nearly all of my family is coming in from out of state to celebrate my parent's 50th Anniversary. That's twenty-nine people, counting five of my siblings, their spouses, and their kids, plus my parents.

As you can imagine, I won't have time to do anymore editing for a while. But, unfortunately, I didn't finish. I still have about fifty pages to go. (That's editing, not writing.) So, now do you feel sorry for me?

No? Okay...well what if I told you that I also had a broken leg, back pain, and recovering from malaria? Would you feel sorry for me then? Of course, I don't have a broken leg, back pain, nor did I have malaria...I was just wondering at what point do you actually start to care is all.

An Od(i)e to Fathers

What, exactly, is an "ode" anyway? I hear the term often enough, but other than presuming it is something poetic in nature, I'm not too sure. Funny. Here I am, thirty-three years old, and only just now wondering what in the world an "ode" is.

Odie, on the other hand, is quite clear. I always felt sorry for Odie. Garfield is so mean to him, yet he takes it day after day, stupidly thinking that Garfield cares about him. Will he never learn? Probably not. He is, after all, stupid.

And just why is that? Sure, there are some pretty stupid dogs in the world. But most are actually quite smart. They are pack animals, and quickly adopt any family that takes them in as their own. They'll bark and bark and bark at the next door neighbor each and everytime he steps within a few dozen feet of the yard, despite the fact the neighbor has lived there longer than the dog. Okay, they may not actually be able to protect you in a time of need, but they sure well act like they'll protect you. They'll comfort you when you're down, too. They'll play with you when you need someone to play with.

I suppose, in many ways, fathers are like dogs. Or, at least, they should be. Loyal to his children, protective, both able to wrestle with his kids when they want some playtime, as well as offering hugs and encouragement when they are down.

Of course, fathers shouldn't slobber, I suppose. That would be rude. And disgusting. And definitely no biting, even playfully. You don't even want to see what happens if you bite your child. Child Protective Services doesn't take kindly to biting, as you can imagine.

And, well, fathers probably should use the indoor toilet facilities. It might look kind of funny to go out in the backyard everytime you need to relieve yourself. At least cats know to use a litter box.

On second thought, I suppose fathers shouldn't be like dogs. Maybe they should be like cats. Sleep all day, demanding to be stroked and pet anytime he demands it. His family should be like little planets rotating around Papa Sun. Yeah, that's sound great. At least for one day a year. Father's Day.

That's it. Go ahead and treat him like a cat one day of the year.

The other 364 days, treat him like a dog.

And along those lines, here it is...eh hem...

Ode to Fathers

The time has come to celebrate Dad
To buy him gifts that make him glad.
But what he really wants more than golf tees or ties
Is to learn that the gift you bought was a really great buy.
Because while the sentiment is great, and the tie a great look,
There is nothing more precious than money saved in his pocketbook.

Admittedly, while I'm a writer, I ain't no poet. Still, the intent is the same. My wife asked me what I wanted for Father's Day. I didn't really have an answer. I don't even really care. All that matters to me is that they don't spend much. Because that would make me really happy!

(Although, a new iPod would be nice...)

What Song Is Playing on MY iPod

I've noticed there is this trend on a great many blogs. You might even call it a feature. The blogger posts what song is playing on their iPod at that moment. Kristin Nelson, literary agent, is among them.

And I mean no disrespect to anyone who does this, but frankly it is annoying. Why? Well, sure, it is interesting to see what kind of music the people you find important (or, at least, intriguing) listen to. But, I don't know...isn't it just a way of saying, "Nah, nah, I've got an iPod and you don't!"

Okay, so truth be told...I'm jealous. Because I want an iPod, too. I wish I could include a "feature" on my blog that announced to the world that I'm listening to Avalon or whatever. Not that I even care whether or not you care what music I listen to. But then I could say I'm part of the iPod craze. I'm hip, I'm happening.

Instead, I have this old PDA which can hold more no more than 10 songs. And I couldn't even tell you where the charger is for it. Haven't touched it in a while. I bought the PDA, originally, to develop my Logbook DM software. The fact that I could play a few songs on it was a bonus, but certainly not cool.

Then, not long ago, something cool happened to me. I got my hands on an iPod to do some testing with. I was kind of excited about it. I was all ready to load up the thing with my favorite songs...and since it could hold on the order of 1000 songs, perhaps even load up a few songs I don't even really like! I'd head to the streets dancing cool moves, everyone watching me in awe, knowing that I had joined the iPod revolution.

But, alas, the iPod wasn't mine alone. (Well, technically, it wasn't mine at all, since it was owned by my place of work.) No, we had to share the device among the entire team. And, sadly, my team members don't seem to appreciate the same kind of music I do. One went so far as to say, "Well, all Ryan has is some religious crap."

It isn't exactly what I would label the music I listen to. But to someone who defines music as "blues", I suppose I couldn't complain.

And so, today, I'm still waiting for the day that I can say, "What song is playing on my iPod?"

Probably some "religious crap".

The Adventures of My Youth

We found it on an unassuming hill next to an abandoned vineyard. There were shrubs growing all around, and from the street, you would never have known it was there.

We had to trespass to get there. But in those days, cutting across neighbors yards was an accepted method of getting anywhere. No one complained. I'm not even sure anyone got upset. This was in the days before everyone lived in isolated islands called "my property". Property simply defined the plot of land you were responsible for mowing, and nothing more. Beyond that, property was deemed rather public, except to those few who put up fences.

So, when we trekked through the shrubs to the door in the ground, it was like discovering a portal to a whole other world. It almost looked like those cellar doors we saw on TV shows that were flat and led to a basement from the outside.

"Should we open it?" I asked.

But it was a pointless question. Scott or Jason (I honestly can't remember which), was already lifting it.

There wasn't a lot of light, since the entire area was shadowed by trees. But with what light we had, we could see a set of old, crumbling concrete steps leading down into darkness. There were spiders and other creepy crawlies, as we liked to call them.

I was petrified. My eyes darted around, sure that someone was going to come running, yelling at us. And in those days, being yelled at by a neighbor was reason enough to be petrified. But Scott and Jason wouldn't leave it alone.

"Come on," they said, already halfway down the stairs.

"I'm not going in there," I said. "We might get caught."

"Nobody even knows this place is here, Ryan. Come on!"

I said I would stand guard. That was the brave thing to do, after all. They disappeared into the darkness, and I could hear the scuffling noises, and the sound of wood banging on the floor.

And so began our journey into "The Vault." I'm not sure I was even nine when we found it. We probably weren't even the first ones to find it. But to us, we had stumbled onto a great mystery. Why was it there? What was hidden in the darkness? And why, ultimately, was there literally a metal vault door down there, locked? What was hidden in the locked room?

These were the questions we would ask ourselves for years, after many visits to The Vault.

Today, as an adult, I still have many theories about that place. But even better than the treasures that may have once been held in the Vault is the treasure of the memory of that place. It is fodder for stories. I think I might write about the Vault some day. And, like that one small part of my childhood, there are many other sources of adventures to draw from.

I never realized just how rich my childhood was until I started seriously writing. Things we did in innocence which, today, would probably get us arrested. Like the time my friends and I, uh, borrowed a row boat and crossed the lake. We found this canal I didn't even know existed where the water was black and cold as ice. So cold, in fact, that the metal row boat started to chill my backside.

It is almost a shame that we have to be so incredibly protective of our kids these days. I only hope I can portray a small bit of the sense of adventure I experienced as a child in my own writing.

So, I'm curious what memories you have as children. What is it that made your life an adventure?

When You're Only Eight

Yesterday, my eldest was in tears. But there were no scrapes, cuts, or bruises. No mean words from any friends or siblings. He wasn't even watching the redemption scene in Message in a Bottle. (Not that, you know, that scene made me cry or anything. Eh-hem.)

No, he was in tears because the play room was messier than usual. Oh, that doesn't sound like a huge deal, I know. But you must understand...it is his turn to clean the play room this week, and he just didn't think it was fair it was so messy.

In our household, we have certain chores that are expected of our children. There is no allowance nor reward attach. It is just a part of the priviledge of living in our family. A way of earning your keep. But, we also have chores that earn money. One of those is the daily cleaning up of the play room and bed room.

The two rooms are split between our two kids. They clean the room, and ask us for an inspection. If it passes inspection, they earn a checkmark for the day. At the end of the week, depending on how many checkmarks they have, we pay them. It's a sliding scale. And every week, they swap rooms, to keep things fair.

This has worked pretty well, although they were quite upset the first time they didn't get paid the full amount because they didn't clean the room a few of the days.

But yesterday, my eldest son felt the room was particularly messy. Worse than usual. And so he started to cry. He said he didn't want to do it anymore. It wasn't fair!

Now, the platitude "life ain't fair, kid" wasn't enough to comfort him. (Too bad, too...because I really enjoy saying that.) My wife sat down with him and they had a little heart-to-heart. She reminded him that the job of cleaning up the playroom is not required work. He can choose not to do it. It is a paid job. If he would rather not clean, that's fine. It just means he won't get paid. Now son number two leaped for joy at this, because it meant that he could take over and get paid twice as much that week! We squelched that plan swiftly, however. We knew our eldest would change his mind. He had a life lesson to learn first.

My wife went on to explain that there are days Daddy (that would be me) goes to work and has a bad day. A lot more work than usual, or things going wrong, that kind of thing. But Daddy doesn't come home and say, "That's it, I'm not working there any more." I have to suck it in and show up the next day, regardless.

It took a while. About an hour, and the next thing we know, he was back in the playroom, cleaning. He earned his checkmark, and he was ultimately proud of himself. He stuck it out. It was hard for him. As the oldest, he feels more is expected of him than from the others. He's right. He will always have a year more experience and a year more wisdom under his belt than any of his siblings. He sees his closest brother as his peer. But the fact is, there are fourteen months between them. We have to remind him of that. We have to remind him that fourteen months ago, he, too, wasn't doing as much. If anything, we expect more from son number two at the same age.

Hard to see that when you're only eight, and still doing work that your siblings are not.

June Story of the Month

A few years ago, my wife and I had this dream of moving out of our little manufactured home and into a "real" house. We shopped around, and even took a trip to a builder not far from us. The homes were beautiful, and in our insane hope that we could actually sell our current home (which, we later found out is virtually impossible in today's market), we spent time deciding exactly which upgrades to order for the home. We even got to the point of meeting with the financing guy.

In the end, we couldn't swing it. But, hey...sometimes dreams die. Or at least hibernate.

In the meantime, it became good fodder for a story. But wait, there's more!

Ever buy something that you think is perfect? When I was a kid, I wanted Laser Tag. So when my birthday was approaching, my mom asked me what I wanted, and I told her. How cool would it be to be able to play Laser Tag in your own back yard? I was thrilled! And, to my surprise, my parents bought it! Or, rather, some cheap knock-off.

But guess what? After spending fifteen minutes pointing my new laser gun at my friend's vest at point blank range without it ever registering a hit, the fun was done. I'd call it buyer's remorse, except that I didn't do the buying. My parents did. They were kind of mad that I never played with it again.

Anyhow, June's Story of the Month is titled Buyer's Remorse. It is a speculative fiction piece that combines three separate ideas that I had (hinted at above) and put together into a single piece. Please have a read, and give me your honest feedback. I hope you enjoy it!

B&N Induced Depression

I think I might just stay away from Barnes and Noble or Borders from now on, because frankly, my recent visit there over the weekend was rather depressing.

Imagine, if you will, that you have a book you are trying to get published. This book, in order to succeed, must be bought. Which means readers must find the book, pick it up, flip through it perhaps, and decide it looks good. That last part would be the responsibility of the author and publisher. But that first part...that's the tricky part.

As I walked the aisles of the YA section, I was a bit overwhelmed at just how many books there are competing for the same age group. How is my book supposed to be noticed in all of that? The thought is disheartening. I followed around this one little boy (until his father noticed me and threatened to knock me upside the head, calling me a pervert or something) trying to observe his thought process in picking out a book. It wasn't all that encouraging, because he wasn't much different from my own son. Of all the books to read, he headed straight for the Star Wars section. Typical. Good old George needs another buck or two, after all.

Depression set in around that point. Because even if I find an agent and a publisher picks up my book...how can I expect anyone to find my book in all of that? I'll be lucky to sell a single copy in such a store! My career as an author is over before it even begins!

Of course, authors do make it, so apparently it can happen. I have to believe that at this point. On Backspace, we've discussed this. Marketing is such a huge part of publishing. And marketing to the YA market is altogether different from the adult market. I've got some marketing ideas of my own which, hopefully, will help. We'll see.

So, I want everyone here to make me a promise, okay? When the time comes that my book is sold and about to hit the shelves, you'll tell any young adult you know about it, okay? Easy enough, right? And if you're really committed to me, you'll actually buy a copy. Or two. Or ten.

I'm not there yet, however...but I figured I should get promises early to help me over my B&N induced depression. Thanks.

The Future, According to Me

I've been planning my future. Now, I realize that such endeavors are often futile and perhaps even foolish...but that doesn't mean I can't have a little fun, does it?

First of all, I will not only acquire an agent for my book, but the agent will make a quick sale, resulting in a complete four-book deal. Now, as this will be my first book, the advance will be minimal. But in a year's time, that book will become a raging success, and my book will require second, third, and fourth printings. The sequels will do better, and so in a few years, I'll have earned enough to buy a new house, paid for entirely out of pocket. Woohoo!

I'll still work, however. After all, I'm diabetic, and no one in their right might would offer health insurance to someone like me, not to mention my family, without being part of an employer's group coverage. But by then, my work will be a hobby, more or less. I won't care about pay raises. I'll be able to software engineer for the fun of it. Novel concept, since software engineering used to be fun at one time in my life. Until it became a job.

I'll have another child, maybe two, and the money that I won't have to pay out for a mortgage payment can be used to pay someone who keep our house clean. My wife will like that.

I don't expect to become rich. I'm realistic, after all. Most authors aren't rich. But, I'll move up into the upper middle class, similar to those with dual incomes. Ryan Bruner will become a household name, and I'll write something really controversial about how the concept of outerspace is really just a government cover-up or something.

The truth is, I don't know what my future will be like. Frankly, I don't even know what my afternoon will be like (although I have a pretty good idea). But what is interesting about my vision of the life ahead of me is that diabetes will remain a part of it until I die.

There is so much hope among diabetics and their parents that there will be a cure. But I just don't believe it. I'm not being negative, either. I'm being realistic. I expect I'll live out the remainder of my life this way, and, truthfully, it doesn't bother me one little bit. (Blue Cross, Blue Shield, however, probably feels differently.)

I can't even imagine my life without diabetes. I'm slightly afraid what that kind of freedom would mean. So, I'd rather hold on to my disease as I plan my future, because even with diabetes, the future, according to me, looks pretty rosey.

The Invisible Man

I see them--usually two, but sometimes three--headed my way. Of course, they have crossed the invisible line that separates my side of the sidewalk from their side, so technically, I have the right of way.

But they don't seem to care. Or else they don't seem to notice me. It is hard to tell which without reading their minds. And, since I lost my metallic mind-reading cap with brain-wave sensing antenae years ago, I have to just presume they don't notice me.

They come closer, only a few paces away. But this time it will be different. This time I will prevail. I walk taller, eyes forward instead of glued to my toes, as I normally would be. Three steps remain, then two, then...I step out of the way.

Once again, I lose this game of chicken. I glance behind, and their conversation is uninterrupted. I look at my own arms, to make sure I haven't suddenly turned invisible, but I'm most definitely not transparent.

I don't know what it is about me. But I've had this problem since I was in Junior High. Whenever I would walk through the hallways, down the sidewalk, in the aisles at a store, invariably I'm the one who must move out of the way so that the other person or people can walk by. Sometimes it is simply a sidestep to the right or left. But never, in all my years, can I think of a time that the other party didn't initiate the move.

Perhaps I'm just overly aware of this, but it has recently frustrated me to the point to where I decided I'm going to take a stand. I'm going to fight for my right to walk along the sidewalk without being the wimp. After all, I'm thirty-three years old. I've paid my dues. It's time for everyone else--anyone else!--to step aside for once.

During my recent trip to Cedar Point, I had the perfect opportunity, too. Yet, once again, at the very last possible moment, where literally centimeters separate us from colliding, I stepped aside.

I'm too polite, I suppose. If I didn't move, we would bump shoulders, at which point I imagine the other person turning to me, shoving me, telling me to watch where I'm going, threatening to give me a nose job or something. I can't handle the pressure. Because, yes folks, I am a wimp.

I would like to understand the rules, however. Why me? A few months ago, I was walking with a friend of mine at work. We came upon another gang of walkers walking the opposite direction. They were hogging the hallway, of course, the two of us resorting to single file in order to squeeze past. So, I figured, I would follow in my friend's wake. The gang would move out of his way, and I'd be safe.

The gang did move out of his way, pressing together like an accordian. My friend didn't have to move at all. I guess he just had the right presence or something. But this is what gets me...the moment they passed by him, they spread out again. I was only three steps behind, and they moved back into my way. I held my own, though...if holding your own means twisting sideways and pressing yourself against the wall.

I swear I'm the Invisible Man again, but like before, I can see myself quite clearly, so maybe I'm only invisible if viewed from outside myself. It is the only logical conclusion I can come to.

But I won't take it anymore! I will prevail. So step aside, people of the Earth. Ryan Bruner is going to stand up for himself. He won't be chicken any longer. At least, not until I brush up on my karate...just in case.