Daddy, do you think you're going to die?

Hi, this is the prologue to the, as of yet, untitled thriller/mystery novel that I'm currently working on. Thanks for reading.

PROLOGUE

“Daddy, do you think you're going to die?” my four year old son, Jeremiah, asks. In shock, my mouth opens and closes silently while I search for eye contact with my boy through the rear-view mirror.

“No, Jer, I'm not going to die. Why would you think that?” I wonder quietly. My wife is slumped next to me, asleep after our early morning departure.

“Well, ever since Uncle Bill died, Mom's been praying for you a lot. I can tell she's worried,” he answers honestly with his small brow furrowed under a ruffle of bangs.

“I know Jer. That's why we just moved to the farmhouse. I'll always be a cop, son. But a cop here in the sticks is different than a cop in the city. It' still dangerous but it's safer than Philadelphia.”

“I'm proud of you, Daddy,” Jer whispers before falling asleep in his car seat.

What I've told him is true. There's no active threat on my life. No criminals fresh out of prison with a grudge and a black-market pistol. No politician conspiracies or otherwise crazy circumstances are following me from Philadelphia to our new home in rural Vermont. I was simply a beat cop in the city but Jeremiah is right. The death of her brother, who worked in the same precinct as me, took a nasty toll on my wife. Long after the natural stages of grief, she was still withdrawn, emotional, and constantly anxious. It took some prying on my part to learn she was afraid my fate would be the same as Bill's and long before she would be able to handle widowhood.

Cop wives are strong. Stronger than a lot of women ever really have to be. My wife is no different, she knew who I was when we married. We've had close calls before, like when a drug addled teenager decided to play a racing video game in real life. To make matters worse, the drugs gave him an indignant, furious road rage that resulted in three smashed police cruisers, one of which was mine. Other incidents occurred; other cops died. I guess none of that really hit home until Bill died.

We talked about moving for awhile, saved up some money, and finally took the leap. We bought a small fix-it-up farmhouse in our hometown Georgia. Don't let the name fool you, it's a small town in northwestern Vermont. So, this is kind of like a belated homecoming really. Except neither of us has any family left to come home to. We were both only children and lost our parents during high school. It's part of what brought us together. We have old friends out here though, like Noah, who became a cop in our hometown and helped me get my new job. He's the kind of friend you grow up with and maybe part ways for awhile but when you get back together it's as if you were never apart. In my opinion, those are the best kinds of friends to have.

With any luck, and a whole lot of faith in prayer, the serenity and peace of the mountains will help my wife heal and prepare for me to go back to work. I won't start at St. Albans PD for another week. Right now, we're on our way to a secluded cabin in Mt. Mansfield State Forest. It belongs to Noah, passed down through his family for generations. He said we could “rent” it for free. I promised to make him a gargantuan steak and grilled corn.

When we were young, my wife and I enjoyed camping and hiking in these woods. I suspect the clean, familiar atmosphere will wash away some of her fear and depression. The last year has been hard on all three of us. But I know this mini-vacation and our new home afterwards will be a life changing decision. I pray it's the best decision for our family. For my son.

Running Is Ugly

Hi, this is a short story I came up with awhile ago but only just jotted down. Thanks for reading.

There's nothing good about running. Oh sure, doctors say that it's good cardio. So is hiking or biking or just about any sport that really gets you moving. But running is ugly. You dress in ugly outfits, sweat profusely, and pant like a dog. In my opinion, no one looks good running. That includes scantily clad women in yoga pants and especially topless men in short shorts.

However, my job requires me to run. Sometimes. But when it does, I have to be ready. After all, I can't let a murderer or thief get away just because I hate running. And I can't necessarily leave all the running up to my partner. It used to be that my partner and I would train together. We'd run the trails and parks around the city to keep us in shape. We'd meet up before work or after a paperwork laden shift, run a few miles, and eventually huff and puff our way home. Being the gentleman that I am, I always ran her home, even on mornings when we went before work. You can never be too careful. And in our line of work, you lose a lot of trust in humanity.

One of those days where I struggled with my view of humanity, happened last summer. We were working a bank robbery, where a\the thief killed the teller simply because she wasn't fast enough under the pressure of a large rifle pointed at her face. During the gunfight between police and criminals, my partner jumped in front of a bullet meant for me. And I am exceedingly grateful. The bullet that landed in her hip, was aimed at my head. Now, we barely run together anymore. That's more my fault than hers. You see, my partner now runs with a hitch. She has a specific lilt in her step that slows her down. Some people call it a limp. Others call it a disability; she laughs at those people. Regardless of what you call it, I use the reduction in her pace as an excuse to run by myself more often than not. But it's really just that, an excuse. And that aggravates me. I know I should be able to run at her slowed pace in penance for her saving my rear end, I still can't do it. I fight with myself day after day over this seeming disloyalty and ungratefulness. I want to be a better man than that.

But, what it really comes down to, is what I don't tell her. I hide behind an arrogant mask of speed records and lap times to keep her from knowing that she's changed me. The real reason I can't run with my partner anymore is literally because of that limp in her step. When she walks, you barely notice it. But running makes it much more apparent. And despite the fact that running is ugly, when my partner runs, it's beautiful.

That's Not How Writing Works

So, I've been brainstorming another novel. With the aid of social media and search engines, I stumbled across useful tools that I didn't know about when I wrote my first novel (Micah's 45). Story worksheets. Character trait lists. Plot outlines. Setting charts. All sorts of wonderful things in paper or PDF format meant to help you organize your thoughts. Of course, when I started to think about this book, I had nothing more than a premise (killer stalks family) and a clincher sentence. That's similar to how I started Micah's 45, so it didn't really bother me. I sat down and just started typing. and it worked. Now, I did shortly have to come up with an outline (for the class that started Part 1 of Micah's 45) but it was far off base and even generalized so much as to be vague. I had no idea where the story was going until it got me much closer to the destination.

Yes, you read that correctly. Until it got me much closer to the destination. I was halfway between the land of sleep and normal life when an imagined scenario became the final chapter. So, I wrote the final chapter down. I still had no idea how I was going to get there. In fact, the ending seemed unexpected, bold. It was not what I had planned; I didn't have any idea how it fit with the rest of the story.

Then, why did it frustrate me when I couldn't immediately answer so many of the worksheet questions? I guess, somewhere along the way, I forgot how writing really works for me. I see something: a premise, a clincher, maybe just a character or a particular scene. And then I imagine all the ways that could have come to be. You start investigating the character(s) and you weed your way into their lives. I should clarify at this point that you investigate your characters, NOT stalk the real people who may have inspired a character. Don't be creepy; that's not cool.

It's possible that what I'm saying sounds awfully mystical to normal people. But I just don't seem to know a better way to describe it. As you write, you become better acquainted with your characters. As they grow and develop, your story grows and develops. Sometimes, your characters do something you didn't expect or want and sometimes you gets stuck because you're trying to force a character to do something that they just wouldn't do. That makes the writing hard because you have to keep an eye out for inconsistencies.

For example, in the first drafts of Micah's 45, I made Micah's speech too eloquent and cultured for a teenage girl with her personality and background. This problem is a good reason to encourage multiple revisions. But not just editing revisions. I mean full-blown self criticism bordering on the depressing. Everything from "Does this overall outline/plot/character/scene make sense?" to "Will other people think this story is implausible and stupid?"

But, for me, this flamboyant approach to writing works. And, for the most part, stringent adherence to worksheets, outlines, charts, and lists is just not how writing works.

P.S. Thats my opinion and my experience; you're free to politely (please and thank you: inappropriate comments will be deleted) disagree and teach me your ways, if you're so inclined.

The Difference Between Graduate School and Undergrad

Lately, I've been reminiscing about the good old days. For me, that would be my years in undergrad. (I never understood people who wished they were back in high school. Horrible acne, bad nicknames, raging hormones. Trying to find a group you fit in with. No thanks...glad God me through all that in one piece.) After my first year of undergrad, I moved back in with my parents. They lived within walking distance of campus, allowed me to do my laundry without making sure nobody stole my underwear or dumped my clothes on the floor, and in general didn't seem to mind having their adult (an entire 19 years old) child around. After all, I was still living with them over summer/winter breaks. With a little assistance, I got my driver's license, bought my own car, and got my first job. Now, this is important.

If you remember the title of this blog post, that is. You see, during undergrad, I not only had time to go to class and do homework, I also had enough time on my hands to work a retail job. Not only that, but I also participated in the Physics Club and kept up enough of a social life to meet and date the man who eventually became my husband. The point is: I had time. And plenty of it.

Graduate school is different, though. Not only did I officially move out, but I also realized how little time there is in a day. For the first two years, I took the classes I would need for my Master's degree. My daily schedule went as follows: get up, get dressed, take the train to school, do homework in the library until class, go to class, back to the library for more homework, eat lunch if you remember/have time (which rarely happened), more homework, more classes, go home, eat dinner, more homework, shower and bedtime. That doesn't include the two semesters of teaching introductory labs. I know the only reason I even survived those is because God somehow carried me through it. Though I've mentioned in previous blog posts that much sweat and tears went into my getting off academic probation, in reality it was the grace of God that got me out of that mess.

Which brings out another point. In undergrad, I barely had to focus on my homework to get good grades. I could watch TV and write essays, skim through papers I was supposed to read, and quickly finish most assignments without even working with other students. Not graduate school. I quickly learned that I had to work from deadline to deadline, practically stalk the smartest kid in my program, and go to enough office hours that my professors probably got sick of me. GRAD SCHOOL IS HARD. Ridiculously hard. I'm sure some people breeze through it or maybe are in programs that come easier to them but grad school is more work and harder work than undergrad.

Now that I'm no longer in classes (thank God again), I do have more time and energy. Instead of classes, I "work" as a researcher in a laboratory. I put quotations on work because at this point in the degree program it becomes almost like a normal job with a boss and coworkers and meetings. Except it' really not. My "boss" is actually my adviser (though if I want my degree I probably should treat him like a boss because he does have the power to say, "Kid, I don't think this is going to work out, you should start looking for another group to work with." Though I don't expect that to happen (my adviser is almost as awesome as my undergrad thesis adviser), I still have to work hard and do my best. After all, being fired from a retail or fast food job might not hurt my career options but being kicked out of a research group really would. My "coworkers" are other students like me and my "meetings" can be anything from group update meetings to seminars I attend.

Finally, I'd like to make a distinction that I find myself explaining a lot to people who don't know much about grad school. You can't just transfer programs after starting one. You can't score low grades and get away with it. You can't really "switch majors." If you're working in a research group, you can't just "transfer to another school" because your friends want you to move back home. In some ways, there's much less freedom for mistakes or mind-changing in graduate school. But in other ways, you have more freedom than ever to learn exactly what you want to learn. In summary, grad school is good. But grad school is hard. Don't assume that just because you were a straight A student in undergrad means you will be in graduate school. Don't assume you're going to have extra time for a ton of different activities (at least not right away). But, like me, you'll eventually figure it out and find your groove.

A Reflection on Ignorance

They say ignorance is bliss. What you don't know can't hurt you. Wrong.

For the past several years, I've considered myself a seasoned writer. After all my novella had the approval of a published, totally cooky, amazing author. I took her course and got an A. I passed advanced exams and placed out of all general English requirements. I even *gasp* basically skipped my Technical Reports class on a regular basis because I got my assignments right the first time. Every week, I showed up to pick up the graded assignment. Everyone else was required to stay and listen to the professor rant about how pathetic their writing was. I was given my paper and told, "Good job, see you next week." I received an A in that class as well. Even though, I only attended one full lecture that I can remember and that was the final presentation. Of course, that was undergrad. I haven't kept up with my writing skills all that much.

But, I know how to pretty up a resume. I can write a decent cover letter. I have an academic article published and another stuck somewhere out there in "accepted but not yet published" land. I wrote a 80 page honors thesis based on my undergraduate research. I've had poetry published in a literary magazine. I've written two short stories in vastly different genres. I've done essays and term papers, grant proposals and magazine articles, college application essays (which are by far the weirdest writing I've ever done). I think I've even gotten down how to write a decent email. And with the assistance of Swype, I can almost write a coherent text message.

I've written a 61,000 word novel.

In fact, I finished it this week. I've been running this particular race for well over two years. I'm grateful and relieved and somewhat annoyed by the fact that I'm finally done. Or so I thought. Sometime during the race, I pulled out my handy tablet and started doing some research. After all, what good is a novel, if it's not going to be published? This leads to the task at hand.

I need to write a query letter.

Oh, ho ho. A letter that sounds easy. I've been writing letters since back in the good old days before email became the primary form of business communications. Ha. I thought I was knowledgeable. I thought I knew what I was doing. I looked up how to write a query letter. What format do I need? What information should I include? How do I really get an agent to grab onto my letter and never let go? According to various sources, query letters are commonly emailed to a bucket list of agents, glanced at by each, and quite possibly thrown into the internet void of Deleted Emails. Not just by one or two of them. Not even by just half or most of them. Commonly, by ALL of them.

So, I subscribed to the single most useful blog in the history of the internet. Well, at least it is for me and for this purpose. QueryShark. I've read archives and comments. Poured over FAQs and detailed instructions. And yet I sit here with my half-written query sitting on my desktop and I'm writing a blog about it instead of just doing it. Well, actually, I'm writing a blog about it because I decided that growling and waving my hands at my computer like some sort of deranged conductor waiting for it to orchestrate itself was not working. No surprise there.

So, I guess I don't know everything and the extent of my lack of knowledge must extend to more than just querying. I'm sure it extends to lots of things in lots of places. Some of these places, I will never wish to travel. Others, I will venture into.

The Catch Up Game

Hi there!

If you've never read my blog before, which is highly probable, I mostly write on here as a form of stress relief. Call it a way to organize my thoughts on "paper" without actually keeping one of those ridiculous lock-and-key diaries. Sad fact, I don't really publish anything secret on here. Sorry, no scandalous info for you! Plus, the only scandalous info I have in my possession would be funny cat pictures.

So, I have recently went over my latest posts. Uhm, not much I can say other than: "Wow. Was I a whiny undergrad or what?" So, a lot has changed in the year or two since I've blogged. I am now happily married. After RPI denied my graduate school application (I think that was the last blog I posted), I was accepted at Washington University in St. Louis and Drexel University. Based on my current location, you can probably tell that I chose Washington University. It was a hard decision: move half-way across the country away from my family to go to a lofty private school or stay close to home to go to a small university where I could probably receive much more one-on-one attention from caring professors. I chose the lofty private school because of the economy.

If the economy still stinks when I've graduated with my PhD, then the least I can do is make my PhD look more flashy by getting it at "the Harvard of the West." Honestly, I feel like all the hype about WashU is just silly. It's a nice college, it's well funded, and it's got a lot of good professors and programs. But just like every other college out there, what you get out of it depends on what you put into it. Luckily, I'm NOT putting in the massive tuition money.

But that's enough about school for now. I've had a run of weird circumstances that I've never had the chance to blog out recently. After accepting my acceptance at WashU, I found an apartment here in St. Louis. Within hours of finding an apartment that let me keep my cats, I lost my dad to heart disease. It was a real shock and threw me for a loop my last semester of undergrad. I love my dad and I still miss him. I wish he could have gone to my graduation. Two weeks after graduation, I left my recently widowed mom to move here. My husband started a new job and I started grad school orientation.

Grad school is scary hard. Like the hardest thing I've ever done. I've seen at least one peer quit and I know of others who are unhappy. After my first semester, I was on academic probation. That meant my second semester was all stress. Oh, and on top of dragging my grades up, I taught introductory physics labs to freshman. I did that again my third semester. By the way the fact that I had a third semester, means I got off academic probation (with a lot of sweat and tears of course).

Somewhere in between all of that, I got married (Nov 11, 2012) and I went home to move my mom out here to be with us. My best friend moved here to be our roommate in November of 2012! It is currently winter break before my fourth semester. If I get everything done right this semester, then I will have my Master's degree and will have qualified to start my PhD research. Today I finished writing the novel that I mentioned in previous posts and am excited to start the search for a literary agent.

That's about it. Obviously other stuff occurred (a lot of it) but nothing I'm willing to post publicly on the internet. Hopefully, if anyone ever reads this, I've entertained you for a moment or two.

Summer is Here

So school is officially over for my third year as a SUNY Plattsburgh Physics major. This summer I want to begin planning for the wedding, study for the GRE and the GRE subject test, and learn to mountainboard.

So far we have decided that we are going to do a blue/black theme. So the gentlemen will be wearing black pants with blue shirts most likely, maybe black vests. And this means that the bridesmaids will wear blue dresses. I have yet to explore this avenue. If we do decide on doing silk flowers, then I have found a site that sells a bunch of different shades of blue for reasonable prices.

As far as studying for the GRE's, well I started reading my Physics book and should probably work a little more on that. However, I have gotten sucked back into the fiction reading addiction that generally attacks over all breaks from school. Rather than reading for the GRE's, I have been reading mostly Dean Koontz and Ted Dekker books with a sub-interest in Lisa Gardner and Clive Cussler (boats....*drool*). On the lighter side of things I have actually started reading for and working on my Advanced Research Project.

As far as mountainboarding goes I rode down the hill I lived on for the first time this summer and will work my way up to Fox Hill when I receive my carry bag in the mail.

I have lost about 3 pounds...I'll work on this one.