Ugh…do I have to?

It’s 3:50 pm on Monday. I’d rather do anything else than write this blog post. Such as Netflix. God, that sounds wonderful. Lounge on my bed. Rest my head on a pillow. Space out to Ryan Phillipe kicking ass so he can reunite with his wife and daughter in Shooter.

The better, more mature part of me prevented myself from going down that avenue. Mostly due to the fact that I set a goal to walk at least 5,000 steps a day. Each week the step count will increase by 1,000. Today, I’ve only walked 1,341 steps. That’s no good. I got to get out there. Get to 5,000 or more. Please, God, let that happen before the weather worsens.

It’s amazing how far I’d go to not update my blog. So far today, I’ve used two methods of distraction. One, laundry. Two, disassembled the kitchen sink pipes to scrape the moldy gelatinous grime from within. The latter was a must as the water would not go down.

Now I’m parked on a bench outside the Mudd Puddle Coffee Roasters in New Paltz. There’s a slight breeze. Feels like a tornado could be around the corner.

Wow, I’m scrambling for words. I so baldy want to entertain you. I want your praise. I want you to walk away feeling inspired and take action. Yet the words feel flat.

When I work on the novel, it isn’t like this. The characters suck me into their ridiculous lives. I chuckle like a madman as I record their fictional mishaps and fortunes onto the page. There’s a gorgeous confidence when in novel writing mode. Also, I’m not publishing the novel until the whole damned thing is done.

This blog scares the daylights out of me. I tell myself the blog needs to convert the reader into a client. “Oh hire me! Hire me. Hire this half-wit! Hire this nonsense machine who writes children’s books for adults. Hire the fool who can fantasize his way through a job interview but in reality boasts in an off-putting insane manner.”

I admit, that last paragraph was fun to write. It forced me to be real. Maybe there’s greater intimacy between you (the reader) and me. If not, that’s okay. You’ll live. I’ll live. I’ll continue to show up at this blog terrified as shit.

Now, for the love of God (you must think I’m religious mentioning God’s name twice. I’m not. Just spiritual), I must take a walk. Perhaps you do too. Whatever you do with your time, I implore that you make it your best. I’ll be back when I’m back (which will hopefully be next week if I can work up the courage).

Enough Descending! Time to Ascend

Those readers who have been with me from the very beginning know that I titled this blog Descent Into A Creative Mind. That was all fine and dandy at first as tapping into my creativity did feeling like a spelunking expedition. There was a ton of bullshit to wade through, such as, “What’s this nonsense I’ve tapped out on the page?” or “Does anybody give a crap about what I have written here?” or “Is it descent or descend?” These types of questions went on and on. Underneath all this bullshit (heck let’s just call a spade a spade here. It was my shit. I’m not a bull. I’m a human after all…I think), I finally found myself (Eureka!) along with the subject of my new novel entitled The Admired. The only spoilers you’ll get about this novel is that it’s a satire on obsession and er…it’s slightly autobiographical, emphasis on the word slightly. The rest you’ll have to read when the book comes out (I’m 46,000 or so words into the writing of this novel. That’s about 1/3 of the way through).

I made a decision to give this blog a new look and a retitling. (Those of you who clicked the hyperlink—Welcome back! Where the hell did you think I was going to send you? I was in the middle of a sentence for crying out loud!). Joyously together we can call this blog The Ascent To Our Creative Minds. The intention of this facelift is to inspire, inform, enlighten, ignite passion under our tushies and pull together a community of brilliant souls. Yes, that means you! If any of this interests you, please read on.

When talking about ascension this isn’t some New Age hodgepodge. It’s real folks. I’ve discovered the roots of agelessness and unconditional love. How, you may ask: The expression of creativity. This is the inner child at play. You might say, “Well, I’m too old. I’ll never change” or “How’s this gonna help? I need to make money. Playing is for kids.” Bullshit alert! I mean human shit alert! Whatever-species-you-are-shit alert! I don’t care if you’re two or two thousand years old, all of us have an inner child. There’s tons of literature out there to prove this. Comment below with your doubts and I’ll be pleased to send you a handful of links. Should you still be sitting there bemoaning, “This jerk with this inner child nonsense”, let me ask you, don’t you want to laugh and feel the joys you once had as a child? Heck, I know I do. If you don’t, I’m not judging here but it would absolutely perplex me if you were to respond, “Eric, I actually hate laughing. Nothing beats a good ol’ serious boring day. While the sun rises, I yell at my loved ones. Cut people off on the road. Fire everyone at work. Sue my clients. Heck, they smelled like piss anyway. Then come home. Why eat a delicious dinner when you can munch on a nice microwaved paper towel. At 7:30 PM on the dot I lock myself in a frigid broom closet. Ain’t no mattress there! Why lay down when you can stand up? God gave us two feet for a reason. After some leaning against the icy wall, I do it all over again the next day.” Well, friend, I don’t even know what to say to that one.

Now, since we are all living here on planet Earth, money does need to be made in some capacity. However, why not go about it while having some fun? Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m not talking about something kinky here, although that is not out of the scope of possibilities. There have been worse ways riches have been accrued. What I was getting at is a technique some of the greatest entrepreneurs use called brainstorming. The root of this is creativity.

I’ll go more in detail on all of these topics and more in future posts. In the meantime, regardless of your age, sexuality, economic status, connection with spirit, enjoyment of sleeping in a frigid broom closet, I really hope to learn more about you. Together let’s break through our limitations and soar through our most elevated selves. I suggest after reading this, you put some wild music on and get your dancing feet going. That’s what my plan is once I push the “Publish” button.

The First on Reading

Ladies, Gentlemen and Ogres in Disguise:

This post on reading feels like the first of many.   As a human that longs to express myself in the deepest way possible via writing (and other forms…acting, filmmaking, music, etc.), I cannot imagine a life without reading.   Sure, a quick tour of People magazine might offer some insight.   The type of reading I suggest is one that challenges.  One that might lose you for a page or two.   One whose characters are so unlike you that you either wrinkle your nose in disgust or dive so deep into the book, it appears that you and the printed pages are conjoined twins.   Doesn’t matter the genre.   Could be a non-fiction book about a sweaty old genius who loves his ginger snap cookies but beats his kids.   Could be a novel about a ginger snap cookie that teases kids with its sweetness, taking them away from their sad lonely widower father.

In the anthology Writers on Writing, Saul Bellow wrote a short essay, “Hidden Within Technology’s Empire, a Republic of Letters”. Here, Bellow discusses how technology has, in so many ways, taken over our reading time.   Sure, we spend our time responding to texts (which, of course, must be read).   Words though are being shortened.   There’s the LOL’s, OMG’s and FML’s.  Are these acronyms here because we’ve forgotten how to spell the words properly? Or is it that we live such a rushed life, no time for writing, must get to the next text?  LOL.

In writing about technology and these new digital acronyms, I say there’s nothing wrong with any of this.   As this piece is written, my cell phone sits a foot and a half away.   Should it light up, my eyes gravitate toward it, taking my attention away from this.   Please, though, I urge you to take just a simple thirty minutes a day to read something meaningful, something that challenges you.  It could be read on the can, the subway, in a doctor’s waiting room.  Your life, I guarantee, will be enriched.

Continuation of Script

I have this tendency to take what’s already written and do an overhaul.   Although I’m trying to get out of this pattern, it’s essential  an overhaul occurs.   Why?   Something else presses me…

Memories from my most recent job.   Although it was rather nightmarish (for four years, every day, nonstop), I’ve decided to take a satirical look at it.   The characters from the Descent script will be transferred over to this more personal story.

In the meantime, I will continue to post the script in the order in which it was written.   Here it goes —


               CHARLIE, unshaven and bug-eyed paces the room.   An unlit
               cigarette dangles in his hand.  He charges at Damian the
               moment he enters.

                         My God!  That woman with the nice
                         hair, didn't seem happy to see me. 
                         What's up with that?  Oh, she's
                         your lady friend you were talking
                         about.   How's everything going
                         with you and her?  

                         Just peachy.

               Damian pours some whiskey into a glass.

                         "Peachy"?  Great word.   Listen,
                         I've been up all night, man.  I
                         just figured it out. I should say
                         fuck it to comedy and write books.  
                         Adventures like Tolkien.   What do
                         you say?  I mean like fuck, Damian,
                         I'm not getting any younger.   You
                         know my birthday was on Tuesday. 
                         Turned thirty-one.  Not that you

                         Want any?


               Damian raises his glass of whiskey.

                                   CHARLIE (CONT'D)
                         Alcohol?  Are you crazy?  It's like
                         12:15.  What the fuck man?   Why
                         would I want to drink?  I barely
                         ate breakfast.  Just a tiny bowl of
                         Greek yogurt with bananas.   You
                         ever have that combo?   Greek
                         yogurt and bananas?   It's great. 
                         You should try it.

               Damian takes a seat at the head of the conference table.  His
               face stricken with horror.

                                   CHARLIE (CONT'D)
                         What?  You're scaring me.   Stop
                         scaring me.   You're looking at me
                         all weird.

                         Charlie, I need you to shut the
                         fuck up and sit down.

               Without hesitation, Charlie takes a seat.

                         Okay.  Hi!  What's up?

                         I'm dropping you.

                         What? I thought we were tight man. 
                         Aren't we friends?  What's this all
                         about?  You can't be serious.  How
                         is this possible?   

                         I'm dropping everyone.

                         You're not suicidal are you? 
                         Please tell me you're not suicidal. 
                         If you're suicidal you should get
                         some help. Lots of help.  
                         All sorts of professionals out
                         there that can help you with this
                         kind of stuff.  Tell me you're not

                         I'm not suicidal.  

                         Wooh!  Well, that's a relief.  But
                         you're dropping everyone?   Why?

                         It's time.   

                         Time?  Time for what?

               EXT. WATERFRONT - DAY

               The day couldn't be cloudier.

               Damian, in torn khaki shorts and a fluorescent tank top,
               drags a row boat on the muddied sand.  He heads toward the
               crystalline water. 

               The boat catches onto a hump in the sand.

               Damian tugs but falls forward.   He leaps to the front of the
               boat, lifts it from the hump.   Continues pulling the boat
               toward the water.  At the water's edge, he jumps in the row
               boat.  Paddles away.

               EXT. RURAL ROAD - EVENING

               The pavement's cracked.  Regardless, Damian, out of breath,
               saunters about.   Knapsack slung over his shoulder.   

               A dark figure runs across the street.

               Fatigued, Damian grabs a tree branch.


               Damian yanks his hand off the branch.  Blood pools up on each
               finger.  He licks the blood.