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It occurred to me that a lot of male homophobia probably stems from sexism. Not major sexism. Not men-are-better-than-women sexism, but a more casual, you-throw-like-a-girl sexism. Most boys want to grow up to be men, which they are destined to do and can’t do much about. Growing up as a boy though, you are often compared to a girl when you come up short to what the regional and social expectations of a boy are. This of course is wrong to do, but it happens and probably will happen for a long, long time after my death. Due to poor parenting, poor teaching, and that poor parenting and poor teaching bleeding through from one kid to his peers.

It only takes one bully, or only one like-a-girl comment to make a boy think doing something like a girl must be a bad thing. That one comment will forever set a prejudice in that boys mind.

Doing something like a girl is wrong if you’re a boy and boys are better than girls because doing things like a girl is wrong.

So what does this type of causal sexism have to do with homophobia? Well, it’s impossible to say that male homosexuals are not more feminine than heterosexual males. Not necessarily in a stereotypical, non-butch way, but in a more obvious and by definition, sexual way. Calling a man a cock-sucker is calling him a homosexual and is also degrading a selfless sexual act that women do and is therefore degrading women too.

Being a male homosexual breaks one of the earliest social contract males usually learn: Being a boy is good and being anything else is being a girl. Girls are bad and have cooties. This makes men uncomfortable and being uncomfortable leads to things like homophobia.

I was born an atheist and raised a Christian; Lutheran to be more precise, a happy medium between my mother’s Baptist fears and my father’s catholic guilt. We prayed before dinner and we prayed before bed. Prayer seemed odd to me as a child, you’re not allowed to pray for specific things like money, good Christmas presents, or a nice tweed jacket. You could however pray for abstract things, like strength. My mother prayed for that a lot and maybe it was my fault. I was very open about my distrust in the system that is religion. Still, I prayed. I prayed for the abstract things, understanding of God, knowledge of God, and faith in God. All things I just never had.

See, I may have had suspicions about Heaven, but Hell was a fact of life for me. God was a maybe, the Devil was definitive. There was no way I wouldn’t be going to Hell, so I prayed more. I wanted to believe, but I couldn’t. It didn’t make sense to me then, and it doesn’t now, but I still remember the fear. The fear that only a child can have; fear without boundaries or logic fear for the sake of being afraid. Finally I asked for help. My parents told me I did believe in God. This didn’t help. My preacher was a better source of advice; he told me the story of doubting Thomas. He told me everyone should have a lapse of faith, and that I was a bright kid for having one so young.

I told my preacher about the praying. How I would do it anytime a non-believing thought would pop into my head and he thought this was a good idea. He told me that God loved me and that prayer was the right thing to do, but it wasn’t the only thing I should be doing. He told me to stop bringing my game boy to church, to listen instead of playing tic-tac-toe with my sister on the church’s programs. I did that, still nothing. I went back to him and he encouraged me to read the Bible. I did. It pushed me further away from Christ.

Eventually I understood what I was, an atheist, but that didn’t mean my preacher didn’t give good advice. Prayer is nothing without trying. Praying for something, even something abstract, is not enough. You have to strive for it. You have to try. You have to move your hands and you have to move your feet. Prayers will not be answered while you’re in bed, they’ll be answered while you’re trying to get what you want.

This is not a call for women to be stereotypical women; this is a call for women to be true feminists. Feminism is about being independent, not asserting dominance over men. Finding a man to do your laundry, to cook your meals, or to clean your place is still depending on a man. As a woman you should be able to do all those things yourself. Having ignorance in any category and claiming, that you’ll find a man to do it for you, is not feminism. It’s you being lazy, and frankly you being a bit of a whore.

A feminist shouldn’t need a man in her life to do anything for her. Especially depend on him to take care of her basic needs, like shelter, sustenance, and cute skirts. She should not only be able to provide for herself, but also be able to take care of herself.

It’s about equality, not just in status, rights, and opportunities, but in knowledge. There is no gender test on knowledge, but yet many women bias themselves against skills that are stereotypically for women. Skills will not weigh you down. Being able to cook or sew on a button will not limit you as a person. Inversely, the lack of these skills will limit you.

So, yes this is a call for women to learn how to be stereotypical women again. Not for the sake of men, but for the sake of themselves.

Only be half of the stereotype though, the half with knowledge to run a household, even if it’s just a household of yourself. Don’t forget how to change the oil in your car or any of the knowledge that people would label as manly; tackle that knowledge too. You have a right to it. Being a feminist should be something to be proud of, something not tainted by women who fly the flag of feminism while really looking for a guy who can make a nice risotto and iron a dress. Learn to cook the rice yourself and buy a steamer for your clothes.

A woman should be strong, independent, and intelligent. She should know how to make a sandwich when she’s hungry. I’ll leave you with this stereotypical male knowledge and poorly kept secret: if you eat over the sink, you won’t even need to dirty a plate.

You say you’re a nice guy. You respect women and would never cheat. You would never talk to a girl the way most other guys do. You’re special. That guy that any girl would be lucky to have. Yet, no girl seems to want you. That’s a little odd. Girls should like you. I bet you have a special someone in mind. I bet she’s a friend— maybe even a best friend. She tells you all her fears, all her problems, and even sometimes cries on your shoulder after she fights with her boyfriend. What an asshole he is. You would treat her so much better. You would cherish her. You would be the best boyfriend in the world.

I bet you’ve told her how you felt. If not this girl, the girl you were obsessed with before. I bet she’s acting weird now. Of course she is acting weird. She thought she had someone to talk to, someone to confide in, someone who cared about her as a person. You betrayed her. Everyone has been lying to you; you’ve been lying to yourself. You’re not a nice guy. You’re a guy who’s been letting a girl trust you, letting a girl take a little bit of the weight off her shoulders and give it to you. She trusted you with her problems and her emotions. No matter how many times she has told you: you’re a great friend, showed no interest in you, or scooted away for more personal space, you decided to try and guilt her into being your girlfriend. Don’t say you didn’t. That’s exactly what you did. You tried to take one connection and turn it into something else. She was sure about the connection. It was something stable. You ruined that for her by telling her how you feel.

Not only have you done that, but you’ve probably undermined her relationship. She can’t trust your good advice now. It could have been self-serving and probably was. You told her you would treat her better. She loves a guy and all you have done is insult him and say he’s not good enough. You’ve made her feel broken and you made her question her taste. Yet you think a guy that called her some name is the asshole? He may have called her something you wouldn’t have, but you played with her mind, her emotions, her trust, and left her in a strained relationship with someone she actually likes.

Do you even know this girl? You have no idea how she is romantically and you only have one side of the story. You’re in love with your own imagination. Take girls off the pedestal. All people are equal. Women burnt their bras and marched in the streets for equality. They don’t need a boyfriend to feed them compliments all day and tell them how perfect they are. They have friends for that, friends like you. Friends they’ll never date. They need an anchor to reality in a boyfriend and you can’t be that until you admit that they have faults. They need someone who knows them, and you simply do not. You may know the secrets and you may know the fears, but you don’t know her.

What can you do? You can start asking girls out and stop waiting for the right moment to do so. If they say no, move on to the next one. You don’t need more friends to pine for, and I’m sure she doesn’t need another guy waiting to tie her down. If you want tips and tricks on how to turn a friend into a girlfriend, you’re looking for ways to manipulate someone, which is just another way to be an asshole. Stop being an asshole and ask a girl out.

There is an evil purity to the blank page. The same evil purity found in un-molded clay or bare canvass. The evil that lives in pricey Italian notebooks that are too good for your writings. To write, to create, is to conquer this evil pure. To take something that’s been industrially made with a small threshold of error and difference, to take it and make it unique. Squiggling a line on the page would make it unique, but that’s not the thing most of us aim for. We aim for perfection. We think of what we will write before we write it, thus we are left thinking more than we are left working. Writing and creating are not things done in the head, but are things done with the hands. Only our hands can erase the evil pure with making marks, making mistakes and not being afraid.

• Make a mark
• Make a mistake
• Don’t be afraid

These are three things I write on the first page of every notebook I own. It helps me use them. There is something terrifying about breaking in a new notebook. There is this idea that the first thing you write will somehow be defining of the work you do. This can lead to us wearing out notebooks before they even have a page filled. Worse it makes us wait for inspiration, those little perfect moments when the words come together for you. That’s not creating. Inspiration is like finding money on the street, it’s nice, but you won’t find it there everyday. It will not be a way for you to live. Most importantly it’s not really yours. You can take credit for it, it can be the best thing you ever write, but it isn’t yours. It’s a discovery, not an invention. It’s important to invent. Invent something everyday. Make an imperfect something on the first page of your precious notebook and move on to inventing things.

When you’re not inventing you should be consuming. Read everything. Watch everything. Listen to everything. Give your mind something new to explore. It’s okay to have favorites, but it’s not okay to get comfortable. Don’t get stuck in a loop. If you just consume the same as you create, you’re in a loop. If you just consume a few genres of things, you’re in a loop. Ever feel like you had everything figured out? Just to later be surprised about how much you didn’t really get/know? You got comfortable. Life should be a constant struggle of getting new information and trying to process it while looking for more to consume. If you think you have it figured out, go consume something you wouldn’t, you’ll quickly see that you have it wrong.

I’m a suicide survivor, multiple attempts. I’ve been institutionalized because of an attempt and before that I talked myself out of being institutionalized for an attempt. Both times I tried to kill myself the same way. Both times I was sent to a hospital and then sent to a mental health facility. The second time I don’t remember the hospital. I’ve always under estimated how much I needed to kill myself. This is to say that I’ve had more than just two attempts. I’m currently medicated with the following:

Abilify
Lorazepam
Oxcarbazepine
Temazepam
Vyvanse

They all, even the Vyvanse which is for ADHD, have helped me not attempt again. Why did I try to kill myself? I’ll tell you they have been different reasons for different times: girls, self-hatred, a fear that I will never amount to anything, feeling unloved, feeling undeserving of what I have, not being creative enough, and just wanting to avoid things. Like I said, I’ve had more than just two attempts. Ask a professional and they’ll tell you it’s because I suffer from a dopamine deficiency. They’re right, I am too. Some of my attempts have had nothing to do with my mental health problems. Most of them did come from a part of my brain not working right.

I’m not a doctor. I do not know what I’m talking about. I’m a ADHD-bipolar-social-anxiety-disorder kind of guy. With this psychotropic cocktail I’m still a ADHD-bipolar-social-anxiety-disorder kind of guy, but I can pass for normal most of the time. I can pass as normal because it levels out my dopamine. I have a pipes and wires problem.¹ There is something physically wrong with me. It is not a mental problem. Most mental problems are physical problems. Your brain is a physical part of you. It is an organ. The most complex organ you have.

The more complex a system, the more likely it is to fail. Most people² have brains that fail them. Some people’s brain fail them in a very mechanical way. My dopamine factory is very lazy. So it needs help. It needed help for a very long time. I denied that help for a long time.

Sarah Marcy, is an ex-girlfriend. She is the reason I’m medicated. One night she showed me all the pills she took. She put each one in her palm and told me what each one did, then took them all with a smile. I pretended to understand what I just now am getting. A pill is a way to fix a problem. It’s not a crutch. It’s a wheel chair and you have no legs. You wouldn’t tell a man with no legs that he could walk if he wanted too. You wouldn’t tell him that if he just exercised more or ate better his legs would grow back. He has no legs. It’s a physical problem. It’s just a physical problem you can see instantly. I have physical problems you can’t see instantly. If you don’t believe in mental illnesses. If you think ADHD is a myth or that bipolar disorder is just someone that needs to smile more ask the people around me. They’re all believers. I’m not a completely different person. I’m just a good day, almost everyday now.

I’m an artist, most would say I’m a writer, I’m writing this in a Moleskine with a Zebra F-301 pen, the ones with the great smelling ink. When I get to my MacBook Pro it’ll be transferred into TextMate and when I think of a title it’ll be copied into Scrivener. Between those steps ideas for this essay will be typed into my iPhone using Simplenote and then synced to my Mac with Notational Velocity ALT. There will probably also be a Field Notes Brand Notebook and Space Pen involved. These are my tools. I trust them and keep them at the ready. My system is redundant and the only holes are human error.

All these things: the pens, the notebooks, the applications and the gadgets are magical to me, but a fucking Moleskine didn’t write any of my stories. Simplenote is not a muse whispering in my ear and a Space Pen didn’t make me a writer.

Even the process I’ve made for creating stories seems magical to me, but it’s just a series of actions that have proven to work well for me, at least for now. I’ve tried a lot of different ways to create, I’ve read a lot of books on how to create and I’ve only learned one universal truth while doing so, no matter what you do you have to keep trying. There are no shortcuts. Sometimes these shortcuts seem like they work, but they just leave you wanting an even simpler, easier, less frictional way to create. It makes you lazy and it makes you addicted to finding the one thing that will make you a great artist. The great shortcut. The holy grail to genius. The one thing keeping you back. It stagnates you.

There is no shortcut or life hack that will make you who you want to be instantly.

The greatest life hack is discipline. I wish I learned it sooner, I wish I wasn’t still learning it now, I wish I had it mastered. It might be better to say discipline is a muscle I wish I had exercised more.

If you’re looking for that one thing that will make you write that novel, lose that twenty pounds, run that marathon, or what ever you want to do, it’s discipline now. Not discipline starting Monday. Not discipline after one last cookie. Not discipline in the new year. It’s discipline now.

You’re future self is just as lazy as your present self. If you don’t start it now, chances are you’ll never start it. You’ll keep putting it off. You’ll keep dreaming and not producing results. Stop telling yourself that you’ll do something in X amount of time. Tell yourself you can screw off after an X amount of time. This is not a new idea, you’ve been told it all your life, get it done now so you don’t have to worry about it later.

I’m just figuring this stuff out myself. I’m just now figuring out not to worship your tools but to use them and not be afraid to use them. Anything idea is worthy of paper in any notebook no matter how much it cost. You can even put it in the Moleskine you dropped a Jefferson on. If you can’t do that, carry around a composition book that will only set you back a Washington. Feel free to bend that metaphor in anyway that makes you more productive. Really, if you can only run your five miles wearing a matching track suit somedays wear it, but run your god damn five miles everyday until you realize it’s okay not to match.

I had a ring for her finger and when she found out about you she had a finger for me

It sounds like a country song and I doubt I’ll ever write a country song, but it’s good. So it goes on my list. My list is a simple text file that lives in Simplenote ¹. It has all the lines I’ve wrote and loved but just had no place for, an island for misfit sentences. Lately I’ve been working on a project that been taking these lines and making something out of them. This Essay is part of that project and an endorsement for such a list. A list I thought every writer had. A ‘make longer’ list.

I use the term, ‘killing your babies’ a lot more than people are comfortable with when talking about the craft. It’s necessary to edit out things you slaved over, lived for and loved. Sometimes they don’t fit and sometimes they just fucking suck. The good ones must go somewhere because they have their own magic. A magic you can build on or with. They can be bricks or foundations. You can use them to see how far you’ve come. I’ve cherry picked all the good ones from my list and I’m left with lines that are years old and way past their expiration date. They’re a good reminder of how far I’ve come as a writer and how much my idea of good has tightened.

These things are important for all writers. We need to see where we came from, where we are and have someplace to go when the muse is away.

“This isn’t practice, it’s prodigy, playing around”

I wrote that piece of shit years ago. Let me be more specific. I wrote that horse-shit lie years ago before I appreciated practice. Before I read books like Bird by Bird, On Writing, and Writing Down The Bones. Before I understood the importance of daily practice. Before I really tried writing a book.

Right now I’m three chapters into a small novella with a bigger word count than anything I’ve ever written. I’m damn proud of myself and damn ashamed that I haven’t done something like this sooner. At least I can claim ignorance. Growing up I was a natural at a lot of things, better than some people who practiced all the time. So It’s taken over a decade for life to knock me on my ass enough times to realize that practice is something most people actually do, even those people who are really good. Those people practice better.

That’s all I’ve been doing lately, learning how to practice. It’s all about what you’ve heard all your life. Daily goals that you can meet. That gradually get harder when you’ve notice it’s getting too easy to accomplish. That’s where I got practice wrong so many years and gave up so many things.

Running, I gave up running because it made me. I added an extra lap everyday. Every-fucking-day. I ended up in physical therapy with a lot of pain and left with a mild withdrawal to an electrical current cranked up to ten flexing my lower back for me.

So what am I saying? Not much. Nothing that you haven’t heard a million times before from a few hundred people. Practice makes perfect. I’m saying a lot when I say that you have to practice practicing.

Every word of this may seem like a lie. Most things about love are. My dealings with it have always been with the artistic and deep thinking. As much as we yearn to be normal the need to be different is strong enough to make us a group of creative types different to date so many opinions on love could and probably are stuck to be agreed with by people who already know all of this from fucking an artist of any kind. Love is allotted as many chances as needed for that what love is: understanding, commitment, and timing. wish I could win votes from the normies with this but love is allotted as many chances as needed for that what love is: understanding, commitment, and timing.

No one really writes any more either its too bland from fear of mockery or too wordy to show off their intellectual dick size. At least thats what I thought going through years of creative writing classes. I still hate anyone who shows of things half-assed or toiled over and try to nullify critiques by saying, “I wrote it in like ten minutes”.

“I really like this, I can see you worked on this”

“Really? I wrote it in like ten minutes”

“But the other piece you brought in could use some editing”

“Well, I wrote it in like ten minutes”

Every person I met in these classes wanted to be famous. They wanted to be tortured and they wanted to be better than everyone else. I did the same stuff and I’m glad I did. Being a fake and hating myself for it may have stopped me for a while but it changed me for the better.

No one will ever see anything I write in ten-fucking-minutes anymore.

I’m a writer. I’m not an inspired wordsmith pulling greatness from the heavens so the common people may see just a glimpse of what I can.

I don’t pretend anymore that my art just happens. This is work and I’m proud of it.