Reflections On My First Finished Book

My writer’s journey began in September 2003 when I started working on my first novel called Running Scared. Writing a book always felt enchanting. I had done a great deal of reading, but very little writing. The little that I had done had been in the form of poetry and songwriting.

The years between 2000 to 2010 were the harshest of my life. I call them My Lost Decade. In 2003, I was going through my first divorce. I wore my emotions and heart thin, and feelings of worthlessness and depression dominated my life.

I poured out those despairs into composing a novel. Back then, I backed up my copies onto a floppy disc. That’s crazy for me to think about now. I didn’t have a working computer at my house, so I would drive to my local library and spend hours lost in imagination typing away at my story. I loved how scenes would come alive in my mind a little at a time as if I were taking a flashlight into a dense dark forest on a nighttime hike.

I finished the first half of the story in around six months, and then sat on it for three years until August 2006 when I was working through my second divorce. I never stopped thinking about the story and just let it percolate in my head. Once again, when emotional trauma hit, I turned to writing. It took me two months to finish my novel. I felt like I had ascended Mount Everest. It was a dazzling gem in a bleak moment.

I celebrated by printing out a bunch of copies for my friends and family to read because now I was an author that had finished his first book. Then the reviews came. They were not kind.

Oh, they tried to be nice. I remember the kindest thing was, “You have talent, but you still have a lot of work to do.“

My author friend edited it for me. I realized I would need to rewrite the entire story to get it ready for any kind of publication. I felt rejected and took the criticism a little too close to heart. I thought, “Well, my boy. You gave it the old college try. Maybe you just aren’t cut out to be an author, but hey, you finished a book.”

That was true. I had finished an 84,000 word novel that had a beginning, a middle, and an end, but that was it.

The problem was me not knowing anything about writing. I had never read a writing book or taken a creative writing class. In high school and college, I only took the prerequisite English and composition courses, but that had been well over ten years before. I didn’t understand that writing is a craft. It’s just like studying how to fight or play an instrument or learning any skill set.

My novel sucked. I can’t say it more plain. It sucked because I had ignored the fundamentals. Things such as grammar, point of view, story structure, believability, plot elements and gaping plot holes, and cringeworthy cliches were all unfortunately part of my first novel.

I quit writing novels in 2006. The interesting thing is I gave up, but writing didn’t give up on me. Over the years, several ideas for novels would come to me and I would write them down and even do a little research and outline the basic idea. I didn’t write my second novel until NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) eight years later in November 2014, but this time I came prepared.

In 2012, I upped my reading from 9 to 10 books a year to over a hundred books a year. I had become an English teacher and taught high school grammar and composition. I devoured writing books and learned how to develop the craft of writing.

I have stayed productive since then writing eight more novels and a few short stories. Now, I take great care to develop my craft. What is the craft to me? It is reading and writing. I don’t mean a little reading, but a lot of reading. This helps fill the proverbial writing well that you can draw from. The other things that help are constantly studying grammar, vocabulary, story structure, dialogue, and just learning how to spin a good yarn. The other thing is learning how to edit. Learn how to rewrite and take out the bad parts and leave the good. I believe that was the most difficult lesson for me. Don’t get so attached to your story that you can’t cut necessary things out or rewrite them.

A few weeks ago, I went back and reread my first novel. It hurt to get through because it was so bad. There were a few things that I liked about it. I could see talent beneath all the bad. I saw my writing voice trying to get out. It was there in its nascent form weighed down because of my lack of craft, but there. Still a crappy book. I will never release it, but I will keep it as a reminder of how far I have come and to remind me of the power of learning your craft.

-Raymond Tyler

28 December 2019

The Prisoner: Story Excerpt: Walter Palmer

The Prisoner by Raymond Tyler 
This is an excerpt from a recently written chapter simply called, “Walter Palmer.” This is from a first draft version, so it may change several times before the finished release. 
Here is that chapter. 

20- Walter Palmer

Walter Palmer was having a difficult time sleeping. He turned on his side and half-closed his eyes and tried to see his sweet Imogene next to him. Sixty-six years of marriage was a long time; a lifetime, if you think about it. He could see the small lump of bedding next to him and listened for the most comforting sound that he knew–the sound of her breathing. He thought he heard it, and his heart relaxed a little. 

The moon was full on that late Saturday night. He normally went to bed at nine-thirty, but because of a house party across the street, he wasn’t able to nod off until nearly ten-thirty. Then because of laughing or something along those lines, he had woken up with a start. When he glanced at his old cream and gold wind-up alarm clock with a glow-in-the-dark face that he had picked up in Düsseldorf, Germany back in 1953 with Imogene. It read 12:33. 

Now, here he was a half an hour later and trying to fall back asleep. The moon was full and its rays shined through the window and illuminated his bed. He tried to keep his eyes half-closed to see his wife next to him. He reached over expecting to feel her cream-colored silk nightgown, but instead felt a cold pillow that he had placed under the covers to trick his mind into believing that his dear Imogene was still next to him. He had been doing it every night for the past twenty-one days since she passed in that exact spot from a heart attack during the night. The last words that he heard from her were, “Good night my love. See you in the morning.”

She had been gone when he woke up the following morning. A crushing sorrow filled his chest and he slowly flipped over on his back and let the tears silently fall from his wrinkled and tired eyes. He stared into the darkness and a million thoughts of Imogene ran across his mind.

Several laughs from the house party caught on the wind and carried across the street and through his half-cracked window. The noise pulled him from his thoughts and he grumbled, “Stupid kids!”

He glanced over at his white cordless phone on the bed stand and seriously contemplated calling the police to complain. A flash of irritation welled up inside his chest remembering the last time that he had called the police to complain. They had not taken him seriously. In fact, he could tell that the 911 operator had even seemed put out that he was complaining yet again about those, “Good fer nothing kids, and their disrespect of the elderly living on the street.”

He had been infuriated to hear that smug operator say, “Mr. Palmer. Those kids have a right to have their party until ten o’clock. As long as they are obeying the laws–”

“What kind of laws allow kids to blast enough noise to make a man go deaf!” he said

“Mr. Palmer. The police have been there twice and everything appears in order.” she said

The operator had said this with a hint of impatience in her voice. He had been so angry that he had slammed down the phone onto the receiver and severely bent the silver antenna sticking out of the top. It still worked, but probably would need to be replaced soon. That was one more thing to do. He had also used a swear word that had Imogene still been alive would have rebuked him for saying. True, at promptly 10 o’clock the music was either turned-off or turned so low that he couldn’t hear it, but so many people were still there that their laughs sounded like a comedy show.

Walter sat up and felt his bones creak and groan. 84 years-old was not young anymore, and at that moment, he felt 180 years old. He struggled to stand and as he got to his feet, the room swam, and he reached out to the bedpost to keep from falling back onto the bed. Whomever had said that growing old was like a fine wine, had probably been drunk or young when they had come up with that stupid phrase. Growing old sucked. Age was not some friend, but more like an inescapable enemy and an unfortunate reality.

He dragged his feet to the half-open window to shut the infernal thing with the idea that maybe with it shut then he would finally be able to get some blessed shut-eye and tune-out this godforsaken world. His godforsaken world. No. His Imogene-less world. At least she was there in his dreams, and that was exactly where he wanted to be. 

The sliding window made a grating noise and a click when it locked into place. Something off in the distance at the house where the party was going on caught his eye. On the back side of the house, where it was the darkest, and out of view from the rest of the party; someone dressed in black climbed out the second story window. What made it weird wasn’t just the fact that there was someone climbing out of the window, it was the fact that the room had its lights turned off and it was pretty plain to the eye even from this distance that this person didn’t want to be seen. The person climbed out and then inched along a vine-covered trellis until he got to a wooden slat fence where he got his footing and then hopped to the front-yard where he immediately went to the bushes. Then a few houses down, Walter saw a boy emerge from the bushes sans mask. A boy with long brown hair that quickly crossed the street, and walked in front of his house, and then out of view. 

Walter stood there for sometime staring towards that window where he saw the boy come out of. Something didn’t ring right with this. He felt his skin tingle, and the white hairs on the back of his arms stood up because of the gooseflesh that had erupted in a wave from the top of his head to the ends of his toes. He lowered the blinds, and shut them tight so that his room was enveloped in total darkness.

NaNoWriMo 2019: The Prisoner

NaNoWriMo 2019: The Prisoner
By Raymond Tyler

I have participated every year for the past 5 years in NaNoWriMo. What exactly is NaNoWriMo? For the uninitiated, NaNoWriMo means National Novel Writing Month that falls every November for the entire month. The goal is to write 50,000 words towards a new novel in thirty days. The month of November has become the standard bearer because it conveniently has thirty days and for kicking off the holiday season.
Writing 50,000 words is no small feat. If you divide the total amount of words by thirty, you get 1,667 words per day that need to come from your brain through your fingers either on good old-fashioned paper or typed onto a typewriter or a computer screen. What it boils down to is caffeine-fueled nights with either energy drinks or some very strong coffee that percolates the brain and fuels the written muse.
50,000 words may seem like a lot and it is, but it’s still not technically novel length; more like a novella length. The average length of a novel is between 70,000 words on the shorter end and 120,000 words. Just for context: the first Harry Potter novel clocked in at just under 75,000 words. Publishers start getting a little hairy about books that are written over 100,000 because of printing costs and the simple economics of cost to benefit ratio. So, unless your name is a very proven one like Stephen King or JK Rowling few publishers are apt to publish stuff over 100,000.
Anyways, this is not supposed to be a treatise on how to get published, but just a reminder that NaNoWriMo gets a person started, but it is up to each writer to find that internal strength to finish the story that was started and see their written baby to completion.
I have focused each year that I have participated in NaNoWriMo on a different story. This year’s story is called, “The Prisoner” and is actually a sequel to a previous year’s NaNoWriMo from 2015 called, “The Freshman.” I don’t plan on going into too much detail about the first book, but rather focusing on this year’s story.
The Prisoner is a work in progress. In November, I got almost 60,000 words written. I gutted more than half of what I had written in the first week of December in editing, and as of this writing on Christmas Eve, I am at just over 30,000 words. So far this month, I have written around 10,000 words, but by the time that I finish, I see the book clocking in at between 70,000-100,000 words.
My goal is include excerpts of recently written portions to drum up interest in the book before I began shopping it to different publishing companies and book agents.

Book Review: Where The Red Fern Grows

Saturday, June 16, 2018

Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

10/10

I first read this book at nine years old in the fourth grade. I remember loving the book, and I also have the memory of crying an awful lot. I believe that this was the first book that I cried while reading and there were a great deal of them. 

Flash-forward 31 years later and I decided to listen to the audiobook while driving to work. I must say that it was a joy to listen to it again. I believe that I enjoyed it even more this time than when I was a child. Wilson Rawls is a great writer. He really pulls you into his story, and for a brief, but brilliant moment, he puts you into the mind of a young teenage boy from the Ozarks that loves his dogs and hunts raccoons. 
I have seven dogs now as a 40 year old man, and this story still gets under my skin in a good way. I felt that boys love for his dogs, and I am sure the other drivers thought that man crying in his car was off his rocker, but this is such a lovely story that I don’t care. I LOVE this book. I loved it at nine, and I love it at 40. This is one that I plan on reading at least once every year or two. What an amazing read!

I first read this book at nine years old in the fourth grade. I remember loving the book, and I also have the memory of crying an awful lot. I believe that this was the first book that I cried while reading and there were a great deal of them. 

Flash-forward 31 years later and I decided to listen to the audiobook while driving to work. I must say that it was a joy to listen to it again. I believe that I enjoyed it even more this time than when I was a child. Wilson Rawls is a great writer. He really pulls you into his story, and for a brief, but brilliant moment, he puts you into the mind of a young teenage boy from the Ozarks that loves his dogs and hunts raccoons. 
I have seven dogs now as a 40 year old man, and this story still gets under my skin in a good way. I felt that boys love for his dogs, and I am sure the other drivers thought that man crying in his car was off his rocker, but this is such a lovely story that I don’t care. I LOVE this book. I loved it at nine, and I love it at 40. This is one that I plan on reading at least once every year or two. What an amazing read!

Book Review: Anna Karenina

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

10/10

Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy is the best book that I have read up until this point. What Leo Tolstoy did here was absolute genius. This is what I would call a writer’s book meaning that its level of writing is the type that most writers aspire to and definitely appreciate. Anna Karenina is a beautifully tragic story. It is a warning story with similar warning as Shakespeare’s, “Romeo and Juliet.”

My first introduction to Tolstoy was with War and Peace, which I had finished immediately before starting this one. I loved War and Peace and just for that story, Tolstoy could be considered the greatest writer of all time, but with Anna Karenina, he far exceeds himself as a writer and really shows the full potential to what fiction can be and achieve.

The story is tragic and mesmerizing. It blows my mind that this was written at the height of the Victorian Era when most provocative literature topics that Tolstoy tackled with grace and even ease such as taboo subjects of sex, marital infidelity, divorce, atheism, and suicide were being shunned and the authors that were daring enough to write about such things, and if they were usually did so under a pseudonym. Perhaps, Russia was different. It was still tied to France and to Europe, but apparently was not as influenced by the rest of the era, and that is a great thing.

I think one of the sub-subjects that I learned most about with Tolstoy’s writing of Anna Karenina was Russian serfdom, which the author goes into great detail about. The subject is very interesting because the reader can quickly see why Communism and Socialist ideals caught on so strongly not very long after with Lenin and eventually Stalin. The book gives a real historical window into pre-revolutionary Russia in a very rare and insightful way. The character Levin to whom it is rumored that Tolstoy based on himself talks a great deal about the politics of the day especially whether or not that the peasants were ready to be educated or if it would be wiser to keep them in their ignorance. I found these insights absolutely fascinating.

Tolstoy also breached other topics that are important for our day such as marital infidelity. A lot of lessons can be learned from this story. As I mentioned earlier, this story has shades of Romeo and Juliet in it. Tolstoy even though he criticizes the social norms of his day in Anna Karenina, he also states pretty clearly, “don’t be like this or you might end up the same way as Anna.”

The book is the most well-written story that I’ve read. Many people loved the Levin part of the story. His was a story of self-discovery, redemption, and of finding and accepting faith. I found it nice, but it was Anna’s story of unbridled passion and her utter unraveling both mentally and emotionally that I found the most powerful and captivating. I loved how much Tolstoy captured the minute details of her personality such as her obsession, paranoia, and absolute pettiness towards Vronsky. Never have I seen a character better portrayed than Anna Karenina.

This is such an amazing story from page one until the last one. Seriously, do yourself a favor and read this gem of a book.

Book Review: Tess of the d’Urbervilles

 

Saturday, March 3, 2018

Tess of the d'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

7.5/10

The first 70 percent of the book I actively disliked. It was the last 30 percent that saved it and actually turned it into an amazing read. I would have given this story one or two stars had not the end been so intelligent. The first part of the book bored and even angered me. I am not a big fan of Thomas Hardy's writing. He wrote pages and pages of expository writing about scenery that for me was very tedious and boring. I did not think it was necessary. He did really well with the dialogue when it was there. The last 30 percent was brilliant writing. It almost felt like another author had picked the pen and wrote the ending.
The book was published in the 1890s at the height of the Victorian Age and right smack dab in the middle of the puritan resurgence. Initially, the characters annoyed me. Tess was angelic in her beauty and manners and had zero flaws. Angel Claire was a perfect gentleman and almost angelic in his mannerisms. Finally, there was Alec D'Urberville who was almost the devil reincarnated. The only character that I sympathized with in the beginning was Tess's mother Joan Derbyfield. I liked her because she had the best advice. 
"Don't worry about the past. Keep your head down and mouth shut. Do this and you won't have any problems." 
I liked her mother's advice because it seemed to be the right answer for Tess and for many of us today. The ensuing problems of Tess could have been avoided had she only heeded her mother's wise advice. Then I started thinking, was that advice really the best? Even though Tess completely disregarded her mother's advice for wanting to be upfront, was she wrong for wanting to be honest in a situation that wasn't her fault in the least? 
At first, I really hated the way Hardy dealt with Victorian and even modern issues of rape, female sexuality, virginity, piousness, and the roles between women and men. The first 70 percent of the book, I seethed as I read, and several times interjected with things like, "How could that idiot do that? or What the freak was that person thinking?"
Then it slowly began to dawn on me the idea that Thomas Hardy was challenging the ideas of his day and the hypocrisy that they lived in. I remember how angered I was at the thought that Claire would leave his wife because she was not technically a virgin, even though she had been raped and had an unwanted and unplanned pregnancy as a result. My first thought was, "How dare he? This would never happen today." 
Then I started thinking even more. It does happen today. How many women are forced to marry their rapists in Muslim and Hindu countries. What about the honor killings in both of those cultures that are done on women that lose their virginity outside of marriage whether by consent or rape? What type of hypocrisy does evangelical Christians put on virginity? Think about it. If a boy messes up, then it is usually marked up to an indiscretion or a simple 'boys will be boys' comment. God forbid, if a girl does the same thing. I love seeing those hypocritical fathers that wear t-shirts that say, "If you want to date my daughter remember that I have a shotgun and a shovel, and I am not afraid to use them." 
Maybe, we are still not that far removed from Hardy's time, a little more than one-hundred years ago. Tess of the D'Urbervilles teaches many things. It shows the consequences of our actions. Tess may have been melodramatically written and flawless, but throughout the story she changes into a passionate and desperate woman just wanting to be loved. She was rejected by her husband and adored by the person that she should have despised. The reader realizes that she is at-fault for her actions. She made her bed and decided to lie in it. There were many avenues and choices that she could have done to prevent her ending, but she chose it, and unfortunate or fortunately, had to pay the consequences. 

I thought the ending was simply marvelous! Hardy wrote an ending that felt satisfying in the best sense of the word! My heart went out to both Angel Claire and to Tess, which was a feat because I actively disliked each character with enough passion that I thought it impossible for my mind to be changed, but Hardy managed the impossible and made me a fan of his book.

Poem: The Cost of Peace (2017)

The Cost of Peace

by 

Raymond Tyler 

A whispered wind blows a fallen leaf. 

A shattered glass is strewn across a dead street.

A hungry boy asks for a dime 
A woman mourns for lost time.

A soldier’s helmet lies in a pool of blood.

A father’s prayer for his son that’s gone.

A politician smirks because the stroke of his pen guarantees reelection.

14 Dec 2017

Poem: First Day (2017)

First Day

by

Raymond Tyler

I am confident, yet a little scared

I am happy, yet a little anxious

I am excited, but with a little trepidation

I hope for the best, yet prepare for the worst

I feel satisfied, yet want so much more

I fear not learning from my failures

I love who I am but still wish for more

I wonder if I can keep my childlike curiosity 

I dream for the stars, but I’ll probably miss the moon and hit 

Mars 

I am so far from perfect because I see my faults reflected in the mirror

I am entrusted with greatest mission

I am a teacher

14 Dec 2017

Poem: Trapped (2017)

This is a dark confessional one. My ode to Sylvia Plath. Sometimes writing is the only way to get the darkness out.

Trapped

by

Raymond Tyler 

Blackness – like my heart has bled raw. 

The soul that has been stripped away from my bones leaving me bare. 

I am naked – yet people can see the clothes draped upon my skeleton. 

My smile hides the festering storm that rages inside. 

Grey clouds have wrapped themselves around my mind 

filtering the light into speckles of black and white. 

Scapegoats that receive my undeserved wrath. 

Confused and not understanding that the only crime 

is being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Guilt – oh, the ultimate regret, 

for letting others see my monsters from within. 

These demons that lie dormant 

and trick me into believing that they are gone. 

They scrape and claw and strive to explode forth. 

I try to shout for help, 

but they clamp my mouth shut laughing in my mind that they have won. 

I scream, but no one hears. 

My pain only manifests itself through the reflection in my eyes.

19 May 2017

Poem: A Prayer For Happiness (2014)

I wrote this poem to possibly include in my novel The Freshman I am writing. I channeled my inner Sylvia Plath for this one.

A Prayer For Happiness

by

Raymond Tyler

My world is darkness...a cancer slowly gnawing at my soul. Curled up in a corner, my last thoughts are of what could have been.

Why me? I cry a thousand times. Knives mince my soul with the promise of a happier night. 

Black roses for me, I can smell their putrid waft floating across the hot summer evening's air. 

My insides are rotten and my core is gone. All that is left is this mechanical skin that goes through its damning daily motions. 

I turn my shoulder to look behind. Broken debris is all that I see left in the wake of my path. 

Should I move forward and take a chance of crushing all that is dear to me? 

Where is my balm to mend my wretched soul? Where is the happiness that I once knew? Will I ever see light again? Will I ever feel the warmth of the sun heating my frigid skin; perhaps melting the ice inside whose frozen mire has trapped me forever. I want to swim in the sunlight and bathe in forgotten memories of the happiness that I once knew. 

Why is my happiness so fleeting? Why can't I grasp it my hand and then infuse it in my heart? Maybe then I might have a moment of peace. But, would it last? Would it just be a mirage sliding though my fingers and then flutter away like a bird into the night?

11 November 2014

Lyrics: Heart of Gold (2015)

These lyrics have a special place in my heart. In early October 2014, my mother-in-law passed away after a 10 month battle with breast cancer. My father-in-law Antonio was justifiably devastated. They had been married for over 40 years and together as a couple for 45 years. A few months ago, he came to me and asked me to write a song about his wife Alice. He asked me to write the song from his point of view. He had tried many times and couldn't find the right words to say what he truly felt. So, I took it as a challenge and tried to write a song from his perspective. Here is the result. I called it Heart of Gold.

HEART OF GOLD

by

Raymond Tyler

Dedicated to Antonio and Alice Leite — May your love be forever.

Explosions from our first kiss still ring in my head. Hearing you say, “I do” was the greatest joy of my life. Our first time, imprinted in back of my mind, there to recall when I close my eyes. Whispered words of I love you. Tender mercies that only we knew. The touch of your skin. I miss everything.

We were children that met, fell in love, and we grew old holding hands. 

Our hearts entwined, and then combined to turn into a heart of gold.

Cold sheets when I turn on my side. Nothing but memories that burn inside. Incomplete, I’d trade my world to have you here. Memories like fingerprints on a window pane. The stars fell and left my world draped in black, dressed in a world of grey. Your presence tattooed in all that I am, all that I’ll ever be.

We were children that met, fell in love, and we grew old holding hands. 

Our hearts entwined, and then combined to turn into a heart of gold.

Through the storms of life, you always cheered me on like a candle in the night. You became my rock, my trusted anchor of support. You helped me reach for the stars, made me feel like a king. You built me up, helped me see the greater light, taught me to love, and see the world through better eyes. All I am is because of you.

We were children that met, fell in love, and we grew old holding hands. 

Our hearts entwined, and then combined to turn into a heart of gold.

11 June 2015

Song Lyrics: Reason to Believe (2000)

This song is about facing hard times even when you know that by doing so, you will go through even more pain. It is also about facing our fears. Whenever I am having a bad day, this is the song I enjoy playing. -RT

Reason to Believe

by

Raymond Tyler

I don’t need to prove myself to show you who I am. To repress my soul to keep myself from crying. I just wanna keep myself believing in me. Anything else would be a lie deceiving no one but me.

I don’t want to try. Because, I know I’ll cry

I ‘m afraid, of what the future will bring

I’ve got the time, and it seems like such a crime,

to let the future waste away in front of me.

I don’t know what to say, I’ve got know no one to blame. It’s me; I’ve got to look inside. I’ve been pointing fingers for such a long time, I haven’t seen the reflection standing in front of me. Broken glass like my faults, shatter in front of me.

I don’t want to try. Because, I know I’ll cry

I ‘m afraid, of what the future will bring

I’ve got the time, and it seems like such a crime,

to let the future waste away in front of me.

Fallen angel, I’ve clipped my wings, stuck beyond these means. I think, I need your help, to pick me up, to pull me up. So, I can be set…free!

Sometimes it’s hard to believe, that I’ll ever achieve. Any of my aspirations and dreams. Sometimes I feel I’ve got the right…I need to bleed. It’s the pain that helps me to see who I am…to set me free.

I don’t want to try. Because, I know I’ll cry

I ‘m afraid, of what the future will bring

I’ve got the time, and it seems like such a crime,

to let the future waste away in front of me.

Cathartic to my soul this song bleeds from my heart.

I know…I need to be strong!

12 June 2000

Poem: Loneliness of Time (1997)

This is one of my favorite poems. It really captures the emotion of the moment. - RT

 

Loneliness of Time 

by 

Raymond Tyler

 

Loneliness when I am left alone; curled up in a ball; crying to myself.  The tears they roll off my face to touch or land on my pillow.

The soft touch, the quick smile; all I miss as my thoughts drift to you.

Love lost, or is it a broken dream? I wonder have I trusted in something that is just not there.  False hope, it's eating at me, when I look to the future of a distant memory.

Eyes red, tired and lonely; how long must it be like this? All those words. Are they real; or are they just helping me build my own personal hell? Sometimes I am walking on air, but it can be bitter, you know.

Pictures fade because the times change. They say that true love walks all time. I guess it's faith in me to show you that I am the one.

Scared of the future, I think, and wonder if it is real. I walk alone with tear-stained eyes. I lie alone at night imagining where you are and who you are. Are you terrified of me, of the hurt that I cannot bring? I ache to know if your love is real. The letters they come one by one to let you know who I am. I am afraid of a past that seems all too real.

Here I lay reflecting in the dark, as the clouds run across my mind. Where is the sunshine? When will I be able to enjoy the warmth of you? The tears become as rain as they fall from my eyes. The words whisper what my heart knows, “I love you” I say.

No one there, are you too scared to say or give the same? The miles they separate us; the distance of time; the changing seasons.  Faith in me. That's what you need. Do you ever dream of me perhaps whispering in your heart that you love me?

You try to turn away, realizing that perhaps your heart is saying to stay.  Can he be real, you think, or just too good to be true? Your heart cries, and your soul testifies, but still leaves you in confusion, not wanting to believe. You wonder if you should give your heart, but you rationalize in your mind that you are all right. A needed touch. A needed love. I cry.

Alone with my reality. I am so hallow; almost broken. Kind words of a lingering past; pictures fading; always dreaming; this is all that I have. My thoughts ache deep in my swirling mind as I want to tell you. My emotions are flowing because no one is showing.  My eyes water like a roaring sea crashing down.

I see the moon on a cloudless night; bright shining down on me. I reach––I stretch out my arm trying to grab imagining that maybe you're looking at the same. No words to describe or to say only emotions can tell the game. The wind it rushes by making me feel so alive; as my heart whispers the magic words of “I love you.”

22 December 1997

Short Story: The Ring (2014)

Several years ago, I entered a short story contest.  The idea of the contest was they gave you the first line and you came up with the rest of the story in 750 words or less. This was my entry that I simply entitled, "The Ring." I hope you all enjoy it.

The Ring

by

Raymond Tyler

“If you can guess what I have in my pocket, you can have it.”

My grandfather said this with a twinkle in his eye.

“I have no idea, Grandpa, what is it?”

Lying in his bed, he took a deep raspy breath. I picked up a washcloth, dipped it in a bowl of cool water, and wiped his forehead.

“My dearest Caroline, if I tell you, it will ruin the surprise.”

He gave me an enigmatic grin daring me to at least put forth a guess. This had been a game my grandfather had enjoyed playing with me since I was a child. I took a deep breath and said, “It must be something small, as to fit in your pocket. I doubt it is a stick of gum – perhaps, it’s a photo of some kind?”

He smiled, coughed, and shook his head no.

“Maybe an earring?”

His eyes lit up, but he still shook his head no.

“I must be getting closer, if it’s not an earring, what about just a ring?”

His wrinkly face broke into a toothy smile with watery tears brimming in his eyes, “Yes, my dear, you are correct.”

With a great deal of effort, he reached into his pocket, and when he brought back his hand, an old beautiful ring was in his palm. At the sight of the ring my eyes filled with tears, and in a voice choked with emotion, I said, “Grandma’s wedding ring.”

In a wistful voice, he replied, “You are getting married tomorrow. She would have wanted you to have this.”

I took the ring out of his hand, turned it over, then took off my engagement ring, and put my grandmother’s wedding ring on. The ring fit perfectly. I held the ring up with the back of my hand to the glow of a small table lamp. An elegance of both old and new shone from the ring, as the light reflected off of it. I had always dreamed of having her ring.

By now tears silently flowed down my face. “Grandfather, I love it. Thank you so much.”

He too wept silently and fell back onto his pillow. His breathing became more ragged and labored.

“Caroline, I need my rest. I am sorry I won’t be able to be at your wedding tomorrow, because I am too sick. But, carry my spirit and your grandmother’s spirit in your heart, and know we’ll always love and be with you.”

I hugged him, and kissed him on his forehead, thanking him for the beautiful ring. My fiancé Thomas was waiting outside for me. When I left, I fell into his arms and cried, telling him about my grandfather’s gift. He suggested I use my grandmother’s ring instead of the ring he bought for me. I loved both rings, but I felt I would insult him and his family if I used my grandmother’s ring.

That night my grandfather passed away. The gift of my grandmother’s wedding ring was my last memory of him. The following day I got married using the ring Thomas had bought for me. I put my grandmother’s ring on a necklace and wore it around my neck in remembrance of her and my grandfather.

About a week after my marriage to Thomas, he asked to borrow my wedding ring along with my grandmother’s ring. I asked him why, but he just asked that I trust him. When he arrived home later that night, he was beaming.

“Close your eyes Caroline, I have a surprise for you.”

I laughed and then closed my eyes.

“No peeking. Give me your left hand.”

I gave him my left hand, and felt him slip on my wedding ring.

“Open your eyes.”

I opened my eyes and felt my breath catch.

“Oh my goodness! Thomas, I love it!”

I threw myself into his arms, giving him the biggest hug I could muster.

What he had done was take my ring, and my grandmother's ring and get both rings soldered together to become one.

I held my hand with the ring up and let the light reflect off of it.

“It’s perfect Thomas, a melding elegance of both old and new.”

14 March 2014