Monthly Archives: April 2015

Clear skies

Greetings my faithful followers. I have a . . . well, sort of a big announcement to make. Well I think it’s big in a way. This is really a venting post, which isn’t the normal M.O. for Ronin Literati, but tonight I’m prepared to make a huge exception.

The blog is mine. Let me reintroduce myself. My name is Harold Fisher. You can call me Fish, everyone does. Anyway, the blog used to belong to me and a friend, but due to life being life, my friend has stepped to the side and handed over the reins to me. That said, this blog will become somewhat more personal than it has in the past. On a side note, I swear I already told you all about the blog being mine some time ago, so if this is repetitive, blame it on the weed I just smoked. 🙂

A lot has happened to me in the last year and this venting post, which is more about me getting this out somewhere so as to not go insane, is a means of explaining it in such a way that I can make sense of it. I think faster than I write and type, so bear with me.

In 2012 my mother died of a heart attack and a stroke, yes both. It was obviously a difficult time for me, but what made it worse was the idea that my mother was in Hell. I was religious back then, though I will not disclose my old religion, and my faith’s scriptures taught that those who weren’t believers (my mother was of a different faith than I) and died in that state go straight to Hell. I could not believe in a God who would damn such a sweet woman as my mother to Hell just because she didn’t think like me. Truth be told, I had been slipping away from faith years earlier and it brought me a great deal of pain. It pained me because the more faith I lost, the guiltier I felt. So, I prayed and attended the sermons and all that. It did nothing. In 2013, I unofficially divorced myself from my former religion, choosing the path of the free thinker, the skeptic, the atheist.

*Cue dramatic pause*

Yeah, the dreaded A word. The least trusted minority in America. Before passing, my mother said I was stubborn about joining causes or acquiring identities that would get me killed. She jested of course, but there’s some degree of truth to her words. There were a lot of reasons why I left my faith and I will cover that in a later post, but for now let’s just say, I grew up.

It was a liberating feeling. I felt as though I was released from prison. I was free to read books I was warned against, to draw pictures I was forbidden from rendering, to listen to music that challenged me and my preconceived notions. I am free to grow up and learn. I’m going to take full advantage of it.

It’s funny but writing this to a group of dedicated strangers who’ve never met me, but still made the commitment to walk this journey with me, just made me feel 1000% times better. And I don’t feel so brain farty anymore. It’s true what they say, you’ve got to flush out your mental shits every now and again, or you’ll get constipated. OK, I know nobody says that, but I’m saying they do! Ha!

And now that my mind feels clearer, I know I can get back into my novel again and other stories I’m going to tell. My story, my saga isn’t over yet. It’s just beginning.



You Motherfucker! Where the Hell Have You Been?!?!

It’s been nearly a month of writing, procrastinating, more writing and some copious reading between my last post and this one. This post won’t be a chastisement for my failure to post regularly–though, I’m going to make more of an effort to change that. This post is about my fear of taking risks. This post is similar to a recent post by my friend and colleague, Colette Sartor, which you can find by clicking that lovely link. I hate stepping out of my comfort zone and I hate taking risks–which is surprising considering that I am working towards a writing career. One would think that submitting work to publishers or soliciting literary agents would require making a sum of calculated risks. Well, here’s my shame. I haven’t even tried yet. So what’s my problem? Fear of failure, fear of success, ran out of steam… feel free to plug in any number of tired excuses. Yeah, I can admit I’m making tired excuses, but it’s because I’m tired.

It is hard to write and work a 40-hour per week gig. It is hard to come home after a long and arduous day of navigating through the angry public and incompetent managers, to sit down and write. When I get home, the only things I care about is beer, weed and some relaxing smooth Jazz. However, it is here that I am reminded of advice given to me by the venerable Mark Sarvas, who suggested two pages per day. Sometimes even that feels like a Sisyphean feat. I say Sisyphean (from Sisyphus) because writing and thinking of ideas seems as though I’m rolling an impossibly large rock up an impossibly steep hill.  The odd and peculiar thing about this entire ordeal is that I couldn’t pinpoint one thing responsible for this burnout I’m feeling; unless you consider the burnout itself to be a “thing.”

The feeling of being an accomplished author just feels lightyears away. I suppose we all go through our ups and downs, and I’m sure I’ll surmount this particularly strong “down.” But it just sucks in the meantime.

That’s my self-indulgent and self-pitying rant. Thanks for reading and see you much sooner than last time.