I Was Afraid To Tell This Story...

An idea.

How funny it was. Just a simple idea that popped into my head when I was sitting in my sixth grade lunch hour would change my life entirely.

It wasn't a huge, huge spectacle. A huge revelation like most people think it is. There was no literal cartoon light bulb that appeared over my head that clicked on. No rising angelic chorus as the room went dark around me, and a spot light out of nowhere shone on me with it's yellowish glow.

No. It was something as simple as thinking my neighbors in Mr. Leery's math class would get a laugh out of while Mr. Leery would drudge on about adding and subtracting fractions.

When I tell people this, for those few who ask just out of curiosity, especially those who know I'm a writer, and am currently working on something, they usually don't believe me. Even if there are other writers in the room who have had the similar, almost ubiquitous, realization that they loved to tell stories, and made a career of it one way or another. No floating light bulbs, no spot light, or singing voices out of nowhere. Just a simple audible or mental "huh" and the rest is history.

It's a let down to most people who ask, but there's nothing we can really do. Sure we can embellish, say we knew something was worth writing down when we realized that the smell of the air, the lunch lady gave us an extra slice of pizza, or if we found out whatever you write somehow comes to life. Or the fact that while you were trying to see how many songs you can put on your iPod Nano with your dial up connection back home, you thought of something to tell your friends so it would make a cool little bit of trivia for small talk years and years down the road. But I feel like that's something saved for the pages of your draft, not something you just say in passing.

In my experiences at least.

And to honest, I thought that was what would have happened to me somewhere down the line, but even I had to admit it was more cathartic knowing writing was something I had always wanted to do, but also a little disappointing that I never did see a lightbulb above my head click on when my first story idea popped into my head all of those years ago.

What popped into my head that one day was something I thought I could get some of my buddies in my Math classes attention. That was all I really wanted to do when I started to tell my buddies in eighth hour math, then fourth hour social studies, first hour English, and then whoever I had a chance to tell. Just for the attention. From friends, kids from other grads, and most of all (to a twelve year old Julian) girls.

What was the story? you may be asking me, or to yourself. Depending on where you are reading this, and where are you in your head reading this? Kind of bring back memories of that one day discovering what got you into what you are doing now for fun and the not so bad, maybe it could be better, but I love what I do paycheck?

I can't really remember...

Or I should say that I don't exactly remember what it was...exactly. It's something that I have been looking back at here and there, seeing how far my own storytelling abilities have grown and evolved over the years, but what I remember of telling the story has wavered.

Of what I do remember, is something I believe is something a twelve year old boy would have made up.

"The Order" as I called them, were this underground gang of people that wore masks. They were different styles of masks and each one of them had code names. I had found out about them while I was walking in a park near my school. I watched as someone in a mask started to make their way into the drain pipe that was located at the base of this giant hill in the park, and I followed. As I made my way through the pipe, which was surprisingly wide enough that a person could make their way through it, I found my way to an almost lair type room, where I found a man waiting for me. He wore a similar mask to the person I saw climbing into the drain pipe. He challenged me to a fight, I somehow won, and was accepted to "The Order".

There were a few things about the story I did embellish over the many times I told it to my friends and anyone in school that was willing to hear. I don't really remember a lot of the changes I made, but as it turned out it didn't really matter.

Even though I had no real grasp about plot structure or even the faintest notion of my own style, my classmates ate it up.

There would always be a small group of kids, no more than three or four mind you, but they would crowd around me either at lunch, before or after class in the hallway, or even after school as I told them my story. Hanging on to my every word. I would even use the word "regale" to sound fancy. Even though I didn't know what that word meant at the time. I changed the story to be something relevant to what was going on in the world and our school. I would tell them about the things I did with "The Order" and if they asked any questions about it, I'd just say "It would be against the rules!" or "you wouldn't believe me if I told you.". All literal and metaphorical swings and roundabouts to just get people to listen to what I have to say.

It was one of the best feelings a twelve year old boy with an overactive imagination could ask for. I bet it was the sort of feeling George Lucas had whenever he told his ideas about a galaxy far far away to his friend, or when J.K. Rowling thought about a boy wizard, and just had to get that idea down on paper. I felt that my little story could be something bigger than just something I thought of to just get a laugh and kill time in Math class.

It was addicting. So much so, that like any addiction in any shape or form there is a point where it starts to control you more than you think you are controlling it.

Not to mention if you just keep telling the same story over and over again, eventually people are going to get bored.

And that's what started to happen.

Kids that would crowd around me to hear my story started to either waver off, or worst of all, started to poke holes in my story. Making it seem like it was made up.

Which it was. But again, I was way too deep into the attention that I didn't realize how far I had taken my little idea.

Even though it was something I imagine happens to all writers, I think when it first happens, it's something you don't expect at all. I know I didn't.

Granted, we were just kids, but that experience, even though small to most people, was something I think subconsciously made me rethink my writing career. Even before I thought about pursuing one.

So, I stopped telling stories.

But it didn't stop ideas coming to me. Much like the idea I had in that middle school lunchroom, idea after idea started to form inside my head.

I was just afraid of telling anyone anything. So I wrote them down.

This went on for years. Well into my high school years. I would always carry a notebook, and too many pens with little to no ink, whenever I had an idea that I didn't want to forget. Still not knowing that I had a knack for storytelling.

It wasn't until a classmate of mine, who happened to find one of my many many notebooks of ideas, (which as of writing this out now almost number a medium sized town, and I'm not trying to be funny.) asked me a simple question that I have been trying to answer for almost a decade now.

"Where is rest of the story?"

Even though this person has become one of my closest friends, and my designated reader since then, I didn't have an answer for them at the time. Even now when they are reading my work here, they are still waiting for something to materialize from my head and all of those notebooks in my office.

I can cite many reasons for not getting anything done, or even just say what I had been doing with my time not writing. Family drama, losing loved ones, or the fact that mental health as we see it today wasn't really spoken the way the public talked about it almost two decades ago.

Simply put, it was fear.

Fear of not having anyone listen to what I had to say, fear of anyone and everyone laughing at any of my attempts, or just fear of never amounting to much.

Money was a good motivator, but it wasn't what I thought as my motivation. For the few books we had assigned to us in school throughout the years, there are a lot I consider my favorites.

I know not everyone loves, or is going to love the Outsiders by S.E. Hinton, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, or 1984 by George Orwell, but these were some of the books that inspired me to think about a story to have people remember, or learn a lesson from years down the line, or even, don't know why but this is just me, hate that they have to read it.

All it took for me to give writing another try was a friend who just wanted to know where the rest of the story was, and the rest was, as most people say, was history.

Only it wasn't.

I had graduated from High School with a 1.3 GPA.

A metaphorical photo finish across the finish line.

I had an idea that a book was going to be made by the time my first school free Fall would roll around, and I'd be living it up in New York with my movie star wife and kids by the time I was twenty five.

I was wrong. I mean grossly wrong.

I had looked at my past ideas, and was shocked to notice that these were just bad copies of book plots I had read over the years, or something I had not the faintest idea how to write.

Not to mention that I had coasted through a lot of my school career to end up with no hope to either attend or even afford a decent college. The level of math and reading I had graduated with were far below what State or even community colleges would accept without playing a great deal of catch up.

I was a fisherman without a boat.

I bird with no wings.

So, again, the fear started to creep back into my mind again. Not showing anyone my work, or even just talking about it was too much to bear. So much so that when I started to work job after job, I realized that I was walking in a literal fog of fear. A fog so thick and dense that it took me almost a lot of time to find my way out of it, and to truly put pen to paper once more.

That's when ideas started to flow once more.

Bigger ones, dense ones, ones with color, ones with numbers started to wash over me like I was standing at the bottom of a waterfall. Letting the cool rushing water pour onto me. Filling me up.

Along with these new ideas, a newfound drive to learn as much as I can came along. I started to read more books than I ever did when I was in school. From classics such as Moby Dick and Stephen King's entire catalogue, I read philosophy, non-fiction crimes, and most importantly, writer's biographies.

The craft of writing, the lives writers lived, and what it really takes to not just think about a story, but ultimately get one down and send it off.

Fear had no place in my head anymore. Just more ideas that slowly started to make their way onto paper and word documents.

It was something that Frank Herbert had written once. It has stuck with me ever since I started to educate myself, and channel my best creative self forward.

Now, after years of researching, learning, and most of all, reading, I can confidently say that I am not afraid to show any of you what I've got in this mind of mine.

The boy who thought of an underground gang called "The Order" has grown up, learned from his mistakes, and has a whole lot to show you.

I should have mentioned this in the beginning , but I am primarily a horror writer. Though there are ideas I have that are not anywhere related to horror, and there are things I want to write about that may or may not frighten or even horrify you, but I have found myself drawn to the dark side of fiction for as long back as I can remember. That gang of people in the masks I thought about in the lunchroom almost twenty years ago has evolved into something I think many people may enjoy, and just like some of the people that may follow me after it's been put out into the world may not like it. But that's okay.

Of the many metaphors or quotes about writing or even creating I have heard over the years, this one is one of my favorites.

"Beware those who go fishing in the dead of night. You may not know what they are going to catch or throw back, but fear what they decide to keep."

I can't tell who is going to read this for sure, and who is going to follow me and my works. No matter what form they take, I can guarantee you one thing...

With no fear left in my heart, you'll be surprised at what I chose to keep from a night of fishing.