Four Reasons to Write Your Little Heart Out

You are a writer. You didn’t choose to be one, but rather it was born into you—a spirit as old as dwelled in the storytellers around the first fires. When they wove their imaginations in mysterious and delightful ways, akin to prophets, philosophers, and visionaries. That old fire is inside of you, burning its way out. And if you don’t write it down, it will find another way. Like every force of nature, it will find a way out. So write your little heart out.

The rest of the world doesn’t get you, and you don’t really belong to it. You’re not one of them and you never will be. You don’t think alike, and they know it. Your speech is strange to their ears, your anecdotes are odd, your propensity toward reflection and solitude confuses them. Your obsession with words is just weird. So write your little heart out.

Life brings hard times even in the best of them. You’ll get passed over, ignored, hurt, and beaten down. You’ll get sick, tired, and old, and lose your friends and family as they get sick, tired, and old. People will betray you, lie, cheat, and steal from you. You’ll work yourself to the bone in a never ending cycle of work, sleep, eat, and repeat. You’ll be a success at all the things that bring you no joy. And you’re not alone as we all tread out this grind in the world. The people around you will find their ways to cope, throwing themselves into work, exercise, and play. But as for you, you write your little heart out.

Ever since you were young, even the little things moved you. The joy of sunsets, the emotions of others, the magic of books. Your life is your story, and as it got written down in the memories of your mind you remembered every detail like a treasured book. The successes, the failures, the hurts, and the victories—all written down in the chapters of your life. A river so massive that nothing can stop it. You dwell on the past, and the story that is you because it is story that drives you. So write your little heart out.

What Ever Happened to Lenny?

In a little shop in China town an elderly Asian man known as Lenny, with last name possibly of Wong, sat behind his counter thinking  about a dead man named Martin Coswell. The dead man had just come running back into his shop, puffing like a steam engine not two minutes after the sound of a gunshot. Lenny’s impeccable customer support did not allow him to be fazed by any of this. Martin was an old and valuable customer and deserved his very best service.

The exit of the late dead Mr. Coswell would usher in a thorough police investigation. Lenny had a very short time to decide if he was going to hit the nuke button. A button that now flashed weakly red on the underside of his counter. To say that Lenny had a few, let us say, less than shady business deals would have been a huge understatement.

Most people in this situation would sweat bullets, but Lenny was not most people. He coolly sat in his chair behind the well-worn counter, stroking one side of his long wispy mustache—waiting for the inevitable.

He heard the sirens before he saw the flashing lights. The screech of tires signaled final arrival, voices, and questions on the street outside his windows, and then finally cold damp air swooshing into his shop accompanied by the jingle of the tiny bells on the inside door handle. A stocky man, dressed in an overcoat over a cheap suit and discordant tie, entered. Certainly a detective, and on his coattails two uniformed police.

If Lenny panicked and nuked, he would lose so much. Years of information. And Information was his business. Some people, namely the police, didn’t appreciate that kind of thing. Didn’t understand what it took to survive as a small business man in this world. There was a demand and he was the supplier, and money was exchanged. It was an honest business. What was done with the information he provided was not his responsibility.

The detective approached the counter with that stereotypical, stoic, not taking any shit, face. “I am detective Stanza with the FriscAngeles police department. I need to ask you a few questions.”

Lenny interpreted that statement. It should mean just what it said, but being who he was, and knowing where he was, he knew different. This short sentence had a multitude of meanings and consequences. It actually meant, you have been implicated somehow or ever with something that has happened, and we are going to scrutinize you until we find something that doesn’t smell right. Here, I have brought my bloodhounds with me and they are going to nose through everything you own until we find that said something.

“Certainly, officer. What can I help you with?” Lenny put on his friendly and most simple smile. He was just an old man, minding his shop in his last years on this earth. A harmless provider of photo identifications, passport services, and vacation packages, a friendly and perfectly legitimate travel agent.

“A man came here in here a few minutes ago. What can you tell us about him?” The detective eyes narrowed and focused sharply on Lenny’s face, scrutinizing for any reactions out of the norm, any telltale nervousness or evasions. The question was half statement of fact; not had a man come in here, but that a man had come in the shop. It was not up for debate.

Lenny did not try to dispute this. “They come in, they want to use the bathroom. I tell them, no! I am not a public bathroom. Go! Go out. No customer, no bathroom. You go. Same with this man.”

“Uh huh. Sir, this man was implicated in a fatal homicide at the business next door, and you’re telling me that he ran in here and asked to use the restroom facilities.”

Oh Martin, what have you gotten yourself into now, Lenny thought. “I do not know such a thing. I only know this man come in. Wet from rain. Drips on my floor.” Lenny gestured down around the detective’s and uniform’s feet at the little puddles they left on his floor. “He asks to take piss. I say no. Now I have to mop this. Not good. I am old. My back hurt. I do not need this.”

The detective glances at one of the uniforms and nods his head to the mop in the corner. The uniform rolls his eyes, but reaches for the mop and proceeds to swipe up the water from the floor.
The detective begins again to get his question answered, “So this man wasn’t a customer? He didn’t purchase anything from you?”

Lenny shook his head negatively. “No, he look like bum. I no like bums. They come, they want to use my bathroom, I tell them go piss in the street. I am not public toilet. I am business man.”

“Right,” the detective smiled coldly. “You are a business man.” He fished a photo from his pocket. “Do you know this man?” The photo was of Martin Coswell, a little younger than the man he’d seen today, but definitely Coswell.

Lenny squinted at the photo on the counter for a few seconds, then dramatically reached for his glasses and adjusted them several times on his nose. The detective must know that it was Coswell that had come to his shop. To deny that, would be a problem, to confirm that might cause Martin some problems, but they already suspected it was him. It was a tough call, but Coswell was a customer, and Lenny took care of his customers.

“I do not think I know this man. Maybe, I see many people. I do not remember them all.”

“But you would remember if he came in here today, say not even thirty minutes ago?”

“Of course, you think this was bum man? No, he did not look like this. He wanted to use toilet. I am not public toilet.”

“Right.” The detective was not convinced, and Lenny knew what was coming next. He hadn’t given them what they wanted, not said what they wanted to hear. Now they would take what they wanted. “You keep records of all your transactions?”

“I am business man, of course.” Lenny eyed the button.

“I would like to see a record of all your transactions today.”

Lenny pushed the button. In the back room the computers whirred into action, data storage drives wiped, the contents of a safe incinerated. Smoke emerged from the back room, a fire had flamed into existence, an alarm sounded and the sprinklers activated, drenching them all.

The detective went into instant action and dashed for the backroom, the uniforms grabbed Lenny from behind the counter and cuffed him. And Lenny smiled. They would find nothing. And he had friends in legal circles. He had some dirty secrets concerning a few judges still tucked away in his brain. He could rebuild. He would rebuild.

The Boat

The boat is all we’ve ever known. It’s home. It keeps us alive. It feeds us, keeps us warm, and gives us a place to sleep. We live and love and die on the boat. The boat is everything.

One day I woke up on the boat. I stretched and yawned and went out to look at the sky. The sky was big, and I scanned the horizon. There was nothing but a vast ocean, going on forever and ever. I remember my grandfather saying that there is only one boat. There are no others. That had always made me sad. I want there to be other boats to explore and experience. I still come out here to the deck every morning to look for signs of one.

After coming down from the deck, I walked the corridors inside the boat, down to the galley to get something to eat. All of our food is grown on the boat and processed to get the most out of all the nutrients because there are many people to feed now. But the food doesn’t taste very good. It’s bland and stops me up. I once knew a friend who worked in the hydroponics section, and he gave me an orange from a tree. When I ate it, it exploded in my mouth with heavenly flavor. But the boat decides what we eat, and eating is just an act of survival.

Living on the boat is boring and repetitious. The boat understands this and keeps us busy working. There are some hours to relax and socialize, but mostly we are working to keep the boat running. Only the very young or the extremely elderly are exempt from work. They don’t stay young or old very long, so the boat understands that it is not losing very much work from them. I walked to my job like I do every day, and I stand at the workbench and repair the machines that keep the boat running. The machines come in, I fix them, and the machines go out. Most times I feel that I am really just another machine that fixes the machines for the boat.

The boat really never goes anywhere, because there is nowhere to go. They taught us in school that the world is one vast empty ocean, and there is not one space of land anywhere to live on. There is only the singularity of the boat, and so we must all work together to keep the boat and each other alive. There are so many of us now, and the boat seems smaller than when I was young. When I was a child, it was a place of wonder and excitement. A place full of discoveries to be made and with many empty rooms. Now it is crowded and old. I’ve seen every square inch of it, walked every corridor, deck, and room. There is nothing left to see, no new thing, except for more and more people everywhere. I don’t know what the boat will do about it. I think that it should look for a bigger boat, another boat out there somewhere in that vast ocean.

The people push and shove and yell. Their voices are angry and they believe different things, and they let those things divide them on the boat. I’ve heard talk of “taking over the boat”. I don’t even know what that would mean. We need to work together to keep the boat alive, but they want to own the boat. What would they do differently, except maybe have power over everyone. I worry that the violent-ones will kill again to do this thing. It has happened. And what if they destroy the boat in their anger? We would all die, all drown in the ocean of the world.

So I worry a lot about the boat, and the people in it. Especially when I see someone being careless. Like throwing refuse into the ocean, instead of using the recyclers. Our resources would dwindle to nothing if everyone did that. I sometimes think that it is already happening. It does seem that there has been less and less to go around. Some of that could be accounted for by the increase in population, but not all of it. More and more people leave trash around, and great sections of the corridors are dirty and unkempt. The boat is not well taken care of anymore, even though most of us are all kept working. I wonder if we are working on the right things. I wish I could tell the boat this, but I fear that it doesn’t listen or see any of us. It’s just a machine.

I finish my work for the day and head back out on the deck to watch again for other boats. Today I’m more anxious than ever about all of us on this island of steel. I’m more worried than I’ve ever been that we are all heading for destruction, and that we’ll be the blame of it—the cause of it. It would be one thing for a calamity to come upon us, and that would be sad, but there would be no shame in that. Nothing that we could have done about it. But to know that we had done it to ourselves, that we could have prevented it, that is the saddest thing of all. And it sticks like barbs in my heart that we are headed to that horrible destination.

I ponder all of these things and look out over the waves. I try to console myself with thoughts of my loving friends and family, and the lives and loves that we’ve shared. I think about the violent-ones and their agenda of hate, and their quest for purposeless power. I wish that we could all work together to make the boat a better place. I can feel what that would be like, I can see what it would take to get there, and I want it so bad. I look out into the growing fog creeping over the horizon…and I think I see a tiny glinting light in the vast distance.

The Golden Shoes

The shoes are grandfather’s, and most unusual. When I first set foot in them I was twelve. I didn’t know what they were. They had been handed down, I was told, through generations, and I should be honored to wear them. I wanted to ask Granddad why they were so special, but he wasn’t around. He’d passed away.

The first time I wore them to school, I felt proud. The shoes were gold and shiny, and I felt ten feet tall. I felt like I could go anywhere with them. Go faster than anything. Like I could do anything. But the other kids made fun of me for wearing them. They said they were too out of date. They weren’t cool enough. They weren’t in style. They were weird and goofy, and nobody wore gold colored shoes.

So I went home discouraged and told my mom about what happened.

She said, “Sometimes people don’t understand the value of a thing. They’re looking at your shoes, and they see shoes that don’t look like the ones they’re used to. They see shoes, but what they don’t see is where those shoes have been. Where they’ve walked, what they’ve tread on. They don’t know anything about your shoes. So they don’t know just how special they are.”

The next day I didn’t wear the shoes. I put them in the closet behind the old stuffed bear I’d had forever, that I didn’t use or need anymore. I’d grown out of it. I hadn’t had grandad’s shoes very long, but I felt like I’d grown out of them too. I’d keep them in the closet to remember him.

When I got to school wearing my modern shoes, the other kids accepted them. They didn’t pick on me and I fit in, but I didn’t feel special. I didn’t feel ten feet tall. I didn’t feel like I could do anything in the world that I wanted to. To go anywhere that I wanted to go. I felt like I’d be stuck in this town my whole life, and I’d wear what everyone else wore, and I’d do whatever anyone else told me to. And I didn’t like it.

So I went back to wearing grandad’s shoes and the other kids picked on me. But I shut them out, and I wore them anyway. I went where I wanted to go, and did what I wanted to do, and I didn’t let them tell me what I should be doing. I felt bad that I was alone and weird and strange, but I felt free.

Years past, and I grew up into an adult. I met someone and I married. We had children and I knew love and tenderness. My love didn’t like my shoes though. My love wanted me to get rid of the old tired things. I didn’t want to stop wearing them, but I loved my lover. So I put them away into the closet once more.

Without the shoes, I didn’t walk right. I started to limp through the day. I didn’t feel right. I didn’t act right. It was like I was a different person. It didn’t take long before my love noticed it too, but didn’t say anything. Didn’t say anything until all of the love had disappeared and nothing was left between us.

After my love was gone, I limped back to the closet, and put back on those comfortable old shoes. Those shoes that had carried me so far before. The ones that my grandfather had worn and his grandfather before him, and on and on. I started to walk right again. The limp was gone after a while. I could walk for miles and miles, and I saw lots of places, and I met lots of people. I could help them now. I was back to my old self.

I got a new job. I went to work with great ambition and energy, wearing my golden shoes. At first everyone was impressed with me, and I thought that I was going straight to the top. That my long years of struggling had finally paid off.

There came a day when the people I worked for stopped looking at what I was doing and started checking out my shoes. They didn’t like what they saw. Even though we were not in school anymore. They didn’t like the way they shone in the sun, and made me walk. They thought that my shoes should be dull and normal, something that everyone else wore.

My boss told me that I needed to perform, like the others in my team. That I was too busy thinking about high minded ideas and walking the wrong direction. That I needed to be less creative and work harder.

I was tempted to take my shoes off once more and put them away, but I’d learned from my previous mistakes and refused. Instead, I went my own way and became a success.

It’s been many years now. I have a grandson. I’m old and grey and tired. I sit him down and hand him my shoes.

I tell him, “I’ve learned something wonderful and true. The things that matter are not what others think. The things that matter are where you go and where you’ve been—what you do, and what you are. The shoes you wear are the record of these things. The people who know this will look at your shoes and see all of that in a glance, and the people who don’t will tell you to take those shoes off. But don’t you ever listen to them. You just keep wearing them, and I’ll keep watching you walk in them. And I’ll be proud.”

He’s wearing them to school today. I see him filling my shoes, and continuing our long walk. I know those shoes are safe, and I can rest easy. I know they will walk on and on—forever.