Peter K. Hixson Award

I am honored to announce that I received an Honorable Mention in the 2013 Writer's Relief Peter K. Hixson Memorial Award for two of my short stories.

From their email to me - “Thank you so much for submitting your work for consideration. We had not planned to award honorable mentions this year, but we greatly enjoyed your writing samples and couldn’t leave you with nothing. When Peter left money to our organization for the purpose of hosting this annual award, his hope was that it would change writers’ lives for the better.” 

Sometimes the path seems burnt out and steep...

Writer’s Relief is a submission service for writers, helping writers find and target literary journals appropriate for a piece’s style. Because of this award, a grant for two cycles of a la carte service, I’ll have 50 places to submit my work. At ten stories a year it would have taken me 5 years to research and submit, but because of their help it will take substantially less time. In reality, I’m lucky to target five journals a year so the Writer’s Relief time machine has taken me 10 years in to the future. So friggin’ fabulous!

Now, considering a writer starting out has a 1 in 100 chance of being accepted into a journal I’d say I actually have a shot at getting published.

I see this award as a great sign. During my time on this earth, along with climbing all the Cascade Range volcanoes, I would like to publish a few books, maybe even make a living off my books. Winning contests and getting published in literary journals are great milestone on that path. As a writer, toiling away in obscurity, broke as hell and doing it all myself (websites, editing, blogging, research, working, building a network and reputation, staying positive, and of course the writing, always with the writing) I am very grateful for this opportunity.

...but with a little help, guidance and support...

The winning stories are part of a book of short stories I am writing (the stories are mostly written so the book is in the editing phase). Twelve stories in total, the book is loosely themed “the ghosts that haunt us.” Linked through character, theme and/or setting, each story has a different first person narrator exploring grief, loss, commitment and the choice between two bad options. All stories also take place in the Pacific and Rocky Mountain Northwest.

Unfortunately, I cannot share the stories on this blog because most publications I will be submitting to don’t accept previously published material, (which is funny to me because I don’t have any “readers” and to me a blog is the lowest form of publishing). What I can share is my personal statement submitted with my stories, which, according to one source, was well received at Writer’s Relief:

Why this award would be helpful: My last five years in prose – Feel that rumble? That’s the economy, falling. Hear that wail? Those are my two businesses, dying. See that proud blue-collar man? That’s me, working part time retail, on food stamps. Smell that fear? I quit that shitty job, back to college, realigning my compass. Taste that lemonade? All I want to do is write, everything else a distraction. 

Currently, I make $700 a month as a writing tutor and thank God every day my wife loves me for my values and kindness not my bank account because we seem to be short $300 each month. I grew up poor, am the first in my family with a college degree and have an important voice to add to the world. I lean into fear, wrestle with demons of depression, punch the devil in the nose, drink whiskey, run through the mountains with my dog and hold my wife when we feel vulnerable. 

This award would be meaningful because I need help getting my work into the world. I don’t know if it would improve my life but it would definitely feel like forward progress. Thank you for your time.

...you can find a bed of flowers anywhere.

Father's Day - How to Build a Dad

(Edited on 6/19)

Twenty years ago, lacking proper male role models in life I decided to research, define, then build my own internal standard of masculinity and manhood. As Neitzsche said and The Oatmeal comicfied, “When one has not had a good father, one must create one.” It was a long and sometimes painful process, but I look forward to being a father (in a year or two) I wouldn't change a thing.

Between my father’s alcoholism and stories he told about the cruelty of his father, my grandfather, I suspect dad knew he was falling short as a father. I also suspect dad was tortured knowing that he didn't know the hell he was doing and felt powerless to change. He was trying to reinvent fatherhood, trying to reinvent masculinity, trying not to pass down the sins of his father.

I’ll tell you a secret – most adults don’t know what the hell they are doing. We make it up as we along. You should be suspicious if someone says otherwise.

But, dad did change, he was not his father. Dad suffered far more abuse and humiliation at his father's hands than I suffered at his, and I am grateful.

Looking back, I see my father wanted to break the cycle of addiction and abuse that was our family legacy. He sensed that fully breaking the cycle would fall on my shoulders but couldn't imagine what that would look like. As a child, I subconsciously sensed his desire to break the cycle. As an adult, as a man, I've embraced this value, then execute its purpose with fervor and dedication.

When I left home at 17, I vowed to “break the cycle” no matter the cost. Then, when I was 19, after being estranged from him for two years, dad died of cancer. He was 48.

I visited him on his deathbed and saw his soul tiredness. Three wives, eight children, working class, veteran, PTSD, alcoholic. The IV's and respirator desperately tried to reconstitute this shriveled version of my father, the one who was eight feet tall and powered by diesel. He told me he was proud of me. It released me.

It’s easy to look back 20 years and see all this.

A beer and a shot in your honor. 20 years gone. RIP.

As it turns out, dad did me a favor by dying. He left a blank, a chunk of clay, a golem - something to be formed carefully with humility.

It’s so much easier to have a conversation, to gain closure, to reformat your life and expectations, when you’re talking to a dead person. You get to build a conversation and relationship out of your own agenda and goals, your own ideals and dreams. The standard resistance and conflict created through opposing emotional needs and absences no longer exists when you talk to a ghost.

I still dream of him, although less frequently now.

So, after dad died I spent the next 10 years crafting my definition of a man and father. It became an all-consuming quest. I was determinate to redefine what a man and a father should be, then adopt those qualities into my life.

Being the English nerd I am (this was pre-bachelor's degree, snowbum days), I first turned to literature to define a true man.

I read Tim O’Brien’s “TheThings They Carried” to get insight into dad’s Vietnam experience. Then, Robert Bly’s “Iron John” for an alternative perspective on male roles and identity. Next, came Kerouac’s “On The Road” and Tom Robbins’ “Still Life with Woodpecker” setting my soul free. Edward Abby brought grit and moral fortitude with “Desert Solitaire” and “Monkey Wrench Gang”. Thich Nhat Hanh gave me spiritual identity and purpose.

These men and authors made their own code, blazed their own trails, rocked the fucking boat. Rocking the boat was who dad was at the core but couldn’t fully achieve because his father had hobbled his soul, then Uncle Sam drained his life-force.

During my quest, I also realized that one needs real world examples. So, I cultivated friendships with people who had qualities I admired and wanted to emulate in my life - kindness, moral fortitude, loyalty and an understanding that the rough paths are the most rewarding. Even though we were all close in age, I admired and studied these men, incorporating their positive characteristics into my definition and image of a proper man.

We were all young and reckless, but without these friends, without their stalwart personalities and support, I wouldn’t be the man I am today.

So, I’d like to thank Jay, Gunther, George, Dan, Bill, Mike and Damon. When all the older men were too scared to act like mentors, unable to admit they didn't know what they were doing and were making it up as they went, we figured it out together. 

You guys were my tribe and it takes a tribe to build a man. As much as American culture wants to celebrate the mavericks, the hero, the individual it's all bullshit. You can't make a samurai without a sensei or a chief without a tribe.

You also weren’t afraid to tell me when I was out of line, which is probably most important. Without your influence I wouldn’t be the man I am today.

To all the men and fathers out there - 

We don't have to reinvent masculinity and fatherhood. We just need just build on our father's goodness and pass it on.

Twerkin' Through Life

"Keep twerkin' it, girl," says a 19 year old playa' to the cute 18 year old receptionist. She giggles and blushes from the attention like a little girl.

After he walks away I turn to her and say, "Please don't 'twerk it.' There are more elegant ways to express your sexuality than 'twerkin' it'." She pauses for a second as this sinks in, then shakes her head and laughs with the confidence of a woman.

A Memorial Day Celebration

A baby shower inside the café is wrapping up. Fifteen or twenty women, 30-something, professional, wearing dresses and flowers. Twittering soprano laughs and gleeful outbursts dance with ticks and clicks of heals and glasses. Occasionally, one breaks from the group with a stack of presents, gift bag dangling from elbow, helping to load the expectant’s SUV. Everything is fit and beautiful, celebrating the American dream on this Memorial Day.

Not the cafe in the vignette but one of my favorite shops. This area of Portland is less refined.

A Moment of Clarity

Memoir, Personal Essay

In April of 2012, I peddle towards home after work and school. It is just like any other spring afternoon with the flowers, trees and air singing with life and blossoms.  I’ve been in school for a few months and am working as a writing tutor – a job I love more and more every day. As I walk up stairs to my apartment, my bike on my shoulder, I so am lost in reverie that keys materialize in my hand.

I unlock and open the door. As I set my bike down and push it inside, I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. I pause for a moment, studying my eyes and face, and think, “all I want to do is write, everything else is a distraction.” I decide right then and there to rededicate myself and my life to writing.

With this thought I suddenly feel three years of tension and economic desperation release from my life. This tension had been a constant pressure on my brain, heart and skin, squeezing me from the inside and outside at the same time. It made my hair follicles hurt and my back hunch. It made my cells cling to one another desperately or else shatter into billions of pieces, a cloud of fine dust to be scattered by the wind.

“All I want to do is write…” echoes, washing this tension, this pressure, off my skin. I watch it drip to the floor, then ooze away through the cracks. It’s interesting to watch life come full circle. After a few loops through the bog of the recession, my circle, my calling as a writer, reconnects. I’ve been writing my whole life, seriously for about ten years, but I put all my dreams on hold while battling the recession. It’s interesting to see what happens when you are gutted, cleaned of labels and baggage and ten year plans, because what’s left is your core and calling.

Wife and dog exploring the dreamscape that is the Oregon coast.

It’s scary to face our fears. We’ve all heard this. It’s even scarier to face our dreams because within our dreams wait our calling and purpose. Our whole body yearns for these dreams, is urged towards them, a thoroughbred shivering in the starting gate. But, when we resist our dreams, when the starting gate drops, we back up instead. Then, when haunches hit the back of the stall we feel cornered and panic, thrashing in an attempt to exit in any direction except forward.

I can never live like that, cornered and claustrophobic, fear of the unknown controlling my life. Dreams keep me hopeful. Dreams sustain and nourish me. Chasing our dreams, creating something from nothing, is why we are put on this planet.

State Finals Pictures

This site used to be the home of Aaron Schultz Photography. Last fall I changed this site to be a portfolio for all my creative projects, with a little more emphasis on writing. More on that in some other post...

But, don't worry because the other photographers and I are working hard to get the competition photos ready to upload. The best place to check for updates is the OISA main site or the Facebook page. Thanks for an amazing states!

Board members stay warm and having fun.

Suitcase.

OISA State Finals Preview

Super excited to be headed to Bend, OR tomorrow to photograph the Oregon Interscholastic Snowboarding Association's (OISA) State Championship.

Halfpipe mute '12

This will be my fourth year photographing them and my second as a board member. It's always a super busy time, but hopefully I'll be able to throw a few photos on this blog each day. Good luck to each competitor!

Halfpipe Method from '12

I Really Doubt You're a Bootstrapper

I read an article in Gawker today, “When People Write for Free, Who Pays?”, and it got me thinking, again, about how growing up working class (at times working poor was a more appropriate classification of our situation) has continually affected my life. This article explains how a high cost of entry creates a lack of diverse voices within the writing industry. It also mentioned the bootstrapping myth. You know how it goes – “I was a struggling artist/college student/business intern eating Top Ramen and ketchup soup.”

I’d like to share my experience as a child of the working class trying to pursue his dreams in a middle and upper class niche industries. 

You see, I’ve always been a dreamer, an Icarus rising far above my working class roots because I set goals beyond my socioeconomic legacy and pay grade. For close to fifteen years I've been part of three industries - writing, photography, and snowboarding.

All these industries expect you to invest heavily in education, training and gear and then expect you to give your work and talent away for free or super cheap while building your network and portfolio. Their justification for this exploitation is usually something like, "Exposure!" or "Portfolio!" or "Free Beer!" The last justification usually works, but the other two are played out and I’m very particular about my “portfolio” or “exposure” these days. Frankly, I need to see how this “exposure” will lead to a new skill or a check. 

Between degrees, CEU’s, personal study, networking, marketing, and capital investment (tools of the trade), I’ve easily invested $75k (time, materials, education) just for writing and photography industries.

Real bootstrapping is as rare as a two headed cow - it's a mutation, relying more on random chance and dumb luck than hard work and recognition. Outliers, by Malcolm Gladwell, is a great look into American Bootstrapping mythos. 

Bootstrapping is an adyaton, an exaggeration so great it is impossible - e.g. pulling oneself up by their bootstraps (the straps on a shoe used to pull it on and off). Visualize this, or better yet, try it for a moment by grabbing the bootstrap on each shoe at the same time and pull up, trying to lift both feet at the same time. Nothing happens. Unless you get some sort of assistance gravity will always win.

  

I first noticed the impact of the social class divide as a snowbum in Jackson, WY, where I spent five glorious years “livin’ the dream” – teaching snowboarding, hiking and climbing mountains. During this time I also worked two or three jobs at a time and still got into serious financial trouble because of gaps in work and medical bills.

What I noticed during my time in Jackson was that my middle class and upper class colleagues, even the ones without trust funds, had it pretty easy. Sure most were working the same two or three jobs that I was, but they also had a new snowboard every year, wore puffy coats, listened to mp3 players, skied in $500 mountaineering pants, drove a three year old hand-me-down Subaru, and flew to South America once a year during offseason (“offseason” is the time between seasons, usually Oct-Nov and April-May, when most tourist based jobs, and pretty much every job in Jackson, layoff all their staff and close.

I, on the other hand, still had to pay rent, so would find odd jobs during the offseason like sheet-rocking someone’s house or washing windows and cleaning carpets for rich people’s third homes (incidentally, if you own a home in Wyoming, even if it’s your third, you don’t have to pay state employment taxes). For the longest time I envied how stress free and relaxed other skibums were, the great trips they would take, and the gear they would buy and was pretty baffled how they financed their lives so easily.

Then, one day I realized my skibum colleagues were getting help - a rent check from mom, a new piece of gear for Christmas, a plane ticket home. However little, it all adds up over time, creating not only material wealth but also, and more importantly, a sense of stability and confidance emanating from the knowledge that someone has your financial and emotional back. 

I didn’t even realize that this, getting handouts that make life easier, could be a way of life for some people. This realization was disheartening and reassuring at the same time. Disheartening because I saw how I was constantly getting my ass kicked financially with nobody there to help or listen. I was living life without a safety net - a trapeze act without an audience. Reassuring because now I understood why all the people surrounding were always mellow and I was always stressed out – they were cheating, gaming the system. While I was constantly getting hit with setbacks, their lives were slowly inching forward, following their cheery little plan - college, skibum, master's degree, marriage, kids, house.  

I’ve seen this pattern repeated in school while getting my bachelor’s degree (guess who got to do internships while I went to work) and within the writing and photography industries. Yes. I’ve had some successes – a photo published in Outside Magazine (for which they didn’t pay me and exposure was implied) and a snowboarding sponsorship for a couple seasons. I networked my ass off for those opportunities and every single one of my publishing credits.

But, mostly I’ve seen those around me leverage their middle class stability to get another degree, land a good job or launch a freelance career. And, I'm pretty sure the lack of financial and emotional support has impacted my level of success in each field and subsequent paycheck. Every five years or so I become exhausted I have to crawl into a hole for year to recover, where I think about the lessons learned, reassess my path and ask myself if pursuing my dreams is really worth the trouble.

I am just now coming out of one of those holes. And, as always the answer is – "Yes. It’s worth the trouble." What all these cycles and observation have taught me is that a) I’m stubborn, and b) I don’t know my place.

I refuse to give up on my dreams just because others have an advantage. I may occasionally lay down, demoralized and exhausted, but I will always get back in the game. I have an important story to tell and a unique experience to share. I’m going to keep living life on my terms, even if most people don’t understand me or my terms.

Now, back up for a second while I try this bootstrapping move one more time. I could crash, breaking a table or chair, but I don’t really care as long as you give me a high score for form.

My favorite summer writing spot, where I contemplate life's deeper issues. (Mostly, I just listen to the wind and water.)

Free Writing About Barns

I write just about every day and most of it is garbage, but this selection is interesting to me so I though I'd post it. It was written during a workshop free-write. Our exercise was to describe an old barn through an emotional lens. I might make this into prose poem or poem someday:

Not a picture of a barn, I know - it's all I had.

The old barn leaned to the side. A drunken giant had tripped once, using the barn to catch his fall. Now there was a pucker in the snow-covered roof, cedar shingles shattered or missing, where he had put his hand down to steady himself. Other giants had been more purposeful, smashing in doors, stripping off chunks of pine siding. Inside the barn was dark, a canvas or a hole, waiting to take the blame for something else, a vessel for aggression and redemption. Occasionally a gust of wind would blow the snow up one side of the roof, to hang in the air, swirling, not sure which way to go. But, the giants were long gone and this snowstorm one of many. The old growth timber framing, beams the size of refrigerators, bolts the size of diner plates, would keep its soul intact.

What do you think? Should I keep it as a prose poem or rework it into a poem? I think it might be a fun idea fiddle with.