Showing posts with label CH. Show all posts
Showing posts with label CH. Show all posts
Monday, December 23, 2013
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I often worry about the impact my stories will have on those that read them. I worry that the need to root myself into everything I write will alienate people who don't share any common experience or worldview. I worry by writing what I know, I will push away those that I don't.

This is especially tricky for me because in my private life I aim to be as inclusive as possible. I find myself harboring bigotry for the ignorant and for the hateful, but, besides that, I do everything I can to approach situations and people by seeking to understand before I condemn, if at all I should.

I've written before about the Bechdel test and how it's a good sort of cultural thermometer. In the same stroke, I've tried to paint a picture showing how such a test is ultimately ineffective, but that doesn't mean its ideas are useless. Stories with varied characters, whether of different sexes, beliefs, backgrounds, etc., are important for the sake of variety and because those are the stories that aid us in telling the truth. Of course, the truth, at least in a literary sense, is more about intention than it is about factuality, but I digress.

The Predicament
I've been making some great progress with a short story I've had in my head for some months now. The main character, a young girl, has surprised me more times than I can count, taking on a life of her own, as our creations so often do. The problem is that I find her world populated by many of the same types of characters; namely, they're big, scary men with  a bone to pick with my young antagonist. Even if they aren't of the big scary variety, they tend to be male.

So, I find myself wondering: am I doing myself and the story an injustice by not populating it with other female characters? Surely, in the instance of the world being the main villain, the sex of the minor antagonists is superfluous at best, but what does it say about my writer's mind, my thoughts about the roles of the sexes in general, that the villainous nomads are all male?

The Double-Edged Solution
I want variation of character in all of my stories, but this decidedly monotonous representation of minor characters has left me to wonder what the implications would be on a bigger scale. What if, in this instance and others, having female characters or male characters or straight characters simply doesn't suit the story? Maybe what my narrative needs is a uniform type of bad guy. Does it make the tale inherently weak if it has no place for diversity?

This is something I've taken to calling the double-edged solution; truly, I want to satisfy the need for good female characters in storytelling, but if it doesn't serve the story, should I push to fulfill these sorts of "equality requirements" just because? It seems that forcing anything creative to fit into any kind of mold is the best way to stifle that creativity.

It's something I've thought about for quite a long time, and I've yet to come up with the answer to the question. I think that more stories should be written to fulfill the Bechdel specs, but I'm torn by the idea that they should all have to.

What do you think, creative community?

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 Charles Hayward is a web writer, short story author and novelist, and a social/political activist interested in furthering the cause of humanity, the well-being of the environment, and improving the world in general. His work has been featured on Examiner.com,Unplug the Matrix, and on the Japanese culture-themed blog They Call Me An Egg.


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Wednesday, December 18, 2013
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I haven't been doing this whole writing thing very long, at least not in the professional sense. I started very slowly in October of 2012 and since that time, there have been some things I've discovered that I never would have thought about when I was still completely green. These are the little things that can easily gnaw at you as both a creative professional and as a person; Many of these, perhaps, apply to other disciplines outside of freelance writing, but for me, these have been unique to my fledgling "wordsmithing" career.

Even if They Ask for It, Very Few People Want Your Opinion
This seems to be most prevalent when you take on ghost-writing projects, whether it's a novel, website copy, or what have you. Clients want exactly what they want, and they expect you to give it to them without a fuss. What you'll learn very quickly is that you can hand a client a piece of gold and have them sneer at it like it's actually horse droppings. You have to remember in these situations that there's a reason you're a writer and they're not. Swallow your pride, keep your nose to the grind stone, and other idioms implying that you need to simply soldier on.

Everybody Thinks They're Writers
The sting of non-writer folk telling you how to do your job and the rage that wells up inside you when accountants tell you they do exactly what you do will never really go away. Having said that, ridiculous responses from clients who hate Oxford commas, don't understand why semicolons are used, and are confused about the difference between its and it's (it happens) are going to be a regular part of your life. When these things happen, simply explain to your clients why you write the way you do; oh, and make sure you do it without any sarcasm.

People Expect Free Work
As a freelancer, there are few things you'll learn faster, perhaps, than the fact that people somehow view what you do as cheap work. There are times when this will manifest itself as low-ball asking prices for an assignment. Much more frequently, unfortunately, is a call or e-mail from a potential client offering only "exposure" in exchange for giving them hours of your life. It can be hard, even impossible, to pass up this kind of offer when you're starting out. It is unarguably hard to find writing work until you've built up some steam, but don't fall into this trap. If you do take a pro-bono assignment, make sure it's a short-term deal. (Note: This doesn't apply to work for volunteer groups)

You need only look around to find evidence that being a freelancer is only getting harder. There's an interesting Business Insider piece about the recent explosion in freelancing across the board. Pay may be rising and jobs may be more common but so, too, are the people you're competing against. Know what you're getting in for before you dive in, and make yourself a far better freelancer out of the gate.
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Charles Hayward is a web writer, short story author and novelist, and a social/political activist interested in furthering the cause of humanity, the well-being of the environment, and improving the world in general. His work has been featured on Examiner.com, Unplug the Matrix, and on the Japanese culture-themed blog They Call Me An Egg.

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Tuesday, December 10, 2013
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Today, many of the world's leaders made their way to South Africa to celebrate the life of Nelson Mandela. The coverage of the event, as you might expect, flooded the internet, television, and other traditional mediums. President Obama gave a moving, forceful speech that, admittedly, wasn't without tinges of hypocrisy or irony, but overall, gave the impression it needed to.

In the true fashion of 21st century media, however, it's not the life of Nelson Mandela, unarguably one of the world's great leaders, that's being talked about. It's not his achievements. It's not even President Obama's speech being picked apart; that might almost be understandable given his own policies and things said in his speech. Instead, it's a "selfie" the president took with British PM David Cameron and Danish PM Helle Thorning-Schmidt. I get that snapping a "selfie"--and please, note my distaste for using that pseudo-language--in this context is strange, but people of the world, kindly shut up about it.

Focus on Nelson Mandela
Does snapping a picture truly constitute something more important than the life of a human being who spent his short existence trying to make the world better? I hesitate to ask the question as, ostensibly, more people expressed their sadness over the death of actor Paul Walker via Facebook and Twitter than even bothered to make a mention of somebody who literally changed the fate of millions of people. How about some priorities? How about some perspective?

Realize the Nature of the Event
This wonderful peace from The Blaze is not unique in its coverage of the whole affair. "How dare he take a picture at a funeral?" they ask, disbelief drooling from their maws. The comments are a whole other story. The "selfie"--god, I hate that word-- is being linked to pathological lying, chronic narcissism, and everything else. Granted, those traits may or may not be there, but it's not too hard to see that correlations are being drawn where there are none.

I'd wager that a large percentage of the people flaming, fuming, guffawing, and other verbs at this whole situation are completely unfamiliar with the tone, the overall mood, of the Mandela celebrations. People were dancing, singing, clapping, and shouting. Why? Because they were celebrating the life of a great person. The mood was of revelry, not sadness. This wasn't a funeral; it was a party meant to see beyond the pain and rejoice in a person's accomplishments. So, please, save the indignation for when it's warranted.

Speaking of...
My biggest gripe with the situation is that we're ignoring all the bigger issues to talk about something which, at the end of the day, doesn't matter. Say, for the sake of argument, this photograph is in any way reprehensible. Even if that is the case, how does it affect any of us? Is that photo a government entity spying on everything you do? Is it helping or hurting the cause of gender and sexual equality in the country? How about the income gap; is it fixing that huge economic blight?

It doesn't matter.

In the end, it's a fool who looks for a fight, a problem, where there is none. Believe me; I've been that fool many times. Undoubtedly, the POTUS has some things to be criticized over, but overshadowing a day meant for celebrating a singular individual and sweeping the real dirt under the rug for the sake of political indignation is an insult and a waste of time.


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Monday, December 9, 2013
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I had the great fortune of stumbling across Amanda Hess' article, "It Was Like a Pile of Kleenex...", over on Slate this afternoon. I say great fortune because it was a super interesting article about female authors' inability to connect with literature that is widely considered to be part of the Western literary canon; Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, and others were all discussed by a panel of female writers. If you've read some of the so-called great works of these authors, maybe you have a guess as to why their writing makes women feel the way they do.

The second part of this "great fortune" is in the impact these same works are said to have had on young men. Hess recounts Elif Baufman's anecdote about reading Henry Miller for the first time, only to find that the guy she was dating at the time had lifted his stories up onto a pedestal, internalizing the narrative and becoming much of what she hated about Miller's works. That idea stopped me.

I began to wonder just how much influence a book can have on the formation of identity. Could it truly be the case that a narrative, a foreign perspective can be taken so far as to mold a person? If so, what sort of implications does this have on my beliefs about the impact of video games and other media on personality, actions, etc.?

As it turns out, realizing the truth required little thought. As soon as I began to dissect the idea, having originally thought it ludicrous, my mind was pulled to a rather dark summer over a decade ago. At the height of my hero worship, I was consuming classical epics, comic books, Harry Potter, and more at something of a breakneck pace. I began to envision myself swinging on a strand of silken web toward someone bleating for my help. Naturally, in my dreams, I saved her or him.

The problem, of course, isn't with the dream. At one point or another, we all fly or do something fantastic while we recover from the world. The trouble starts when the line is blurred. Say, for example, you start to map out a costume, a vehicle, and an ideology. Say, just for example, that you begin to build that costume. What if the only thing that stopped you from doing something stupid was a suspicious mother and her ability to convince you of your foolishness?

I still have those costume plans in a box somewhere.

Having grown up digesting fiction and historical literature, I built who I am today. I've long since abandoned my notions of costumed crime-fighting and Hogwarts, but I certainly still dream of it. That mentality, the hero complex as a former love called it, bleeds into everything. It informs my personal, professional, and emotional choices. All of it is founded in the words of someone struggling to spread their own perspective, their own story.

Imagine, then, what it means for young men to grow up reading the misogynist manifestos that are increasingly rare, yet present, these days but were a dime a dozen in the past. Imagine what it means when young men grow up dreaming about objectifying and ruling. I doubt you have to work to hard to see the results. I'm not sure those fantasies end with drawing a costume.



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Wednesday, December 4, 2013
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I'm pleased to report that my first true interaction with the Affordable Care Act (Re: Obamacare, A Love Story Worse Than Twilight, the Worst Thing Ever to Happen to the United States, Socialist Retooling, etc.) has ended with gleaming success. In that, I can't help but feel a humongous weight has been lifted from my shoulders; I'm not even considering the 1% income penalty I would've been responsible for had I not gotten insurance by Jan. 1st. I don't care that selecting the most basic of insurance would have cost me marginally more had I gone that route. I care that for the first time in nine months my basic health needs can be met. I care that for the first time since I graduated from college in 2010, I can go to the dentist. On this side of the equation, perhaps, I see the whole issue of Obamacare more clearly than I ever did.

First, I want to say that I don't believe Obamacare is a panacea for the health crisis this country faces; it's not. I'm also not going to go into some highly-partisan diatribe, tinged with red or dipped in blue, that espouses all the supposed failings and successes of American healthcare reform. I understand that the system, as it stands now, is ineffably lackluster, a winged bird that can't yet take to the sky. And yes, I understand the failings of the current administration. 

With all that being said, with the many catalysts for blood-boiling and irrational party politicking, I tell you that the system is a good thing. It's a good thing for two important reasons:

  • I Can Afford to Care for Myself-There's a very real problem when you live in a society that doesn't value your right to live, especially when it's one that proclaims itself the Land of the Free. Forcing people to accept being sick over being well is the very definition of slavery because you take away any sense of choice. Interestingly, talking with my insurance rep today, I found that the most basic care plans marginally increased in price over similar plans last year. On average, they increased by a little over a dollar. The so-called "platinum plan", the creme de la creme, became more affordable, year over year. To put it simply, if I were making the same amount in December of 2012 as I am now, then I wouldn't have been able to afford the same level of care at that time.

  • Life Doesn't Have to Be a Constant Risk Assessment-One of the strangest, most disheartening things I found about living uninsured was that I viewed everything as though I were a pencil-pusher at a risk assessment firm. "Well, I can't really go hiking because if I break my leg, how can I take care of that?" I'd asked myself. Of course, I don't plan on heading out to challenge a karate master or free-climb Kilimanjaro, but that's not the point. Life, from this side of the apocalyptic measures called Obamacare, is decidedly better, and I've known about this change for less than 25 minutes.

So, What's the Point?
The debate before this meant anything to me, at least in an experiential way, was based around abstracts; it was based around what could be and increasingly inane politics. Having been granted something that a huge portion of the industrial world has enjoyed for a long time now, even if my costs will remain markedly higher than other first-world nations' for some time, feels more like freedom than any other occurrence in my adult life.

It's not an issue of political tilt. Were I Republican instead of more Democratic in my views, that wouldn't change the impact. You can debate all you want about the ethics, the costs, the fundamentally anti-American nature that the ACA exhibits, but let me tell you first-hand, until you've been on the other side, until you've tasted something fundamental that was previously denied, your experience, and thereby your authority, is truly limited.


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Tuesday, December 3, 2013
A Writer Without Tragedy is Useless


People don't really get writers. Well, I should say they don't really get them unless they are writers themselves. From a completely objective position, it's not hard to understand why. If you're a journalist and you're writing about the really interesting, important stuff, then you're probably putting yourself in the way of some kind of harm. Fiction writers, arguably the most difficult to understand, spend their lives telling stories, inspiring the idea that we aren't really doing anything, but the "why" of us doing so is a lot more complicated than many people think.

Carrie Mathison Cry Face
You know Carrie has some tales to tell.
Source:http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mczxud39sS1risuxpo1_1280.jpg
To a certain extent, writing is about storytelling, pure and simple. Telling a tale about a great character, a great story; that's what it's all about. However, if you're willing to dig a little deeper, you will find that most of us are maladjusted in some way. Some of us have had addictions and use our writing to figure out that ever present plague. Others have experienced some sort of violence and use their words to try and make sense of it. If you're seeing a trend here, then you're on the right track; a writer without tragedy, big or small, is useless.

What Makes Tragedy Our Lifeblood?
I argue that tragedy is so important to a good story, a good writer, because it gives you an answer to search for. You may know why you had to get a divorce or why sexism exists, but in the same way that knowledge is differentiated from wisdom, so, too, is knowledge separate from understanding. That understanding, more than anything,  is what gives the writer so much power to craft an honest, authentic story.

Anecdotally, I recently had the misfortune of being defrauded by a debt collector. In trying to do the right thing and improve my financial status, I attempted to pay off a legitimate debt to an illegitimate collector. This, in its own way, is a tragedy. It placed severe limits on weeks of my life, a sacrifice that would have been well worth it had it been legitimate. This is an insignificant type of tragedy when compared to heartache, death, and the like, but it nevertheless serves as a catalyst for a story I'm really interested in telling. (Being proved naive is a great driver it turns out)

Surely, You Can't Mean Every Writer Has Experienced a Tragedy!?!
No, I don't mean to say that every person has experienced tragedy, at least not in the first-hand sense. Even writers who cover the stock market, however, understand a type of loss; they understand what it means for the markets to crash and for people to lose their livelihood, if only in an abstract sense. In the end, this sort of understanding, whether from a first person or third person observer perspective, is essential in crafting a story that people want to read, whether you're droning on about the change in federal interest rates or bringing truth to people in the form of thoughtful fiction.


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Monday, December 2, 2013
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An Apology for Equality

It sickens me that the thing you do so much better than I
winds up being less because of the chance of birth.
If I were to speak about science or math,
you'd be drowned out; my gender determines my worth.

The conversation, for the time being, will shift to your hair,
it will shift to your chest, your supposed promiscuity.
I could speak of things I do not know
and I'd be trusted over you intrinsically.

It's important you know that we aren't all alike.
Some see intelligence, instead of a potential "wife."
I can do no more than stand with you, cursing them down.
Is that enough to bring equality to your life?


This one was inspired by Emily Graslie of the Brain Scoop's video talking about gender issues in the field of science and in general. Thanks to Upworthy for bringing this to my attention.




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Sunday, December 1, 2013
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Perfect Permanence

It's far too easy to think of life as wasted; that's especially true when you feel like nothing is permanent. Even the Buddhist, his life built on the concept of ephemeral reality, can rely on his belief as something of a compass rose. If your life has become a series of supposed failures punctuated by long-lost lovers, hated jobs, and crushed dreams, what else could you possibly think?

We have too many thoughts, too many dreams, that we think will drive us forward. When it comes down to it, their true conflicting nature is more damaging than a weapon aimed directly for the heart, but we hold on tight, hoping they'll save us. Too many learn far too late that dreams can pull you down faster than anything else. 

The problem lies in our concept of dreams. Why are they called that? Frankly, because they don't exist, because they're near impossible to achieve. "Dreams" need to be reduced to dream; the plural exchanged for the singular. Finding our perfect permanence is about reduction. If you've ever made a sauce, you know that reduction is hugely important for flavor and substance. Just as reduction allows the cook to obtain that perfect flavor, reduction allows the dreamer to find their direction.

It's been said that choice is the enemy of happiness. This is especially true of the dreamer. We think of how we can change the world with words, by giving our time, or just doing something off the beaten path, yet while we decide, all of the options pass us by. In finding our perfect permanence, progress is made, the ephemeral slain, and the dream realized.








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Saturday, November 30, 2013
Friday, November 29, 2013
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The Black Plague

As you gave thanks, did you leave something out?
Clearly, it's worth leaving a footprint on a face.
Does your new debt leave new doubt,
or does it leave you feeling stout?
I doubt it furthers the human race.
Today, you give your life, your time,
putting material in love's place.
Remember, as you stand in line,
the precious few things money can't replace.








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Thursday, November 28, 2013
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The Lumberjack

There's a man who walks with an ax,
though he needs it not for work. 
He knows he'll pass my brambles,
by ivy, by stands of thick birch.
While some require
little more than a climb,
others need for the swift cut,
separating the pieces entwined.
He hopes that his blade
will remain stayed by his side,
but he fears not
the cut given in stride.




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Wednesday, November 27, 2013
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Perspective

To the high-schooler who has no idea of what he reaps,
be warned of the damage you do when you betray the secrets you keep.
Time, it may pass, and friends, they may treat you ill,
but you always remember the times when you betrayed of your own free will.




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Tuesday, November 26, 2013
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Writing, like any form of art, takes on different meaning as it's used in different ways. Journalism, marketing, fiction writing; all of these different styles tend to mean something different to those within the community of the written word. Journalism is useful but corruptible. Marketing is a sell-out, a place for people to go when they're getting started or don't know how to move forward. Fiction writing, it seems, is the purest form of the craft for many; I know that's what I used to think.

Writing professionally has changed the way I think about writing, the way I write, and so much more about my life. For all the rest of you who live with the near drug-addiction-like pull of words in your life, here are the five things I've learned about writing since I started doing it professionally.

No Form of Writing is Better Than Another
This is something you learn really quickly when you've got hands in multiple cookie jars. My day job sees me writing a huge volume of marketing material for a wide variety of businesses. My freelance work has me ghost-writing creative pieces and translating work from language A to language B. In this type of setup, you quickly realize that no form of writing is "better", any more noble, than another. In the end, writing well is all that matters.

You Really Do Get Better
When I first started doing this whole thing, I wondered if I'd ever get better. Will I ever understand how to use a semi-colon? Will I become better at tying beginning and end together? The answer, it turns out, was a resounding yes. It might take your editor giving you a little tough love, but in the end, you will be much better than you were. As far as I can tell, this part never ends.

You Can't Trust Writers
Writers of all types make their living off telling a stories, real or constructed. Even non-fictional work is presented in a light that best suits the author's story. When you spend enough time weaving threads together into your own narrative, you quickly find that you can do that just as well on the page as you can off. The more evil writers, the Bill O'Reillys of the world, will take full advantage of this superpower. Though I hate to say it, you can't trust writers.

A Good Writer Can Do Something with Nothing
For a long time, I held the belief that it was the subject that gave a finished piece its pizzazz. In the end, though, it's what's written around the subject. Having written now on everything from ramen to bow-ties are cool (redacted so I don't violate any NDAs), I can say that anything can be made interesting when a good writer takes it on.

Payment Pales in Comparison to the Craft
In the earliest days of getting paid for words, I thought that I should just pump out whatever I could, as fast I could. Eventually, unless it is just a job to you, this sort of mentality fades. Instead of focusing on how much you're getting paid for something, you focus on how well you're doing something. (Note: Translation is an absolute exception to this rule) This mentality might be why so many of us are broke for a while.

What have you learned through your own writing experience?



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Monday, November 25, 2013
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A Sap Covered Invitiation


Though my days are spent writing, a vacation getaway here, a recipe there, every so often I feel the gentle breeze of pine sap brush ever so lightly across the tip of my over-pronounced nose. It's strange, to say the least; after all, I sit in a room lacking windows, and there are no conifers for a few blocks around my office. Perhaps, then, some form of winter magic beckons me to play?

What do you want with me, Lords of Winter? What would you have me do when my livelihood depends on these letters, linked together, as they are, by purpose and meaning? Should I drop everything to frolic in your falling children, unique to the finest detail? 

Well, I'm certainly beginning to think so. At last, your Douglas Fir-infused aura has weakened my resolve. No longer can I distract myself with a mug of black energy. No longer can I ignore your summons in favor of a lightsaber-wielding avatar. 

I'll close the screen now, shut off the phone that is a constant reminder of things I don't truly need to do, and I'll meet you on the hill. Please, however, keep in mind that I've been away for a while. My belly has swollen, and my legs resemble hams, but I'll try my best to keep up with you; your snowfalls, your woodland denizens, and your constant winds of winter's change.



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Sunday, November 24, 2013
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You're Looking the Wrong Way


When we are defeated,
it's often a surprise
to find that the way forward
is simply to raise our eyes. 

It's too easy to look backward,
focusing on everything you regret.
It may be trite, but the best,
well, you haven't experienced it yet.

Looking back on the past can be smart,
but ultimately, it's a rouse.
An excuse to hold yourself back,
instead of a chance at a life you choose.






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Saturday, November 23, 2013
Friday, November 22, 2013
30 Days of Prose: Day 20: The Ninth Was Right About Cardiff


The Ninth Was Right About Cardiff

Doctor Who Tardis flying through space
Markwiggy's 'The Flight of the Tardis'
Source:http://www.wallpapergate.com/wallpaper21197.html
Cardiff, Cardiff, you're ever the fool.
I write you by day, by night I dream of you.
Cardiff, Cardiff, at least four hours a day,
I dream of never writing of you,
not for free and not for pay.

I'm sure you're a lovely city, despite all accounts.
The ninth thought you terrible, but the Doctor lies, I'm forced to recount.
If you would quit haunting me where I work, where I live,
I'd be so much more likely, more ready to forgive.

But Cardiff, Cardiff, cause of my pain,
when Monday comes you'll just wound me again.
I'll write of your charms, though I'm told they're few,
and I'll suffer sickness when you come into view.






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Thursday, November 21, 2013
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
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Vale Amicum

I remember thinking, once, that you were like a father to me. Of course, I had my own, as so many others do. The thing is, well, at the time I knew you, I hardly knew myself. More often than not I wore the mask of the fool; seems I thought stupidity and arrogance were better traits than understanding and knowledge. I know that now, but it didn't seem to matter to you then. 

I remember the days spent slinging winter revelers down a mountain; you got me a job that I hated but that's besides the point. You knew I needed something more than sunless days spent in front of a computer screen, World of Warcraft intravenously pumping into my system in the same amounts it was poisoning your own flesh and blood. I lost touch with him, with you, and I went away to college.

I remember five years or so later, seeing you at a stop sign. Well, truth be told it was a blinking light and you pulled out in front of me. I cursed you with all the expletives I could muster, guilt seeping in as you nodded toward me in apology. I don't think you realized who I was that day, but once I remembered you, a friend, a man who had done so much for me in rougher years, I wished I'd had a second to say hello instead of a fleeting half-reunion filled with sailor spittle.

Here we are; more years have passed. I hadn't seen you until your name flashed across my screen. Gone. After a separation of time amounting to years, we're too often given to think that feelings fade, that memories and gratitude somehow grow stale. Yet, as my arms began to tremor and images of the pain of someone I once called brother erupted effortlessly, I realized that your impression was lasting, though I hadn't given it any real thought. Not until now. Not until the things I say fall on eternally deaf ears.



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Tuesday, November 19, 2013
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The Pitch

What should I say?
What do you want to hear?
I've got an idea, but
to you it may sound queer.

Here are my qualifications,
though admittedly they're few, but
I've got this really great idea
to share with you.

This man who lives down the way,
he spends his life singing.
He hasn't any money and he lacks smarts,
but he sings true, to that life he's clinging.

No?
Well, that's fine; you see,
I've got one more.
By this point you might be impatient,
but let me try for the score.

There's this woman
she's opened a shop.
It sells soup and sandwiches and...
"stop?"

What should I say?
What do you want to hear?
I thought these were great ideas,
but they don't belong here.



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