Conducted over Email by Gary Miller

Hello Floodmarkers, I had the pleasure to ask some questions to Jamie Hoang, author of Blue Sun, Yellow Sky. A description of the plot of the novel: 

Hailed as “One of the best technical painters of our time” by an L.A. Times critic, 27-year-old Aubrey Johnson is finally gaining traction with her work. But as she weaves through what should be a celebration of her art, a single nagging echo of her doctor’s words refuses to stay silent—there is no cure. In less than eight weeks Aubrey is going blind.

Traveling on a one-way ticket around the world with childhood friend Jeff Anderson, Aubrey is in complete denial. But a blindfolded game of tasting foreign foods in China jolts her into confronting the reality of her situation. So begins her quest.

In this adult coming-of-age story, Aubrey struggles to make sense of her crippling diagnosis. But on her journey she finds a deeper understanding of herself and her life—sometimes fragmented and complex, but always with relentless truth.

1. What are you reading currently?

I'm currently reading TRAIL OF BROKEN WINGS, by Senjal Badani. A marvelous look at the unraveling lives of the adult women who were abused by their father and husband. I thought a story like this might be trite, but I've been surprised so far at how human the book is.

2. What was your process like for writing your novel Blue Sun, Yellow Sky?

I wrote the first draft in 3 months, then spent the next 3 years rewriting. The first draft was really rough and not just in the sense that it was littered with grammatical errors, but the story was all over the place. I didn't have a B-plot and I didn't really know what I was trying to say. It was in the research phase that I really found the backbone of the story. When I was "done" with the book (about a year later) I paid for a story edit and was told that I was a long way from the finish line. The 2000+ edits the story editor suggested seemed daunting at the time, but I took it one edit at a time. And about a year and half later, I had a finished product.

3. What kinds of discoveries did you make about yourself along the way?

The first thing I learned after years of writing in school, was that I still had so much more to learn. Conversely, I also discovered that I knew more than I thought. My life experiences help shape my work, and it is that trust in my gut that really makes the book what it is. The most critical thing I learned was to trust myself. Every time I let a beta reader sway what my gut told me was right, it turned out to be a mistake. Unfortunately, these are time-consuming mistakes but they're part of the learning process and what I got out of it eventually was the confidence in knowing that I should trust my gut.

4. How did you begin writing?

I have always loved telling stories, but it wasn't until I school at UCLA that I really considered it as a career. There I was, a bright-eyed freshman ready to start a career in medicine or pharmacy, when I stumbled into the school of Theater, Film, and Television. I picked up an application thinking I had no chance of ever being accepted and I applied. When I got my letter of acceptance I thought, Oh, crap. How am I going to explain this to my parents? Ha! Even still, I don't think it was a singular moment, but long periods of starting and stoping and then reaching a point where I'd written so much of the book that I just had to see it through. 

5. What is some advice you would give to beginning writers looking to write a book?

Don't get hung up on the perfect first draft. This is the single greatest reason, most people never complete their books. If you can't give yourself the freedom to write a crappy first draft then I hate to say it, but you're going to shoot yourself in the foot before you can even begin the journey. Also, writing is a discipline which means you have to show up consistently. Be it every day or every third Saturday, whatever your schedule allows, but you'll never finish if you continue putting chores and errands before your writing.

6. You mentioned in your promo that you wanted to create a strong female protagonist and what would happen if someone's life is upended by career, relationship or otherwise, what were some inspirations in creating your protagonist?

I was inspired by Cheryl Stayed's novel "WILD." Also, my early twenties were made up of a series of adventures and mistakes for which I am eternally grateful. I hit a low point in life where I found myself complete at a loss for who I was. At the time I had no real career prospects and my only accomplishments were the ones I'd purchased via traveling. It was simultaneously the best and worst time of my life. So when I began writing the book, I wanted to capture that essence, to show that there was beauty in loss and that every challenge can be met with optimism if you look at the situation from the right perspective. 

7. Are there any other projects you are currently working on?

I have two different projects I'm tackling at the moment, but both are in such early stages that I'm not entirely sure what they'll end up being about. 

8. What are some writers that you really admire or love reading?

I don't have authors I admire so much as books that I love. I love reading non-fiction so WILD and IT'S WHAT I DO are two which had a great deal of influence on me recently. I also enjoy a good beach read and Liane Moriarty is fast becoming a favorite. I love books which connect us with humanity. ALL THE LIGHT YOU CANNOT SEE, which happened to also be about a blind girl, was also a favorite this past year. 

9. Do you think it's possible for your book to be filmed?

I would love to see my book on the big screen, but I come from a screenwriting background and I know that purely from a structural standpoint getting to 8 different places in the course of 90-120 minutes is too much for an audience to digest. So, while I think the story can certainly be adapted for the big screen, it wouldn't be a straightforward adaptation. 

Read more on Floodmark from Gary Miller. 

Happy Valentine's Day!

In honor of this unofficial holiday, the Editors here at Floodmark read their favorite romantic poetry as part of our At the Heart Reading Series.

Why did we create this project, you might ask? For a few reasons. First, it was fun. Reading aloud is something we all find interesting. Second, you can gain a lot by reading a poem aloud. It's the best way to get to know any piece of writing. I find reading romantic poetry especially interesting,  because it makes me think about my love life, past and present. It's a wonderful reflective experience. Third, we wanted to get you, our readers, in the mood for romance. Have a special someone? Share one of these poems with them for instant brownie points. We already did all the hard work for you by finding them and reading them. All you have to do is hit "Share" and get onto Facebook to keep these romantic vibes rolling.

You can find this reading series in two places. First, our Soundcloud:

Or, if Youtube vids are more your style, you can check those out here:

Have a happy V-Day, and may these poems help guide you on your romantic exploits!

I’m not a music critic. The closest I’ve come to making music was a music teacher telling me I had perfect hands for Cello. I told my parents and they were smart enough to sign me up for Spanish class instead. I hate criticizing. I find the more I criticize, the less I create. With that being said, I will throw my two cents of no sense into the musical wishing well. I want to give you a prompt to possibly find inspiration to write from. I want you to listen to an album all the way through, by yourself or with a friend. Dancing is optional but encouraged.

I read an anecdote about David Foster Wallace where he walked into a class and put on a record and told the students that he had just discovered something they all needed to listen to. That album was Nevermind by Nirvana and it had come out seven years prior to his statement. I will be completely honest, up until a few years ago I still bought CD’s. I empathize with people struggling to keep up with things. I still had a jewel case in my car and I looked forward to cross country road trips with the slough of albums I had. I had an assortment from Christina Aguilera to Black Flag.  I love the experience of going through an album from beginning to end. I find myself annoyed with people that skip through a song every 40 seconds. I tend to follow the unwritten law of seeing a song through.

I’m always looking for music people are listening to outside of what’s on the radio. I enjoy listening to music people really love. Something they are guilty about. I always thought it was odd to feel guilty about music, of all the things to feel shame about in the world. I find one of my favorite things about being alive is listening to a song someone else loves and feeling more connected to them. Even if I don’t particularly like the song. I found inspiration from my fellow Floodmarkers as Vernon wrote a post about Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Alyssa wrote about Daughter, I will write about Say Anything. 

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I picked this album because I’ve found myself able to relate to the words of Max Bemis for years. I find this album to be a testament to who he is as a person and the making of it is actually something I think everyone should do their research on.

The prompt for this is to listen to an album and I chose one of my all-time favorites, Is A Real Boy from start to finish. Here are some things I found myself particularly drawn to.

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1. I listened to it from beginning to end and found myself comparing it to when I first listened to it and how I’ve listened to it now. Life experience tends to change how words are perceived. One of the songs on the record, “Alive with the Glory of Love” is about his grandparents making it through the holocaust and how their love was the strength they found. 
2. Every song has a bit of dark twisted wit to it.  One of my favorites is, “Every Man Has a Molly,” I could listen to this song over and over and still laugh my ass off. It’s very relatable for anyone who has gone through a break up or some form of rejection and took it too seriously (everyone).
3. I found it easier to think after turning myself into an audience member. Listening to what others have to say centers me. I can think myself into circles and never really get anywhere. Music bursts that bubble. 

Your prompt is to find an album and listen to it all the way through and find some introspection. I listened to this album all the way through. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I have done so and I find something every time. Sometimes it’s an old feeling, an old emotion, something that has been burning for a while that needed the heat turned up. Sometimes all we need is the words of others to accept who we are as individuals. 

“We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey.” 

― Kenji Miyazawa

This is a thank you to people who’ve found the courage to speak up and put their feelings, their thoughts, their fears into some form so that others can relate. This is for the reader that is searching for something they aren’t quite sure they need to hear yet.

I sat down at a bar a while back in Tinley Park to the tune of two dollar tacos and cheaper beer with our fine editor Alli. During the course of the conversation I remarked that I don’t always feel funny and that feels frustrating. I tend to write things that I reread and they appear cynical, miserable, and sometimes scathingly honest. They scare me sometimes. It can be uncomfortable confronting myself at times. I can be at best an optimistic torch carrier of all things alive altogether with this beast of anger and misanthropy flowing through me. It goes beyond a simple duality and feels more like blending a myriad of colors into a bowl of milk and soap. Alli, like any good writer had a way of summing it up and putting me at ease.

“You can only write where you’re at sometimes.”

I will begin by saying that I am not the owner on the manual on combatting depression. I have a tendency to speak in verbose metaphor and lofted language. I’ll try to stray from pretense as best I can. 

I haven’t been the best at handling depression myself, I have found that writing has been a healthy outlet in my life. Writing has been like unspooling a tightly wrapped ball of yarn into an itchy sweater. I’m always uncomfortable with what I’ve done but it feels like an accomplishment.

 When others write where they have been, they help others who are experiencing the same thing. I watched a video about Adam Driver, Kylo Ren in Star Wars, talking to American Troops about his journey from a soldier to a civilian and how reading the thoughts of others in plays and literature helped him transition. I have no combat experience and at best I’ve had a few scars from some well-earned fists mashing my face. I can empathize with struggling to put words to emotions. Having the ability to put words to something incomprehensible can be a powerful tool. The demons that be can be squelched with a sentence, a phrase, a mantra. I remember a story from a while back about a child with autism finding solidarity with a character in Guardians of The Galaxy. I loved that.

 Depression is something altogether fascinating and terrifying to me. It’s like a welcome home party in your child home with a family that isn’t yours. It can feel like being a crash test dummy at times. Opening up about depression can be uncomfortable for all parties, if I’m not mistaken there are people akin to me that have been told to not tell people so as they don’t get “the wrong idea.”

Medication is a devil in itself, like earning your stripes for some you aren’t depressed unless you’re encumbered by medication. It’s as if you can’t wear the pants without that specific belt. 

I will say that I have met people with far worse problems than I ever have. The parable of complaining about the type of shoes you have when others have no shoes is something I believe most of us live by. I believe most of the people on Earth are good people thankful for the lives they have. More often than not when someone admits sadness or depression, they’re looking for some form of help. Often times in moments of kicking a blues jam the words of others tend to put me at ease. Reading and listening to music is not a secret to finding comfort. Exercise. Meditation. The older I’ve got the better I’ve got at dealing with it. 

The varying levels of depression are often a point of contention, an at least for some. We measure our pain like a pyramid, as if it's supposed to be barricaded by a fence. I remember reading about Sylvia Plath a few years back and one of the points of discussion was how someone who was well off could find themselves in such a predicament. As if money was the alleviation of depression. People think differently. For some money means absolutely nothing. The first time I saw Forrest Gump, I was a five year old. I had barely begun learning to ride a bike, losing teeth was my only source of income beside the celebration of my birth once a year. I presume I was heavily selfish for the most part, it’s hard for a child not to be at best a psychopath. I remember having too many toys and fighting with my brother and at times carrying it over into the streets like our house was a circus tent filled with abused animals. Forrest Gump always kills me. I have to make fun of that movie. If I take it seriously it ruins my whole day. I went down into the basement and wrapped myself up in my car city carpet to cry because Forrest Jr. lost his mom. Being confronted with mortality in that manner was something I look back at now with respect. Good storytelling can do that.

I’ve consistently read things that I never knew I needed. At times I’ve been floored and elevated all at once. I’ve found laughter when I needed it and a good cry. 

Maybe you’re like me. At times you’ve felt like sinking. I guess all I can do is say to keep kicking. Keep kicking. Keep floating. Keep fighting. Keep swimming. Don’t fear the sharks, be a shark and you’ll find yourself taking a bite out of something. 

Read more posts by Gary.

I’m going to introduce this article by saying this is the beginning of a thought process. The intentions of this piece is not to provide a well-researched thesis but to provide insight into the process of building a formulated thought. I tend to think and talk to people in a stream on conscious fashion until I find the point. I’ve found that I think as If I’m walking a tight rope with the ability to walk on air like a cartoon at will and If I reign myself in I’ll see the ground and lose all train of thought. It’s like talking to a child at times, curiosity duct tapes the adult in the brain telling me to be quiet. I’m intrigued by how others formulate their opinions so I will share my unadulterated meandering of a musing on the subject of the American folk tale Hero John Henry.

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The storyteller in me might be exaggerating a bit, but the game of telephone is the most important game I’ve ever played. I’m interested in why a story resonates after such a long time. How Greek stories can still find resonance with an audience now. It’s fascinating that the Illiad can be read in high school classrooms and spark interest. Telephone reminds me of the passing down of storytelling. The hallmark game meant to teach grade school kids a lesson about rumors. The rules were simple, someone would say a phrase with the intention of it returning unscathed back to the speaker. Children, being smaller versions of people would find all sorts of ways to muddle the words whether it be intentional or by accident. When I think of telephone I think of oral storytelling and the great American myth.  Oral storytelling is a proud tradition that is entrenched in the marrow of our all too human bones. Storytelling transcends a specific homogenous culture, we find ourselves able to share experience through the tale of another. My mind is currently on people, specifically stories driven by the hero. 

Some people and events have a way of taking on a life of their own, I’m no different as I tend to exaggerate the heroics of another John: John Elway, from time to time. The Drive lives on in the lore of many native Coloradoans.

 People become stories and the cessation of their time on Earth does not bring an end to their story, perhaps they cease to be the writer and become the words themselves. Words that we, the living, keep alive. Memory is often like telephone. Time is the class clown, mixing up the words with the intention of cracking a smile.  People become something else in memory. Time through the craft of memory allows the dead new life. They become folk heroes, we grab onto ideals we believe they held.

I love the American folk tale. Johnny Appleseed, Paul Bunyan, the Wild West. I’m thinking about John Henry currently. The American folktale that we're all familiar with. The tale says that John Henry competed against a locomotive and was victorious, albeit dying in his victory. I’m going to assume if you’re reading this that you are familiar with the story. I won’t waste words retelling it. The irony of writing about John Henry on a personal computer in a house with heating is not lost on me. I love machines and hate them at the same time. I asked myself why I’m thinking of it and I feel like my fears of becoming obsolete are at the root of it. I grew up watching the Terminator and The Matrix. I can’t help being a little bit afraid of being replaced by a robot cashier that can do my job. Part of me wonders about a robot lawyer team defending a robot for attacking another robot and I’m on the sidelines watching. I fear not doing anything. I like screwing up and learning.

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 The American folkloric hero John Henry is one that I’ve found myself drawn to my entire life. The earliest memory of being involved with school play involved me wielding a hammer made from construction paper and swinging away at similarly constructed steel spikes into a carpet railroad.  Whre I’m at mentally is that I’m all at once wanting to disconnect and connect at the same time. I love being around people. Absolutely love it. But at times it feels best to crawl away. To get away from constant movement. I feel like John Henry at times. In competition against a machine to prove that I can win. The machine doesn’t falter, it does not get tired, but it cannot replace me. Of course It can replace the work I do but I feel like there may always be a sense of an uncanny valley. There is something too sleek in efficiency to ever be human. The lesson I get now is different than what I first received as a kid. I don’t look at the story as a tale of machismo about mighty hammer wielding hero. The defeat of our heroes reminds me of my own obsolescence. At one point I will cease to provide a service to a community. I will cease to be a working part. Something or someone will replace me. I know I am not special. While I may be a protagonist in my story, I like the role of an ensemble member, loner, background charcter, narrator, and observer. Before I get too Shakespearean, I’ll get back to John Henry and wrap it up. The quirks people have. The character of a person. John Henry is synonymous with his hammer. The hammer was a part of him. Finding out what role you have in a community feels like being presented with the gift of a tool. The hammer if you will. Hammering away is an expression I’ve heard time and time again. The world is full of nails. I have to wield the hammer and swing away.

 The experience of getting to know someone over time. It’s like building a railroad, it takes building a railroad tie over time. People have their own hammers. I’m often reminded of the lives of people around me that exist in objects, in art, in small conversations. The value I find in John Henry is the worth of those around me. There are people in my life that fascinate me, captivate me, and exist in my mind through memories and imagination. I think of conversations I’ve had and didn’t have, tip toeing between illusion and fact. My mind plays telephone with me daily, every second I find myself creating folk tales of people.  I just don’t want to get the phrase wrong.

Looking for your next Gary Miller fix? Why not try out his three prompts that will help you build character. And characters. 

1. Take time to go to the biggest, busiest place you can. Picture a mall. Find someone that interests you and follow them. Seriously, follow them. Ask yourself questions about them and observe them. Write down what they did and create a character and the why. Do this again for another person and imagine if they met or if they knew each other. The relationship is up to you. Write a short story about it.

2. Give yourself a year. Pick any year. Find someone born in that year and someone who died in that year. What makes them who they are? Make a top ten list of what made you pick them.

3. Pick someone from your life you admire and write down why you admire them. Then pick someone from your life you absolutely despise and why. Write them having a conversation as to why they both are right in their ways.

Your life is my story. Give me your soul and let me write it.
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Did you dig this prompt? You can find all of Gary Miller's work on Floodmark by clicking here. 

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. A man watches a television with nothing on it. He sits waiting for the remote to figure out what he wants to watch. His thoughts wander into a bar and with sign language he demands a drink, the bartender in his brain gives none. He sits there in his mind without a drink, thirsty and alone. What’s a guy got to do to give himself a drink. The ghost of his first pet pops up and haunts him.

I know, you’ve heard it before. We’ve all been there.

“Hello, Gary”.

The hamster looked irritated.

“I’m a guinea pig”

The guinea pig looked irritated.

“Remember me?”

How could I forget Tunnel Thunnel. I was four years old when I goaded my mom into bringing you home. Much like a baby-less couple seeing another frolicking couple with an infant, cuteness lays waste to practicality. The baby, the puppy, the kitten, the guinea pig. Their cuteness like a slowly eroding masquerade to the fact they need others to clean up their messes.

I thought I buried you in a shoebox in the backyard.

“Oh, you did. But I never forgot. I bottled up my anger and shook it up for years. It’s finally ready to be opened, hombre. I got sick and I died. Remember that crust around my eyes and the constant sniffling?”

I could never forget the constant sniffling and the sick ring of crust around Tunnel Thunnel’s eyes. It kept me up at night once before I quickly forgot and played Nintendo. I do remember how It looked as if he had perpetually been waking up from a sleep after working a nightshift at a waffle house.

“I’ve come to give you a sickness. You will suffer and you will die, as I have”.

Why not let life take its course, it's terminal anyways.

“Don’t pull that faux-lectual stuff on me, hombre. No, you will pay for what you did.”

Since we're on the subject of life and death. In my defense, I was only four, I probably shouldn’t have been responsible for a life to begin with. You should have been a rock. I think I killed every Tamagachi pet I had, too. Sometimes with a hammer. Oh, yeah, I got a couple rabbits killed by some cats, too. Kicked the fence and then cats got in. I think you should take this up with my parents. I’m starting to think that’s where the real problem is. They raised me poorly. The village as well. The whole village failed to cultivate me into the idiot I am, I did that myself.

“The buck stops with you big guy, you named me after all.”

That was also another thing I definitely should not have been responsible for. I’m not good with heaps of pressure put on me. Tunnel Thunnel was the first thing that came to mind.

“What does Tunnel Thunnel even mean? Why? All the other guinea pigs in guinea pig hell have better names.”

You ended up in hell? I’m sorry to hear that. How do you get into guinea pig heaven?

“One must be sold as food in Peru. Specifically Peru. It’s kind of a Valhalla thing. You go up to guinea pig heaven and suck on the water bottle of the great giving cage all day.”

I’ve ate pig pig before.

“I taste the same.”

I wish I ate you instead. What’s guinea pig hell like?

“Guinea pig hell is like Utah”.

I’ve never been to Utah.

“You’re missing out. Great skiing.”

I don’t ski.

“Snowboard?”

Nope.

“You’re from Colorado and you don’t do either? Are you stupid?”

Woah!

“Sorry, didn’t mean to call you the S-word”

You said you’re wrong.

“You can tell tha-wait a minute, I came here to kill you!”

Honestly nothing happened. I pretended to be dead to get Tunnel Thunnel to leave me alone. A guinea pig attack feels like cuddling with a baby. Cuteness always wins, I tell you.

I would change a million diapers if it meant a baby stayed a baby forever. They can scream all they want, I don’t sleep anyway and I scream louder and prouder.

“Are you dead?”

No.

“Give it time. Life takes a while to end.”

I began to wear trashbags to soak in the heat. If I looked sick maybe he’d leave me alone. I forget who said it, but, “fake it until you make it.” That had to have been something Gandhi said on the salt march.

“Are you dead yet?”

Nope.

“I’ll come back when you’re dead."

At this point I was signing up for every single 5K I could find. There is a 5K to promote 5K awareness coming up in January. It’s in Boston. California. Small neighborhood of Boston in East Los Angeles, California. America. This country.

“Why aren’t you dead? I don’t understand. I spit in your food. I gave you the hamsterdances.”

I thought you said you were a guinea pig?

“I am. But this virus plagued me.”

I’ve ate shit before not a big deal.

“”I said spit.”

Same thing.

“You are a sick human being.”

I’ve got to be honest, I think you just have a shitty immune system. That, or you’re just a pussy.

“This isn’t fair. You should be dead.”

Perhaps we were meant to learn something today.

“What’s that?”

Human beings and hamsters.

“Guinea pig.”

Whatever. Perhaps we are meant to lose something we care about to understand what it’s like to lose. I cried like a baby at your funeral.

“You did?”

For days, actually.

“I didn’t know that.”

It’s ok.

“Well, I feel like a jerk.”

Don’t be so hard on yourself. You died on my watch, I’ll die on time’s watch.

“Time widdles us down to the bone, doesn’t it?”

We paused for a minute to think. We then realized one of us should say something. I took the first step.

Do you like Time travel?

“DO I!?”

Want to watch The Terminator and Back to the Future trilogies and pretend their all connected?

“You said 'they're' wrong.”

You did two.

“You’re a heck of a guy, guy.”

We watched and watched until he grew painfully bored and yearned for the salt water lakes of guinea pig hell. I’ll never forget Tunnel Thun--

Dukes is on.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. A man learns to forgive himself for the guilt of his first pet by suppressing his emotions and burying it down into his psyche and watching TV, like a man.

****

Gary Miller is currently a Chicago based artist. He is originally from Denver, a product of two humans, male and female making poetry with their bodies. Gary is a mile above sea level at all times and loves to get lost before being found. He's been lost in places all over the country and would love to continue to do so. Gary can be found at his website http://garranceisgreat.wix.com/garymillerknows to keep up to date on what is making him lose his mind.

Haaaaaaaaaaaaave you met Gary?

Whatta guy.

You might remember those big, bright, provocative blue eyes from two previous posts here on Floodmark: "A Rambling On Writing" and "Sir Gary Miller Rides Again". You might also remember both the knife and the shaving cream too --- though likely as the least interesting part of his posts. If you haven't read it yet you should detour and click over there so that Gary Miller's words can make sweet, sweet, hilarious love to your eyes. You're welcome.

Anyway, today you're in for a treat: brand spankin' new work from Gary, along with three prompts. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll want to marry him and then divorce him and then marry him again. All in a days work, Mister Miller. Let's get started. 

Prompts 

1. Place yourself in the shoes of a family member at least one generation ahead of you. Freewrite on their life- what were they doing? What was their view of the world? What was happening at that time in history? Do some research (aka, call your mother) if you need to.

2. Illustrate the fullest extent of your family's history in a poem. Bonus points if you use a form! (Extra million bonus points if that form is something circular like a villanelle.)

3. Write a letter to a family member, imagining that they are the same age you are now. What should they do differently? What should they know that they don't? 

Gary Walking His Walk

Gary was so kind as to provide an excellent example of Prompt #3. Are ya'll ready for this?

The real question is: how did you not see Space Jam coming from a mile away?
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Hello April,

I heard your favorite song on the radio and I thought of you. It’s this song called Iris by a band you haven’t heard of from a movie yet to be made. It’s kinda like Sleepless in Seattle with Nicolas Cage as an angel. For the rest of my life I’ll hear it and it will give me comfort knowing that it brings you that feeling as well. Music has that way of taking people away for a while. I heard it and thought of you at my age. Young, married, raising a child, struggling to make ends meet but doing so. Living the life. I imagined you like me with a full head of steam billowing through life. Feistier, not yet tamed by the doldrums of raising insanity manifested in flesh, bone, and water. We're mostly water, isn’t that comforting that I paid attention in school. I paid pennies at a time, but still I made it.

Where should I start?

There’s really no protocol for talking to your mom from the past. Besides Back To The Future. I’ll continue to speak in terms of movie references. I have you to blame for that. I have you to blame for seeing my first R rated movie too. Joe Pesci was the bomb in Casino.

Congratulations are at hand, you kept me away from sharp objects, child molesters, hand grenades, dolphins, Dauphins, and pornography.

Mostly.

Speaking of child molesters, it’s October in my time! You’re going to dress me as a cow for Halloween!

Is that a fat baby joke?

You go by Mom, but at this point in your life you are 22 and I feel like you deserve an April still. I’ll refer to dad as John as well.  I’ve always enjoyed your name. April Dee Martinez-Burkhart. You relished having the same initials as your grandmother Alice. Alice’s middle name Denverine, I don’t know if I could get away with calling my kid that if I ever decide to pull the trigger on that lifetime investment. I could name my son John Denver Miller. A daughter Joan Rivers Miller. I’m hoping for daughters. They have cooler names. I admire you April, you have conquered two of my rational fears: parenting and marriage. For that I salute you.

You’re going to get real good at this mom thing. It’s impossible to imagine now, but it’s really not that hard. You’ll get to a point around the time I’m 9 where you’ll have me making my own lunches, in a year I’ll be babysitting myself. I have fond memories of pulling out a loaf of bread out of a lunch bag and a jar of peanut butter and making my lunch in front of other kids at school. In a few years at this time of year you will have another Miller boy. He’s awful. Spent 10 years in juvenile hall and he sells heroin to orphans. I don’t know how to explain this but he also has three nipples. You can’t win them all April. If we could meet at this point I’m sure we’d have a lot to talk about.

As for me, well, congratulations!

You raised a Doctor! More or less a doctor, but a doctor.

Besides bounty hunting, being an astronaut, and running a wood sign glitter emporium, the medical profession is bringing in most of the bills. There is this show that will come out called E.R., I’ll basically be Clooney. He’s been on the Facts of Life, you’ll remember him. Goose from Top Gun will be in it too, John will make sure to mention that every single episode.

Do you like Skol Vodka?

Nobody does?

Ok. I’ll keep that to myself then.

This is as trying for me to understand as, well, the only handbook I had to guide me was Back to the Future.

I never knew you as a “cool” mom. I would say you were my first adversary in this world. A khaki wearing, home decorating, Soccer mom. I spent most of days with you until I was old enough to watch myself and my brothers. I knew you quite well back in those days. You stood in the way of a lot of fun as the first antagonist in my story. The lone roadblock to sucking down as much high fructose corn syrup infused goodness as I could find, the stickler who would never let me throw rocks at cars. As my world grew bigger and my perception changed, so did your appearance to me as well. You became one of my closest friends and the first person in my life to openly talk to me about the Indian Spice Trade. That’s what they call the birds and the bees in the future.

I guess I’ll take your advice and be honest.

I’m not a doctor, an astronaut, or a wood sign glitter emporium owner. The bounty hunting thing is always on the table though. I am a millionaire though. That’s true.

I’m sure you’re curious about future events.

Everyone is dead.

Besides that, life is awesome.

I implore you not to smack me with a wooden spoon right now, I’m only kidding.

My heart breaks watching you go through hell on a daily basis. I grew to no longer see you as my parental adversary, but a human being. A human being rife with wants, dreams, pains, failures, regrets, joys. I grew to see myself in you, dad, my brothers, and people I’ve come across. I can handle my own pain, I like the idea that it’s something I truly own in this world that nobody else gets. I don’t mean that in a melodramatic sense. No one person in this world holds that monopoly on pain, to a certain extent I choose not to believe in a hierarchy of pain.  I’m not ignorant enough to believe I can understand what someone dying of hunger feels but I can feel angry about it and I can do something about it. We are gifted with scars. Pain is crushing when we watch it happen to a loved one, we feel helpless, not able to take it away from them. It’s like trying to grab onto water, watching it run through the cracks of your fingers. You’ve seen your share of pain, in many shapes and sizes. From the time you were born as a premature baby. The size of a peanut. I’ve seen the pictures of you and I can’t believe anything could be so small. You’ve fought harder than anyone I’ve known just to be alive.

 I wish I could take away your migraines, your seizures. They unfortunately will not go away. I can tell you that at this point in your life you have not yet experienced the ripeness of the love that you will grow. You will not yet get to pluck the fruit of your labor of love. I will hurt you deeply by telling you I hate you. Rest easy and know that I do not understand what I am doing. I’m just a boy. I don’t understand a damned thing, that’s a tough thing to deal with. To have so much love for someone and have it spit in your face. I’m just a boy. I don’t understand a damned thing.

Know that you did it right.

 For a while I’ll forget what your smile will look like. I’ll relish the sight of it, anytime I see your admittedly pitiful dancing it’ll come out. You may or may not notice it but John has this smile that comes out of the side of his mouth when he sees yours.

“Your mom is a cute woman, man.”

I’ll hear that phrase from him the first time the English sentence will make sense in my brain until the time he’s dead. Your marriage will survive tremendous turmoil. Loss of finances, bankruptcy, multiple moves, deaths. Everything life has to throw at you.

Know that you did it right.

I chose to write to you because I am out and about in the world. Worries aside, I am living in Chicago pursuing a passion of mine that will at no point surprise you. Your brothers ruined me for anything else. Thank them.

I am in my own definition happy. I am never bored and I am constantly in a state of growth. There is never a dull moment.

My advice for you is to pawn me off a little bit more. Uncle Jimmy could use more of me in his life.  Go out and explore. I’ll be alright, I promise. I know you were always there but I wish you took even more time for yourself. I took care of my brothers pretty well. Ask them when you get a chance to meet them.

I heard you were a hell of a party animal, I’ll have a couple cold beers for you and John when I see the mom and dad I’m used to.

Before I forget.

Fuck.

You can’t wash my mouth out anymore I’m too strong for you.

Love, 

Gary

Gary Miller is an actor, writer, comedian, and director originally hailing from Denver. He took a midnight train going anywhere and ended up in the Midwest along the banks of the Mississippi. He can be found @marygiller where all the bird chirp. You can check out one of of his original movies, "Bob Mazooka: Fun Time Action Hour for Kids" by clicking here. You will not regret it.