Going pro

I know, I know, I haven't posted in forever. Deal with it.
If you want to read what I've been writing, check out The Sojourn, where I am the sports editor. But that, along with school and my job at IWU's radio station, make for not a whole lot of me time to write down my thoughts here.

But, click below for a couple articles that were published in a local Marion newspapers. I'll warn you though, there's a paywall, so if you don't have a subscription to the Marion Chronicle-Tribune, you can only read my lead. But click anyway.

http://www.chronicle-tribune.com/news/chick-fil-a-opens-at-iwu/article_49998296-efe1-11e0-adc1-001cc4c002e0.html?success=1

http://www.chronicle-tribune.com/news/dr-jim-lo-thrives-as-iwu-students-spiritual-leader/article_e750e616-fc64-11e0-833b-001cc4c03286.html

Talk is Cheap, and so is Writing.

When I say "cheap," I'm not talking about how much it pays. To be perfectly honest, I'm kind of banking on some poor soul (or I guess a rich one) paying me a decent amount to write and talk. But that's not for a while.

Let's talk about today, shall we?

Or better yet, let's not talk. How about we actually get out and do things, meet people, have adventures, show we care about each other, and live life the best way we know how.

I have spent far too long just speaking, just writing. And whether or not there was really anything behind my words, I haven't been doing enough living. I had good intentions, but that wasn't enough. So you know what I'm going to do right now? I'm going to stop writing, and I'm gonna live.

Ok, I'm actually gonna go to sleep. But hey, that's a part of living too.

The Untitled Post

It's no secret to anyone who's seen me in the last few days that I'm going through a rough time. Really rough.

But I'ma be ok. Excuse my slang. But I think now is a good time to be real. I hide behind my written words so much, it's time I stop that.

It's gotten so bad that when I started to write this, I spent far too long trying to figure out how I could tie it into some sort of sports metaphor.

But here's the thing: Sometimes you don't need a pretty lead. Sometimes you don't need an interesting anecdote. Sometimes you don't need to use perfect AP Style.

Because this is one of those ever-increasing times where I have life put in perspective for me. I don't need writing. I don't need bylines. I don't need prestige. I don't need that perfect job.

I just need those people in my life who are dear to me, and who say I am dear to them, and really mean it. Those who stick around, pray for me, talk with me, text me, call me, skype me, write me. Those people I can always lean on, and then turn around and let them lean on me.

This is one of those times when I could care less about grammar, or how interesting this post is, or how many hits I'm going to get.

Because this post has but one purpose: To thank all of you have been there for me. I can save a Word document. I can read the next chapter later. But I can't take people for granted and put them on the back burner and expect them to be there just when I need them. I can't treat people poorly for selfish reasons and then throw a woe-is-me pity party. I should give to people what they've given to me; and more if I can.

It's time I gave back.

7---12

Here We Go Again

The newspaper I am the sports editor for will see its first issue of the year drop tomorrow. I'm really excited for it, but I can't really sit back and enjoy the feeling. Like a baseball player who just hit a home run and admires the ball flying through the air. Like a kick returner watching himself take it to the house on the big screen. Like a basketball player turning to the crowd after nailing a three-pointer.

I can't do any of that.

It's like what coaches say after winning big games: You can't celebrate it because there's another one tomorrow, or next week.

Here's how I'm looking at it: This was game one of the World Series. I won. At least I think I did. I didn't get out without injuries though. I'm beaten, bruised, and very tired. But there's no time for recuperating, because I have to be up early tomorrow and get ready for game two. And this isn't a best-of-seven series. I still have several hundred games left before I can take home the trophy.

That is, if I win at all.

No Turning Back

If you're good at something, never do it for free. Please, do not discount these words just because they were said by a psychotic fictional serial-killer. If anything, that should increase their legitimacy.

I take this saying to heart, because I made a career out of the only thing I do well. But today, I don't have any words, so where does that leave me?

Broke.

Broken.

The urge to write comes from every emotion you can think of: boredom, anger, hurt, depression, laziness... hunger. At least, I think it did before today. So now I'm just typing whatever words pop into my already-sleep-deprived head as they come to me.

The thing I secretly love about writing is that backspace button. If you only knew how many times I use it during a blogpost or story...

I like the backspace button because of how many times I mess up. I kinda wish there was a backspace button for all the mistakes I make. Because then it's so much easier to come up with a crystal clear picture of what I'm really trying to say. A much happier ending. Without that button on my keyboard, my articles would be jumbled and confusing. You might see what I'm going for, but why hassle with all the slips of a keystroke?

Maybe I should spend less time writing and more time trying to invent that ever-elusive CTR-Z button for life.

The Calm Before the Storm

Earlier I mentioned one of my favorite phrases. "Ain't nothing left to do but to do it."

As a writer, sometimes I think I do a little too much talking (or typing, as it were) and not enough doing. I'm working on this. And this summer taught me a lot about that concept. But I know that this semester will test my ability to "do" more than ever before.

I may be concerned about juggling classes and jobs. I may be unsure if there are enough hours in a day to get it all done. I may go into this with a lot already on my mind. I may already be sleep-deprived. But am I scared to death? Yeah, pretty much.

That doesn't matter though, because I'm going to do it. I'm going to do it all. And I'm going to do it all well. I'm not one for overconfidence, or any kind of confidence for that matter. But I'm sure of two things: First, that I'm going to try my best (because what else can I do?). And secondly, that it's going to be interesting.

The Best Advice?

Ok, so maybe this wasn't the best advice I've ever been given, but it's certainly up there. And it made me really think:

When life gives you lemons...
Make apple juice and confuse the heck outta life.

That's exactly what I'm looking to do this year. I have so much on my plate and I'm already so stressed about it, even though school hasn't even begun. At the end of the year, I want to look back and ask myself "how the heck did I do it?"

I'm no Superman, but with the right dedication, time management, and support, I know I can do everything on my 27-page to-do list for this semester. I've talked about it enough, and as I like to say: The only thing left to do is to do it.

Short and Sweet

Anyone else ever feel it? Like there's just something you're meant to be, something you're supposed to do no matter what? Or maybe it's a calling. Not even necessarily something you want to be, or do. Even something you resist with everything you have.

Much to your dismay, no matter what you do you can't escape it. It follows you, no- it chases you through life. Stepping with you everywhere you go. So close that you know it's always there. You know it's there too. Only you try to ignore it. Usually you can, but it always comes back, during your darkest hour.

Lie to yourself all you want, but it will always be there. Over and over again will it haunt you until you confront it. Very few have the courage to do so. Even those who seem to have it all together might even struggle with this. You know you can't get anywhere until you face it, but it's just so hard. Or maybe if you just keep pushing it deeper and deeper, it'll go away. Under everything you pile on top of it, maybe it'll just go away.

Congrats if you've got it figured out. Because I certainly don't.

Imagine Me Rapping This:

Roses are red, violets are blue.
Freshman year's over, now onto year two.
It's gonna take pain, it's gonna take trust,
And with more than three jobs, hard work is a must.

Last year was a test, one I think I did pass.
Although I just about lost it in every single class.
But now college stepped up its game, as I must do as well,
Oh by the way, I have two textbooks to sell.

I'll start off the year, before it even begins,
Teaching freshmen all day, until NSO ends.
But don't forget about training, in three different ways,
That's how I'll spend each and every of my next seven days.

And then it's onto the classes, and onto the work,
You can bet I'll do it all, with my *ahem* "special" quirk.
It's a good thing I'm done with all my room arranging,
I'm just glad to be finished with all of IWU's "world changing."

And then I'll start both my jobs, or continue, I'd say,
Working for the radio station, and Sojourning all day.
I'm the new sports editor, and news director also,
You can bet your bottom dollar that Elder's where I will go.

There will be plenty to do, this I know for sure,
But I'll do it all with a smile, 'cause I have much to smile for.
And I'll make time to be with people, this is without a doubt,
There will be so many good times, when I'm just hanging out.

This will be a year of growth, this will be a year of change,
By the end I'll be different, I might even act my age.
But when I'm through I'll be better, for the things that I've done,
And the people I've met, and because of the fun.

Well boys and girls, that's all the words I've got,
Will I get sleep this year? I'm thinking I'm not.
So with my laptop in hand, and my fingers all steady,
Just one thing to say: get 'cho popcorn ready.

One Step Back, Two Steps Forward

I get stuff done early. It's kind of my thing. For instance, during my first semester at college, a five-page paper was assigned in English class one day. We had more than two weeks to work on it, but I decided to stay up until five o'clock the next morning... finishing it.

Over the last month, I've written 40 pages of jock talks (one-minute monologues to be read on my weekly radio show) that will last me almost all of this semester. Don't believe me? I have a 10,000-word Document that will back me up.

Another thing I've done this summer is write six editorials for the sports section of the newspaper this year, way ahead of time.

The main thing that I try to do ahead of time is get experience. I started working for a newspaper at age 15. I was on staff for my college's newspaper before I was even a college student. I was hired as the sports editor for that same paper before I turned 19.

But you know what Peter Parker's uncle says: "With great power comes great responsibility."

Not all of this experience has been something I enjoyed writing in my journal though. There have been several times where I have been humbled as a journalist and a writer. And some experiences where I have just been outright wrong.

One thing I have always told myself is that I'm just paying my dues. I said this mostly on the cold, rainy nights in high school while covering soccer games or track meets.

Now I say it on the all-too-frequent occasions when I mess up.

But, as I always try to convenience myself, better to learn now and get those mistakes out of the way while I'm still young.

Is it ever good to make mistakes? Normally, my knee-jerk reaction will be a resounding "hay-eck no." But after I think about it, maybe it isn't so bad. Especially when you're young.

Personally, I learn more from my mistakes than I do successes. Because I remember them more. I taped a less-than-stellar research paper I wrote to my door last year so I would see it every day. It reminded me to work harder and do a better job in the future. Simple as that.

If you think this is just about my career as a sports writer, you obviously need to read my blog more.

I'll say one final thing: I know I make mistakes, and I make them often. But you will never meet anyone who wants to become better after making those mistakes than me. It may take time, but I will right my wrongs, and I'll be glad for my mistakes in the end.

Blast From the Past

Today has been a Sojourn day. It's been a day to plan ahead for the fall sports section, and a day to kick off the year with an article that was just published today. In the midst of much planning and writing and worrying (oh, the worrying) I found an interesting piece I wrote a long time ago. At least, nine months ago seems like a long time.

I quite literally wrote the following editorial in the backseat of my parents' car on the way to my hometown of Cincinnati for Christmas break. It is so weird to read it nearly a year later, and see how much I've matured both as writer, student, and person.



Written on 12/15/10, between 5-9 o’clock p.m., while riding in my car to Cincinnati:

It’s been 108 days. No, this is not some obscure Lost reference. This is the number of days since I first stepped foot on the beautiful campus of Indiana Wesleyan University to be a full-time student. Since then, I have only left for the occasional midnight Wal-Mart run and a long weekend for Thanksgiving. But now, I’m in a green 2001 Chevy Prison Cell, speeding at 70 miles per hour to an extended vacation back to the place I once called home.

But IWU is my home now.

Driving off campus knowing that I won’t be back for 23 sunsets-over-the-student-center is a terrible feeling. As soon as the back tires hit Interstate 15, I am hit with depression like a coffee addict when McConn closes. I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself. I’m as clueless as a freshman on the first day of NSO.

Rest assured, tomorrow morning I will roll out of bed and start getting ready for my 9:25 World Changers class. Then, when I realize that class will not be taking place (hooray!), I will text a friend and ask if they would like to go to lunch at Wildcat for one of their legendary burritos. When night falls, my ping pong hand will start to itch and I will try to head over to the game room in the student center for a couple rounds. Finally, dejected, an hour before I remember to check in for curfew I will consider going to fatmeal and drowning away my depression in some lukewarm scrambled eggs.

Sure, go ahead, make fun all you want. Maybe I love the ‘WU a little too much. Maybe letting out a heavy sigh after seeing signs that said I was leaving Marion is a little extreme. Maybe the car ride “home” is a little too early to start the countdown to coming back. But maybe, just maybe, I’ve found my favorite spot, the happiest place on earth, my own personal Disneyworld.

I’m not saying that it’s perfect here by any means. It would be ignorant to say that even a place as great as IWU doesn’t have its flaws. Sometimes I just feel like dancing and chugging some Naked Juice, and this university does not quite encourage that. But despite its blemishes (which are not nearly as numerous or injurious as they are at other colleges; think about that the next time you complain about the puke tree outside Elder) I can honestly say that this place makes me happy. The people here, the faculty, the traditions and the overall atmosphere simply make me smile like a red package claim slip in my mailbox.

I’m almost “home” now. The roads are becoming more familiar, but somehow less friendly. I may be leaving behind classes, homework and stress, but the farther I get from IWU, the more thankful I am that I will probably be here all summer.

Graduating is gonna be tricky.

Not Your Typical Guy

I know my title is sports journalist. And I know my position is sports editor. But I am not your stereotypical sports writer.

When I was younger however, I was. Sports were everything I did; everything I thought about. Which probably explains why I never had a girlfriend until I was 17. I could rattle off statistics like song lyrics, name every first-, second-, and third-string quarterback in the NFL, and give you detailed information about my infamous mock drafts.

It's been years since that was how I thought. I'm not exactly sure what happened, all I know is that before I couldn't live without sports, and now I can. This is not to say I've grown tired of them. I still flip on Sports Center for an hour or so most nights. But I don't need them. My sense of purpose and self-worth is not tied to them.

While I still enjoy playing sports, going to games, watching events, and writing about sports, that doesn't mean my life revolves around football or baseball. I am perfectly capable of having conversations outside of sports, and sometimes I even prefer it. When a friend of mine found out that I was going to be the sports editor at The Sojourn this year, he was absolutely shocked because he didn't even know I liked sports.

This is something I do intentionally. I don't seem like a sports geek because I'm really not one. I don't wear sports jerseys or t-shirts much. I don't really care if you like sports or not- that's not a sticking point for me. If you wanna talk about who has the inside track on the NBA Finals this year, sure I can do that. But if you wanna talk about music, books, art, movies, feelings, or anything else: I can do that too.

One Step Short of Crazy

Have you ever just known something?

It doesn't make any sense. You can't describe it. God knows you can't explain it. But still, you know it just the same.

Call it a sixth sense. But sometimes it really does happen. There's that indescribable thing inside of you that tells you something is true; something that cannot possibly be true, but you believe it anyway.

You might say it's instinct or just a gut feeling, but what about when it's more than that? Something that you stick to, even when everyone else says it's not true. A conviction maybe?

How about when you're willing to risk anything and everything for this belief? You're safety, health, pride; your future. What do you call it then?

There's nothing to call it. You just know.

Personally, this is a really tough idea for me to grasp. I'm a realist (which is just what pessimists call themselves in public), so I like to have hard evidence before I believe in something or someone. Give me a reason to trust you, then I'll think about it. You need to convince me that something has merit, and then I need to see it for myself before I can count on it.

Needless to say, I'm no fun in a "seeing is believing" debate.

But every once in a while (and by that I mean about three times in my life) I've become so convinced of something without any convincing. I've had proof without being shown any evidence. I've believed without seeing. And because it happens so rarely, I become consumed with it. Not in a serial-killer, newspaper-clippings-taped-to-my-wall kind of way, it's more like the way Nicholas Cage described it in National Treasure:

"One step short of crazy, what do you get?"
"Obsessed," said his stereotypically-goofy sidekick.
"Passionate," came the bold answer.

That's me. Passionate.

There's another line from National Treasure that describes me. When Cages' character is speaking of the oh-so-elusive treasure that he doesn't even know really exists, he drops this gem which is simply perfect for this piece: "I've dreamed it's real... I just wanna know it's not just something in my head or in my heart."

Again. That fits me to a tee.

I guess believing in something against all odds is never going to be easy. And to an extent, all you can do is wait, hope, and pray. But here's the nice thing about knowing something that can't be true: You can have complete certainty with nothing to back it up. You've heard of blind, dumb luck. Well this is blind, dumb hope. Maybe call it faith?

But none of that matters because I know it's going to work out in the end. There's no proof, no evidence; no reasonable reason to believe that everything will be ok, but I believe anyway. Because this WILL work out in the end; everything WILL be ok.

I just know it.

All The... Small Things

I love telling the story of when I visited the Cincinnati Bengals training camp. It was two years ago. I was job shadowing the sports director at a local TV station. I was on the field, Chad Ochocinco was short, an orange mouthpiece almost became my souvenir, I was told to stalk a player for an interview, and many other really cool things that I'd love to tell you about later.

But honestly, the most memorable part of that day was a statement made by a cameraman whose name I don't really remember.

He was talking about all his years recording various sporting events, and offered one interesting insight about America's past time: "Baseball is the only sport where the ball doesn't score," he said. "If a batter hits a home run, what do you tape? The ball going out of the park or the batter crossing home plate?"

This was a tiny piece of knowledge that seemed irrelevant to my journalism career. Hellooooo. Writer.

But then I really thought about it. That realization that Mr. Cameraman (because I'm hardly on a first-name basis with him) had was one that could really only come from years of experience. Once you think about it, it becomes obvious. But to come up with the idea to say it- that takes something else.

I want to be that kind of journalist. I want to see the little things. I want to say things that make others stop and think. Part of that will only come with experience. But part of it will come with willingness and being ready.

One out of two isn't bad.

It's 3:30 In the Morning, I'm Not Coming Up With A Title

In sports, there's an unwritten rule that if an owner or general manager holds a press conference to say that the coach's job is not danger... it means that the coach's job is in danger.

Call it the vote of confidence.

This is a dangerous term in the sporting world. Because usually within a few games of the coach receiving said vote of confidence, he loses his job. I'm not really sure why this happens, but whenever an owner is forced to take the podium during the season, bad things happen.

I think trust is one of those things that shouldn't have to be asked for. The reason why owners have to step up and say that a coach's job isn't in trouble is because there are so many rumors that it is.

The trust should already be there. The owner shouldn't have to publicly state his trust. And as soon as that happens, you know you have a problem.

Purple Shirts, Congragulations, and Monster Trucks.

I've worked a lot of jobs in my days. Ok, maybe not a lot. But more than a couple. These jobs have ranged from sports writer, to media operator, information desk worker, sports writer (again) and more. But really, none of these jobs have required me to be in charge of anyone. Of course, I've had tasks and projects where I supervised, but none of my job descriptions really made me a leader.

That all will change in a big way this fall. In two weeks actually. The first leadership job I have is an NSO Leader. In short, this means I will guide college freshman during their first 48 hours on campus. I'll show them around school, give advice for their first year, and generally introduce them to college life.

On the surface, it may not sound like much. But I'll have a group of a dozen or more kids (some will probably even be older than me) whose start to their college experience is heavily influenced by how well I lead them. I'm freaking myself out just thinking about it.

Next up, I'm the sports editor at The Sojourn. A step up from the staff writer I was last year. In this position, I write a column every week, come up with the stories that will be published, and edit the ones that I have turned in by the writers, as well as help design the page itself.

Me? Edit stories? The guy who has to have spell check the word "ridiculous" almost every time I write it? That's, well... ridiculous. I have ideas and I'm very excited about this year at the newspaper, but that doesn't calm all of my nerves about stepping up into this position.

My third official job for this school year is the news and sports director at the radio station, 94.3 The Fortress. Being on air for the station is easily one of my favorite things to do, and I have confidence in myself that I can do it well. But this year, I will also be responsible for doing daily news updates.

I've already had a taste of what this job will be like, and I know I can do it. But when you throw all of these things together, that's how it will become interesting.

Here's the important part: I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I will love all three of the jobs I am taking on for my sophomore year of college. And I love the people I will be working with as well. If this weren't the case, I wouldn't be able to do it all. But because I take joy in the things I do and the people I am with, it'll make dealing with the sleepless nights and long hours easier to deal with. I'm not saying it's going to be a walk in the park by any means, but I will love every minute of it.

Good, But Not Good Enough

In sports, all coaches want those players who will practice hard. The ones who work harder than anyone else. First-one-to-practice-last-one-to-leave kind of personality. And that's all well and good, but it's not enough.

Case in point: Ever heard of Kevin Kaesviharn?

No, you haven't. And you probably can't even pronounce his name right just by looking at it (CASE-VUH-HARN). This 34-year-old safety is probably selling real estate somewhere, hoping for a series of unfortunate events to strike the secondary of an unlucky NFL team.

After a pedestrian six-year career starting with the Cincinnati Bengals, Kaesviharn signed with the New Orleans Saints, where his stats really started to go south. Disappointing play led to fewer and fewer starts. His tenure with New Orleans was cut short by the team just two years into his four-year deal. One swan song season with the Titans later, and his career was all but over.

During his time with the Bengals, I followed this average player try to do above average things. Listed at 6'1" 200lbs, Kaesviharn only actually fit those measurements wearing long cleats and heavy pads.

He was as ordinary as professional football players get.

However he worked harder than everyone else, even the players who were more talented than him. Check that. Especially the players who were more talented. But working hard could only keep him in the league for so long. His untouchable work ethic only delayed the inevitable, allowed him to cling to his NFL life, make a living for almost a decade, and have some great stories to tell his grandchildren. Eventually the younger, faster, more talented players won out.

There's a moral to this story kids, and watch out- because it's not a happy one: You can work as hard as you want to; as hard as you can. But that's not always good enough.

I could work as hard I as I can to become an athlete, a musician; an artist. And if I put my entire heart and soul into it, I could probably be decent at the last two. But I'd never be great. The same goes for anything else. No matter how much you want something, you may not be good enough to get it.

This scares me, because I'm the type of person that just works hard at everything. I know I'm not the best at anything, so I've got to work harder than everyone else to keep up. I'm a poor man's Kevin Kaesviharn. What if my hard work alone isn't good enough in my jobs, relationships, and everyday life?

There are two ways to look at this. I could get depressed by this thought, or I could let it motivate me even more to avoid finding out sooner if my hard work will fail me.

I like the second option better.

Kevin Kaesviharn played a great career. One that he should be proud of. He shouldn't have amounted to anything. He shouldn't have played ten years in the NFL. But he did. And he did it because he made the best of his situation; he worked for it. Now look at him. He can proudly say he made 479 tackles in the National Football League. That's 479 more than you and I will ever get.

Someday, I hope to tell a story like his. I know it will take a lot of hard work, but I'm willing to do whatever it takes, and I have to be. I may never be anything special, but I'm going to make the best of whatever situation I find myself in.

Bigger Than My Stomach

It wouldn't be completely out of line to say that I had a sheltered childhood. Of course, growing up a homeschooler until age 16 can do that to you. The first year of public (or as I like to call it, "real") high school I fascinated/amused many of my peers with my lack of knowledge in various aspects of normal social topics. The first time I tried to open a carton of chocolate milk at lunch during junior year... well let's just say I had to get help. And it wasn't until finals week of my senior year that I saw the classic Disney movie "The Lion King." A fun fact that astounded my Sociology classmates.

The fun didn't stop there. Once I got to college, I met people from other parts of the country I had never been before. In case you're wondering, unless you're from Indiana, Ohio, Michigan, or Kentucky, I've never been to your home state. There were restaurants to visit (Applebee's, who knew?) more Disney movies to watch (I totally didn't see the end of Mulan coming) and swings to swing on. All for the first time.

There's certain chain of events that usually leads up to me trying one of these simple things for the first time. I'll be hanging out with friends, deciding what to do, and someone will suggest something that I've never done before. I'll casually mention that it would be my first time, and then instantly everyone goes into unshelter-Jeremy mode.

"What movie do you want to watch?"
"I don't care."
"Remember the Titans?"
"Never seen it."
"WHAT??? WE ARE SO WATCHING IT RIGHT NOW."

Or something like that.

Another instance like this happened a couple days ago. The target was a local Mexican restaurant that is very popular. Upon admitting I had never been there, guess what became the group's dinner destination.

But at dinner, I was not the one who proved himself to be the biggest noob at the table. After I mispronounced the word "fajita" in the most embarrassing way, that is.

After having to put a large portion of his meal in a to-go box, one person at the table commented that his 'eyes were bigger than his stomach.' One of the other people at the table questioned this phrase, as he had never heard it before.

Everyone at the table forgot about my articulation error. How had a college-aged student never heard such a common phrase?

Segue time.

I think my eyes were bigger than my stomach over the summer, in terms of the workload I took on for the fall. Three jobs and one class which will require me to be a contributor for the TV station. What the heck was I thinking? And that's not even including that I would like to have some resemblance of a life outside of work and school. I know I will greatly enjoy everything I do this semester, but doing it all at once will stretch me to my limits. I guess that's a good thing.

The important thing is to just keep having fun with everything I do. And be sure to make time for the people in my life who are important to me; myself as well. That way, I'll keep my eyes, stomach, and all other important organs their proper sizes.

And I totally knew how to pronounce "fajita."

Writer's Block

I started writing a story. And it was a good one too. I came up with the idea myself, with a little help from a friend. And after a lot of preparation for the story, I started writing it. Oh boy, did I ever write it. The words came to me so easily, more than ever before. I found myself sitting at my computer for hours and hours, churning out page after page, chapter after chapter. It was almost scary how easy it was. I've always loved writing, but this was new. I was never this excited for a story, it kept my interest for so long. The more I wrote, the more I wanted to write.

Everything was going smoothly. I knew I was going to finish the story, and it was going to be the best thing I'd ever written. The kinda thing that puts everything else I've penned to shame. But then things started slowing down. Words weren't coming to me as easily. I had to fight to come up with even a page. But I did it anyway, and it was worth it. Because I knew that with every page, I was one step closer to finishing the story of a lifetime.

Even with as hard as it was to write, I still loved the story because it was my own, and I had never written anything so special. But it became even more difficult to write, to the point where I would sometimes go days without typing a single word. "This isn't right," I told myself. "If this story is so amazing, then why is it so hard?"

Now, there had been times like this before, even during the early days of writing the story. But it had always still been easy. I just sat down and powered through the difficult pages, and I always made it through. It was still easy. This time was different though.

Which brings us to the present.

As I sit here, staring at hundreds of pages on my computer, I think about what it took to write them, and all the amazing times I had doing it. It's been weeks since I've written anything of value. The most I've done is type a couple pages, only to rip them up and throw them away. Now I wonder if I'll be able to finish the story at all. I want to. God knows, I want to. But it may not be possible. And I'm a little (a lot) scared if I don't. Because then maybe it was all for nothing. I don't want to lose this story because it means so much to me. But I know that I might.

Hopefully I'll be able to finish the story. All I can do now is just keep writing no matter what. Maybe I'll type myself into a corner, and write an ending that comes all too soon. But that fear is not going to stop me from trying. One way or another, I'm finding the end to this story. I may not like it, but I'm finishing what I started.

I just have to.

Decisions, decisions...

I'm a sportswriter. Let's get that out of the way to start with. But I struggle a lot with sticking to just one thing. I was hired on to write sports for my college's newspaper, but often drifted into the news section where some of my favorite (and most popular) articles came from. This year, I'm the sports editor on that same paper, but I have several ideas for non-sports stories. And a blog that was intended to be just about sports occasionally drifts into other, more serious conversations.

This is going to be a little of both.

As much as I love sports, I realize not to take them (or myself) too seriously. Believe me, I used to be that guy everyone hates. The one who eats, sleeps, and breathes sports. But not anymore. I still have that love, but I don't let it define who I am. And I'm a better journalist for it. Keeping a safe (but still close) distance has helped me to overcome biases which crept into my writing before. And now, I can enjoy sports more, because a football game doesn't seem like as much work when it's not everything you do. I can still be a fan.

Above all, using this blog as a personal journal as much as a public forum has helped return me to the reason I love writing; the reason I started in the first place: it's therapeutic to me; it calms my very soul. The first time I really sat down at a computer to write was in January of a very bad year. The Bengals and Broncos (my two favorite teams at the time) had both missed the playoffs by a game. But Denver suffered a far greater loss. Star cornerback Darrent Williams was shot to death outside a club on New Years. The Michigan Wolverines former head football coach Bo Schembechler passed away around the same time. So much stuff like this just kept piling on.

Looking back, I realize how small these "difficulties" were. I would give anything for my heaviest burdens to revolve around people I've never met. But at the time it really mattered. And writing about it was the best way I found to deal with it.

The problems have gotten worse over time; the burdens harder to bear. But I've never stopped writing, and I'm glad I haven't. Because when the going gets tough, I can always flip open my red laptop and start typing what's on my mind. My keyboard has never let me down. I can tell it everything. From the greatest dreams of my heart, to the worst fears of my mind, and even how I really think the Bengals will do this season.

I am, after all, still a sportswriter.

My Midnight Thoughts (in 512 characters or less)

Ok, my midnight thoughts are a little late today. Sue me. All you'll get from this broke college student is next week's laundry money.

Tonight, I have regret on the mind. Both my own personal regrets and the matter in general. I always tell myself not to worry about the past because I can't change it (no matter how hard I try), but here I go- worrying about mistakes I've made.

I think the only way to beat that is by living in a way that I won't regret later. Go all out. Because then I can say I tried.

My Midnight Thoughts (in 512 characters or less)

Here's the deal: It's midnight and I'm updating my blog from my phone, which has a 512 character limit. Now that you understand (and I only have 354 characters left), here we go.

I get excited easily. For those who are around me often, this excitement usually comes with a side of crazy. Right now, I'm excited to go back to my job as a writer, one that I've dreamed of for as long as I can remember. I'm glad it has me excited, because I know I'll enjoy it more. Now all I have to do is get my life in order.

The Write Time

It's a quarter after six o'clock... In. The. Morning. Given the choice, I would never be up this early. But a little thing called work draws me up and out of bed at 5 am occasionally, so I must cope. Today, I sit at a desk, scanning people into a building while it's still dark outside. But who knows? Someday I might have to get up this early for a job that's more in my field. And I might even have to write at such a time as this.

Oh boy.

Don't get me wrong. Writing is still one of my favorite things to do. But when it comes to this time of "mourning," I'm not even sure how interested I would be if the Rose Bowl was on. That's something I might have to work on in the future, as I'm well aware of journalism's frequent nontraditional office setting. At any given time, my office might be a locker room, a row of bleachers, a hotel room, or even an airplane.

I begrudgingly admit that this is a little unnerving to me. I've never been one to take a lot of risks or go outside my comfort zone. Being out on the road and traveling and is certainly out of my comfort zone, especially for someone who's never gone outside Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana, and Michigan.Yet I'm still heading on a crash-course for a career that will almost certainly (and hopefully) take me all over the country, doing things I've never done before.

Is this not adding up for anyone else?

While I know that I've lived a rather boring life so far, I don't want to keep it that way. Getting out of my comfort zone may make me choke like LeBron James in the fourth quarter (as if there weren't enough of those), but that doesn't mean I'm not going to try. Because without taking the small risks that I have, I wouldn't even be at this point in my career. So maybe it's time I start stepping out and doing hard things. And hopefully, with great risk will come great reward.

Antics and All...

Randy Moss, the guy who started my career, has retired.

I slowly typed this sentence on the day that one of the greatest, most electrifying players in NFL history called it quits. It took me a while to realize it. I had gone all day just thinking about the career Moss had, the things he said; the things he did (almost more off the field than on it). But I never really remembered that it was Moss who helped pique my interest in sports journalism oh so many years ago.

I've never been bashful about telling the story. I was around 12 years old when I got my hands on an old copy of Sports Illustrated (a rare commodity in my house). For some reason, I couldn't put it down. I was never one to read much, but this was different- this was reading about sports. One article especially caught my attention.

"How Good Can Randy Moss Be?" was a multiple-page article in that issue by Michael Silver. It was about the controversially good player that was Randy Moss. One thing that really intrigued me was that the article, in essence, was about Silver writing the article. It delved into the interview process, how Moss spoke, what he said, and what he wanted to take back. Best of all, it gave fantastic insight into the type of person Moss was.

While I never was a big fan of his, I've always had respect for Randy Moss. For no other reason than if Michael Silver hadn't written that article about him, I might not have written every day afterward. I might not have gotten a job at my town's newspaper. I might not have worked for my college's newspaper as a freshman. I might not be the person I am today.

I'm not nearly as saddened by Moss' retirement as I am by the trading of Chad Ochocinco, but it was a nice reminder of how I got my humble start as a boy with a magazine, a pencil, and a spiral bound notebook. So today, I honor the career of Randy Moss, and I thank him for everything he's done. For the highlights, the antics, the fines, the catches, the celebrations, the trash talking, and everything that came with being one of the best the NFL has ever seen, and one of the most unique personalities as well.

If he hadn't have done those things then, I wouldn't be doing this right now.

Great Expectations

I always assume that everything will always work work out. Even if there's no good reason to believe that it actually will. I believe that my team will win the game, that I'll pass the test, that I'll get the job, that I'll be able to pay for school, that I'll be successful in my career, that I'll be happy.

Maybe it's the Hollywood syndrome. In movies, conflict arises and is overcome in less than two hours. In television, it's less than thirty minutes. And it ALWAYS works out. The guy gets the girl (wait- this is 2011, the girl can get the guy), the good side defeats the bad side in the final battle, and the puppy finds its way home.

Makes for a good show, but not a realistic one.

Life is as real as it gets, and it's no movie. There's no script. No director who knows that the only way to sell tickets is with a happy ending. I have to learn from my experiences and make my own happy ending. Because just expecting everything to be ok in the end is not going to end well.

Adios Ocho

November 9th, 2003. The Cincinnati Bengals were nothing more than the Bungles, a horrible team with no upside, no excitement, and no hope. But they had just beaten the Houston Texans to pull to a respectable 4-5 record, one of their best marks halfway through the season. Things were quietly going pretty well for the worst pro football since 1991, maybe there was hope after all.

Then Chad Johnson spoke up.

The Kansas City Chiefs were the best team in football in 2003. By far. While they may not have had a defense that could compete with the '85 Bears, the Chiefs offense was untouchable. Trent Green was slinging, Priest Holmes was scoring, and Dante Hall was doing a little bit of everything in the return game as the league's Devin Hester before there was a Devin Hester. Kansas City was unchallenged, unbeaten, untouchable. And that was exactly why Chad Johnson guaranteed the Bengals would defeat them.

This cocky third year wide receiver from Oregon State was as flashy as he was fast, as arrogant as he was athletic; as gaudy as he was good. But dang, was he good.

It wasn't really new for him to promise a Bengal's victory (he had done so twice the season before). But a young player on an annually bad team guaranteeing a win over the 9-0 Chiefs? That took guts. Or stupidity. I guess we'll never know which.

You remember what happened. The Bengals beat the Texans, Chad made the prediction immediately following the game, a crazy week of speculation followed, and when the two polar opposite teams took the field in Paul Brown Stadium that Sunday, Peter Warrick made like Dante Hall and took a punt back 68 yards for a touchdown. Bengals win 24-19.

You can say what you want about the person Chad was before that game. Yeah, he was loud and talked a lot prior to his Joe Namath-esque guarantee. But he was never the same undersized receiver after that day. The Bengals finished that year 8-8, missing the playoffs but proving that they were a legitimate team for the first time in my life.

Chad Johnson was one of the biggest factors in the new age of the Bengals where they don't suck... as much. If you made a Mount Rushmore honoring those brave souls, his face would be the first on it, along with Jon Kitna, Marvin Lewis, Carson Palmer, and Rudi Johnson.

While I firmly believe that specific guarantee was a pivotal point in the history of the Bengals, it was far from the last thing Chad did to entertain this city and put it on the map.

He talked.

He joked.

He celebrated.

He putted.

He proposed.

He Pepto bismoled.

He Fiesta'd.

He changed his name to Ochocinco.

He resuscitated.

He Riverdanced.

He Lambeau-leaped (even in Cleveland).

He played camera man.

He played Santa.

He played soccer.

He raced a horse.

He raced a car.

He kicked an extra point.

He inducted himself into the Hall of Fame.

And all he wanted was to not get fined.

Cincinnati is the legitimate football town it is because of Chad, and that will never change. There are many hard feelings towards the man who just wanted to have fun and win, and some are valid. But you cannot discredit the amazing things he did for this team and this city. As Chad Ochocinco heads off to suit up for the New England Patriots in this post-lockout, apocalyptic world, we should be thankful for his contributions to the Bengals and wish him the best. I guarantee he will fare well in his new home.

Thanks for the memories Chad "Ochocinco" Johnson, we'll never forget you.

The Short End of the Long Ball

Baseball season is in full swing. And apparently so is the season for bad puns as leads. One of my nightly rituals is sitting alone in my dorm's lobby and watching all the highlights from that day's MLB action (that sounded a lot less pathetic in my head). I've seen many patterns develop over the summer. While things haven't gotten to the point where I can predict the show or the events on it, there are moments where I just lean back and wonder how many times I've seen the exact same thing.

Like in the nightly Top Ten plays on ESPN, I can always count on at least two highlights of an impressive (yet rarely jaw-dropping) fielding play from a third baseman who makes a strong throw to first to get the batter out just in time. Another staple of the Top Ten is a pity reference to the WNBA. That's usually a poorly-seeded average play that is just an example of one player's exciting night, consisting of a game-high 11 points and 5 rebounds. Wow.

But my favorite part of the show is whenever they replay a walk-off win. It could be a single, double, or even a balk-off win. But the storybook classic, of course, is the game-ending home run.

I've seen a fair amount of these walk-offs this season, and after the first dozen or so they all started to seem the same. Until I began looking at it from a different perspective.

Most people watch the batter as he smoothly finishes his swing and drops his bat on the ground before slowly trotting towards first base. Some watch the outfield stands as most fans go crazy while the lucky ones go after the winning ball.

Me? I watch the catcher.

Think about it. How terrible must it feel to have a pitch stolen from your glove and ripped into deep center field. And all you can do is sit there. A background to a picture of history.

And what about the fielder whose head the ball is soaring over? What can he do but jog towards the wall and look up? Completely helpless.

I'm not sure which would be worse, knowing there's absolutely nothing you can do to save your team, or knowing that no matter what you do, it won't be enough? Both have to be nauseating feelings of despair. Feelings that can only be overcome by playing another game the next day; getting a chance of redemption.

You know what? Even worse than both of those feelings combined has to be pitcher who gave up that walk-off homer. Because he knows it was his fault, and he has to live with that feeling until he gets his next chance. That is, if that chance ever comes.

My Choice

There is so much I could be writing about right now. There is so much I should be writing about right now. The NFL lockout is all but over. The most chaotic 72 hours of free agency is about to begin. The Reds are starting to look like a competitor again (for now). Oh yeah, and Brett Favre (an evergreen topic if I've ever seen one).

But I don't feel like doing any of that.

What can you do when you just don't feel like writing? Especially when writing is your job? For so long, writing was the main thing in my life that mattered. That was back in the homeschooling days of 24/7 sports. Back when I could rattle off the names of every quarterback on every NFL roster. Back when I was doing radio interviews because of my insane amount of NFL Draft preparation. Back when I had my own mathematical system to help calculate my weekly power rankings.

That was so long ago, and so much has changed in my life since then. Especially my priorities. Back then I would have dropped everything to be on top of a story like this historic lockout. But right now my mind is elsewhere. It's not that I don't have that same passion for sports and journalism that I always have, but I'm realizing that there are things in life that are much more important than my career.

For a long time, I thought that I wouldn't be happy unless I ended up as a nationally-renowned sports writer, and that is partially true. But there are other things I want to have; other things I want to be that need to take precedence over that dream. I'll still try to be the hardest worker and best writer no matter where I'm at. But I won't let my laptop consume me any longer.

Who knows? Maybe this means settling for a job that isn't as glamorous as what I hope for. Maybe this field requires me to be a shameless workaholic. And I've already proven I'm willing to sacrifice for my goal. I've written for free. I've worked myself sleepless. I've taken stepping stool jobs. I've done some dirty work. I'm paying my dues. However, I'm not willing to give up what matters most just for a bigger byline.

Maybe Next Year

Every year Cincinnati sports fans say maybe this year.
Maybe this team.
Maybe this time.

Every year we think the ball will bounce our way.
The clock will keep ticking.
The innings will keep coming.

Every year we think there's no way the worst can happen.
No way we'll miss the extra point.
No way we'll get no-hit.

But every year, we end up saying maybe next year.

Forgive me for showing the pessimism that comes as a side with being a Cincinnati sports fan. But as we sit at the All Star break, even with the Reds sitting at 45-47, just four games out of first place in a very competitive NL Central, I have very little faith that there will be a second straight postseason appearance for the Redlegs. They show too many signs of being a typical Queen City quack.

They beat themselves.

They make silly mistakes.

They can't close out games.

Management makes questionable decisions.

Does this sound like another Cincinnati franchise to you? Maybe it's best that we don't have a basketball team in this town. Because it would just end up with the same scenario as the Bengals in November and the Reds in August:

Fans saying maybe next year.

More than a folder

It was any other high school day. I walked into my first class of the morning. The first bell rang at 7:24. Not 7:25. 7:24 in the morning. On this particular day, my Sociology teacher, Mr Chapman called me to his paper-covered desk. I was one of "those kids" in high school. So maybe my whole life flashed before my eyes. But as I stepped to the desk, Chappy handed me a folder. It was my red Indiana Wesleyan University folder from his class. I left it under my desk the day before.

Months later, Mr. Chapman was talking to me after one of the last classes of the year. One of my very last high school classes. Mr. Chapman asked where I would be going to school the the next fall. I proudly told him IWU.

"So it was more than a folder," Chappy said like only he could.

I laughed. Because that's all I could do. I had no idea what the next 12 months had in store for me, and just how attached to IWU I would become. I live here now. I'm not just an IWU student. I'm don't just work here. This is my home. But it's so much more than my home. So much more than a folder.

...and the agony of defeat

It was 11 o'clock at night and I had nothing else to do. So I flipped on ESPN. To my delight, game two of the College World Series Finals was on, and drawing to a finish. College baseball. Only slightly more intriguing to me than the WNBA, but seeing that college baseball's champion was potentially just six outs away from being crowned, I decided to stick around.

I've always loved watching the ending of major sports championships. Actually, it doesn't even have to be a major sport. Just as long as it's the final game of sport's postseason, you can find me glued to the TV. Just the other day, I watched the XFL's Super Bowl, titled the Million Dollar Game, from its first and only season back in 2001.

Of course, it's no surprise that I would love watching these types of games. They're what every athlete in his or her respective sport plays for. What might be surprising though is my favorite part of those games. To me, the most interesting part about championships isn't the dogpile that ensues after the final out, point, or when the clock hits triple zeroes. It's not the passing out of t-shirts and caps, and the spraying of champagne in the locker room. It's not even the cliche one-word headlines with oversized photos in the next day's newspaper (although I really do love those).

My favorite part is the loser.

Sadistic much? Maybe a little. There's just something about watching the team that finished second. The blank stares. The towels over heads. The tears. Nobody remembers second place, so those tears are the last we will ever see of you. My first memory of this was Kevin Dyson kneeling on the one yard line in Super Bowl XXXIV. One yard short. Ever since then I have always been willing to trade the images of celebratory mobs on the pitcher's mound or the fifty yard line for those of a heartbroken veteran who watches that final play on the jumbotron, hoping for a different ending.

Nobody remembers second place. Except of course, for the ones who were unfortunate enough to finish there. For them, it's a gut-wrenching experience that is impossible to forget. For me, it's the images of their downfall; the look of sheer defeat on their faces, that I can't- and don't want to-block from my memory.

Another Dimension

I'm typing this left-handed. It's not very easy. I injured my right wrist a few days ago, and as the stubborn, red-blooded American male that I am, I didn't do anything about it. Actually, that's not entirely true. I did do something about it: I played several intense games of volleyball with a chip on my shoulder because I was told that I wouldn't be able to play hurt.

Sure showed them.

I also showed myself. And over the next few days or weeks that I have to wear this brace on my wrist, I hope to show myself something I'm good at other than writing. In a bored stupor this morning, I wondered what life would be like if I couldn't type anymore. And I realized that I might be in trouble if that's ever the case. So here we go, an adventure of unprecedented proportions. Rest assured, there won't be any career changes made. I'll be sure to write about it when I'm done.

Learning to Live

I was leaving Circle K, filling up on gas station food at 11pm just because it's only a three-minute walk from my summer dorm room. After paying for my Mt. Dew and Hot Pockets (a college student's dinner if I've ever eaten one) I picked up my things and headed for the door. It wasn't until I had started to step out into the mild night air that I heard the cashier say in a loud voice, "Do you want your receipt?" It was obviously the second time he had said it, but the first I had heard it.

As I politely declined his offer, I turned away and left the store feeling like I had been rude. I really didn't hear him the first time, but for all he knew I was just another ungrateful customer. It was on the short walk back that I realized for the first time: for all intents and purposes, I've been hearing impaired my entire life.

How many situations like this have happened that have gone unnoticed by me? I try not to let my disability ever become an issue; it's just a medically-certified card that I have to keep in my wallet. Unfortunately, not being able to hear very well comes up more in everyday life more than you'd think.

These thoughts took up the first minute of my walk back.

Crossing the street back onto campus, I started to realize that maybe my passion for writing has deeper roots than I thought. Maybe even since I was a child, turning the right side of my head towards the TV just so I could hear it, I valued the written word over the audible simply because I could understand it better. Maybe the reason I abuse the art of the secret handshake and overdo high fives is because physical communication is so much easier for me than verbal.

Two minutes.

It's hard not to think about what kind of effects this will have on my career in the long run. Who wants to hire a hearing-impaired journalist. This might be something I should abstain from headlining my resume. Then again, I was hired to work at a radio station when the person in charge of hiring know full well of my special situation.

I made it back to my dorm, threw my Hot Pockets in the microwave and turned ESPN on. Darn Closed Captioning on live shows is never very good. The words finally scroll onto the screen a good ten seconds after they've passed their usefulness. Try it sometime. Fine, I'll just turn the volume up a little bit. I smiled as I turned the volume bar to an even number. OCD. Not a disability. More of a quirk.

It was nice and quiet, except for the suits on the screen talking about the top plays of the day. I enjoyed it. Being able to focus my hearing on one thing is key for my coherence. Just a few hours earlier I had been in a crowded dining hall, but I felt completely alone because there were so many loud conversations going on, and I couldn't understand one of them.

I'm still learning to deal with my disability. I've only been fully aware of it for a couple years now; it's a process. But rest assured, I'll figure it out. And I'll be a better person for it. It will get to the point where I'll go through every day, and no one will even wonder if there's anything wrong with me. Why? Not because I'm going to have more surgeries to fix it. Not because I'm going to use a hearing aid as a Band-Aid. But for no other reason than I have to learn.

A Hard Lesson to Learn

If you're friends with me on Facebook, first of all- I'm sorry. I tend to post a lot, usually it's meaningless stuff that only I care about, but sometimes I like to think that I do something constructive with my social media outlet of choice. But second of all, my online acquaintances might know that I've been dealing with a struggle of patience lately. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a control freak- a trait I've been working hard to improve on this summer- I get really nervous when a situation is out of my hands.

For the past couple weeks there has been a situation which is completely out of my hands, but I care about as much as anything. A tough combination if I've ever heard one. But you know me, I always try to make the most of tough situations, learn from it, and then blog about it.

So what's the sports journalist's interpretation of learning patience and dealing with difficulty you can do nothing about?

When (if?) I graduate college, I am going to do everything I can to secure a good job in this field. I'll write my tail off and always do the best I can, just like I'm doing now. But to a certain extent, it's not all up to me. Hard work, dedication, talent, and creativity only go so far. Getting a good job as a sports writer takes two very important and uncontrollable things: connections and luck. If I don't learn this lesson now, then waiting and hoping and praying for that gig at Sports Illustrated at 21 years old will be even more frustrating. Especially if I don't get it.

So what can I learn from these last two weeks? Not everything is up to me. Some situations are simply out of my control. What should I do in those instances?

That, my Facebook friends, is a blogpost for another day.

No Earthly Good

Sleep is an interesting concept. It's one of those things that we all love, but can't really enjoy. Think about it. While you're sleeping, you don't even really know it, so you can't truly enjoy it. For me, the best part is those last few seconds before I drift off. Complete relaxation. I've even taken this concept so far as to set alarms in the middle of the night, hours before I have to get up, just so I can wake up and experience that glorious feeling of drifting off once again.

Then comes the day. The long, tiring, stressful day. Most days at about 2 o'clock we start thinking about sleep again; thinking about that night when we'll get to rest once again. Sometimes those thoughts creep in before noon. Sometimes it's mere minutes after we get out of bed. But it's bound to happen. We long for that feeling, the one that we can't really enjoy.

Thinking about this, I realized that the best part about sleep is the anticipation, not the act itself. And I fear that this line of thinking has crept into the way I live my life. Sometimes I get so focused on the future, planning it, thinking about it, and even trying to enjoy it years before I actually get there, that I don't enjoy what's happening right now. I forget about today because I'm so wrapped up in tomorrow.

Someone close to me brought this reality to my attention a few months ago, "We can worry about the future later," she said. "I try not to get too wrapped up in what might happen and try to enjoy what is happening. Live in the moment."

I really need to live in the moment more. Because I realize now that I may have missed out on some great experiences because I was thinking about what they could lead up to. I didn't appreciate what was going on; I took opportunities and even people for granted.

Hopefully now I can change that. Hopefully now I can enjoy today and not think so much about tomorrow. Hopefully now I can enjoy some great things in my life that I wasn't fully appreciating before.

Hopefully I get that chance.

A Humbling Experience

It's been quite a long while since my last post. You could say I've been busy. I've never worked a full time job before. Three part time jobs at the same time, yes. But one full time job, no. It's an entirely new experience for me. I'm used to jobs that are mostly just sitting at a desk and letting my creative juices flow. While there are definitely some desk-sitting aspects of this job, most of it is general custodial work. Eight hours of general custodial work every day.

In the time I've been working this job, I've grown to appreciate my jobs in the communication field even more. I'm so blessed to be in this line of work and to have positions doing things that I am very passionate about and really enjoy.

However, I've also matured in the sense that I now believe that at some point in everyone's life, we should all have a job like this. Whether a custodian, fast food service, or anything in that realm, it's a great and humbling experience to have. These jobs can be tough, no one is above them, and you can learn a lot from them. I am so glad I've done this, I have a whole new respect for the people in these professions. But that doesn't mean I don't look forward to getting back to work in my chosen field, I can't wait to get back to writing (and now editing) everyday, but I will be sure to take this as a valuable learning experience, and become a better person because of it.

The Right Credentials

I was sitting in a friend's dorm room. We were playing some video game, I'm not sure what it was, but I know I was losing. Our conversation drifted towards sports, because with two red-blooded American guys, it's gonna make it there eventually. We had ESPN on earlier, and he had made a comment about the female commentator. "Unless you actually played sports, you have no right to be talking about them," he said. And this wasn't just a sexist comment. He went on to say that writers and TV anchors who haven't at least played in college had no business in the sports journalism business.

What about me?

I've never played a real organized game of football in my life, but I think I could debate the 2005 NFL draft class as well as anyone. I've never stepped on a pitcher's mound for anything other than to do an interview, but I could talk about Kerry Wood's arm for quite a while. And I've never stepped to the free throw line with a game on the line, but I have pretty strong opinions about LeBron James and the Miami Heat's trio.

I was homeschooled; I never got the chance to play sports at a young age. By the time I spent my first day in a real classroom, I was sixteen years old. It was too late for me.

So is my career as a sports writer doomed? I think not.

Once, during my days as a 15 year-old sports reporter for a town newspaper, I was nearly refused admittance to a basketball game because I claimed I was with the paper. The ticket-taker didn't believe that someone younger than some of the players on the high school team could be writing about them. But I was. And I intend to keep surprising people just like that.

My Own Story

I'm watching The Rookie right now. How does one of the greatest sports movies of all time translate into a revelation about my own personal career as a sports journalist?

Glad you asked.

As I watch Dennis Quaid play a middle-aged man with not much more than a dream, a 98 mile-an-hour fastball and a bad haircut try to make it as a pro baseball player, I think about how that could be me. Of course, you could come up with one or two differences between our stories, but I'd prefer to focus on the similarities.

In case you've never seen it (first of all, see it), The Rookie is a movie about a high school science teacher who was once a pro baseball pitcher, but had to leave the game due to injuries. But he never lost his love for the game. Years after he had supposedly past his prime, he was throwing faster than ever. Long story short, he tried out for a minor league club and made the team.

It wasn't easy from there though. Minor leaguers don't make much money, and this teacher had a family back home with bills to pay. Not to mention that he had been out of the game for such a long time and the strikeouts didn't always come easy. But he was chasing a dream, no matter what the risk, it was hard, and there was no guarantee that things would work out, but he did it anyway. Why? Because he would never have been able to sleep at night if he didn't see if he could actually do it.

And he did.

Now, I'm not saying I'm anything special. But as soon as I flipped this movie on the TV, I couldn't help but think that's what my career might be like. Sure, I don't know if I will ever amount to anything as a writer; I don't know if I'll ever make it Sports Illustrated, the major leagues of sports writing. But I know that I have to try, or else I won't be able to sleep at night.

I know it won't be easy, and I know there will be no guarantees. Also, just like in the movie, there could be personal battles to face along the way. Writing about sports, just like playing them, can take you away from home and your loved ones for days at a time. And journalism is far from a lucrative career. As Ray Romano (who played a sports journalist on Everybody Loves Raymond) once said, "I'm a sports writer. I don't make a lot of money, I write about people who make a lot of money."

But, just like the movie, there could be great rewards. Someday, I want to tell my kid that their dad writes for the biggest sports magazine there is. I want to be somebody, I want to be the best, so I'll keep trying; keep writing, until I know I can't anymore.

You never know, thirty years from now, I could look back on this blog post and shake my head. "That was a nice dream," I'll say. But I'll be okay with it, because I went for my dream, so I'll be able to sleep at night.

One And Done

I never understood how college athletes could spend a year or two in college just to audition for the pros and then leave their university behind after the briefest of moments living the college life. Okay, I'll be the first to admit that the prospect of millions of dollars changes things quite a bit, but after completing my first year of college at Indiana Wesleyan University, I can't imagine leaving after four years, let alone one or two.

Forget writing. Now, I don't say that much, but I mean it here. Really, FORGET writing. Sure, that's part of what I've learned, but more than anything else, the most valuable thing that I've taken away from these past few months is how much I've grown as a person. It's not something that I can explain or show on a test, but it's changed me for the better, and I know I am more prepared for the real world (whatever that is).

But my favorite part has been the people. I have met so many friends that have changed my life, and made it so much more interesting. I've almost learned as much from the people I've met here at IWU as the classes I've taken.

So in three years, when I'm getting ready to walk down that aisle for the final time, a little part of me will wish my time wasn't over yet. But at least I'll have been able to enjoy more than just a year of this amazing experience.

The Best Laid Plans

Friday was supposed to be a great day. And in its own unique way, it was. But it was supposed to be a special day. Again, Friday found its own way to be special too, but it wasn’t anything like what I had in mind. I was supposed to wake up early, with no classes on the menu, and take care of the last of the homework I have for my final semester of freshman year. Then, I was supposed to take a car ride back to my home city of Cincinnati to rest for a couple days. My body had other ideas.

When I woke up, I could tell something wasn’t right, but I tried to go about my morning routine as routinely as I could. It took all of two minutes to figure out that wasn’t going to happen. A quick glance in the mirror showed that my uvula had swollen up at least three times its normal size and I was choking on it.

Awesome.

A 9-1-1 call, trip to the hospital, and shot of steroids later, and I began to feel better. But I had kissed my productivity goodbye. Homework wasn’t the only thing I wanted to do that day. No, I had planned on doing something much bigger. Something I had extremely high hopes for: my 100th blog post.

It was supposed to be one of the better things I had ever written. No one else would have cared (or even known) that it was my 100th post, but I would have, so I wanted it to be good. I wanted it to be special.

But when I sat down to write number 100 on a cold, rainy Sunday night in Cincinnati, four hours away from the college campus that I now call my home, I realized that this was more fitting. It was supposed to be a long, flashy piece of writing that I would pridefully look at and declare as my own. I had dreams of people reading, reposting, and sharing—just like I do with all of my posts. Only better.

But that wasn’t very realistic, now was it? That’s not how it ever happens to me. That’s not how it happens in the real world.

I think even with all my efforts to be as much of a realist as possible, I have some sort of journalistic fantasy concocted in my head. One that doesn’t take the hard work and the years of paying my dues that I know it will to get to the top. In my head I think I have this delusion that someday, the right person will stumble upon my blog and send me straight to Sports Illustrated.

Who am I kidding? Who was I to expect some sort of… fanfare with this? When I found out I was hired as the news and sports director of my college’s radio station, there was no applause, no press conference, my name didn’t trend on Twitter, I just accepted it and got ready to work. When I received the email that I was the new sports editor of the school newspaper, I high-fived my best friend and then went back to work. I don’t deserve any recognition yet, why should I even dream about it?

So you know what? I’m glad that things didn’t go the way they were supposed to. Because they rarely ever do. So for this run-of-the-mill 18 year-old college sports writer, quietly hitting the post button on my 100th blog entry and not worrying about what happens later is exactly what I needed.

Invisible

One of com professors (*ahem* one of my FAVORITE com professors) just said that good writing was invisible. He compared writing to the screws and joints that hold a building together. You don't notice them, and you certainly don't talk about them, but they're still there, and they're needed to hold everything together.

My first thought, as a writer, was where does that leave me?

Sure, maybe some of my motivations for asking this are a bit selfish. I mean, I'm the writer, I don't want my creations to go unnoticed. I want people to pour over every word I type, and drool over my adverb choices. I want the kids who tormented me in high school to show their remorse by praising my hard news inverted pyramid.

I just want people to know my name.

But is this the best way to go? Probably not. I should be writing to tell a story, not to get glory for myself. And hopefully, if I do things the right way, for the right reasons, that other stuff will come later.

Seriously

I've never called for violent rioting in the streets before, and I'm not doing so now, but this is as close as I hope to ever get.

I think that people just assume there will be an NFL season in 2011, and that might not be the case. Ever since the negotiations started, people thought things would magically get better. Even when the CBA expired, things had to work out, right? And now, when it doesn't look good at all, there still hasn't been a massive, national freak out.

Why the heck not?

When will it finally set in that in February, we might have seen the last of pro football for more than a year? When will people start writing letters and picketing stadiums and sending threatening emails to the commissioner? What will it take to show people that neither the NFL nor the Player's Union is messing around. This is a real lockout; one that doesn't appear to be ending anytime soon.

The fans have the real power here, it's time we stepped up and used it.


EDITOR'S NOTE: Be aware of three things as you finish reading this post and get ready to click off the page.
First, I was totally kidding about the rioting and the threatening letters. Violence is never the answer. Unless, of course, the question is "What is never the answer?" Then, and only then, is the answer violence.
Second, I am fully aware that as soon as I post this, the NFL and the Player's Union will come to an agreement. Just my luck.
Thirdly, I have a lot more good stuff on here. Go check it out now.

Remember This:

Just a few more days in the semester everybody. Come on, we got this.

We can do it.

YOU can do it.

The Edge of My Seat Isn't Very Comfortable

First, I was a kid with an idea.

Then, I was a kid with a dream.

Then, I was a kid with a pen.

Then I was a do-it-all reporter for a small-town newspaper with a staff that could all fit comfortably into a VW Bug. With the back seat taken out.

Then, I was (and still am) a staff writer for a weekly college newspaper that was named one of the best in the country.

I want to take the next step.

A couple weeks ago, I submitted my application to be the sports editor of The Sojourn for the 2011-2012 school year. 21 days, one interview, and countless hours of worrying and overthinking later, and today was the day that I was to find out if my superiors thought I could fill the shoes required to take that step.

Being the cool, level-headed person that I am, throughout the day I only checked my email for the notification when the hand on the clock hit 30 and 60. The second hand, that is.

A little after two o'clock this afternoon, I received an email from next year's editor-in-chief. But to my dismay, the headline of "hold your horses" informed me that the decision would not come today.

So I wait.

And I write.

And I hold my breath until I find out if I move one step closer to my idea, my dream; the thing I've wanted to do since I was just a kid with a pen.

Heading for Home

For decades, legendary radio baseball announcer Joe Nuxhall was welcomed into the homes of sports fans. He is remembered for his famous signoff phrase: “This is the old left-hander, rounding third and heading for home.” That's what myself and countless other college students are going through right now. Finals weeks everywhere are approaching like a freight train, and I have that freshman-in-the-headlights look in my eyes.

It's not that I haven't done this before. The same thing happened last semester. However, classes have stepped up their collective game this semester, so I must do the same. The last couple months have been the most challenging of my life. Both classes, work, and the combination of the two.

As hard as it's been, I'm glad for this tough semester. It's forced me to become better as a writer, student, worker, and person. Now, instead of just writing and turning it in, I question myself and try to make my writing better.

For Indiana Wesleyan University students, this is the last full week of classes before finals, Easter Break, more finals, and then finally the sweet release of death... I mean summer break.

But we all still have to make it through this week. One more week. A week to learn. A week to grow. A week to study. A week to work.

A week to round third...

and head for home.

Left Out

They say that if you try to please everyone, you will end up not pleasing anyone. Well I'm going to stretch this phrase to cover college. There are only 24 hours in the day, so between work, classes, and homework, something is bound to get left out, or at the very least, half-heartedly done.

And this is coming from a double major with three jobs.

Am I saying that I do this? I try my hardest not to, ever. When at work, I do everything on my schedule that day. When in class, I listen and participate and all that good stuff that gets you a gold star. When doing homework, I stay focused and put real effort into my projects and papers. But still, sometimes things slip through the cracks.

Maybe I'm tired and overlook something at work. Maybe I'm tired and I doze off a little in class. Or maybe I'm tired and I choose to go to bed at 2 in the morning instead of pulling an all-nighter to write a paper.

Notice a trend? Once again, there are only so many hours in a day. And there is a new law in Indiana that says for every hour students spend in class, professors should assign two hours of homework. Let's think about this. Really?

I'm not one of those people who hate school and homework and all the likes. Actually, I genuinely enjoy school, and I embrace the work head on because guess what? I'm here to learn. My only concern is that sometimes administration (not just at my school) forget that we're people too. We're workers, family members, friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, and many other things. I understand that college is supposed to be tough and that time management, while not a class, is the thing we learn the most about. I just think that sometimes, it can be too much.

As I type this, I can think of four projects (oh wait- five) that I could do right now. Guess I should get to working on them so I can go to bed before 2am.

Freedom in the Press

I like to call myself a journalism purist. And what I mean by that is I like journalism. Not the bells and whistles or all the hoops through which writers have to jump. I just like writing. It's something that comes naturally to people. Sure, some people work on it and get good, but overall it's a gift that you either have or you don't.

This stance is something that I've had to forget about to a certain extent in my time at college. Taking many classes that force (allow?) you to write everyday tends to water down the creative aspect of writing and make you focus on the structured, formulaic side of it.

I'm not saying that people who have that gift of writing should just sit down at their typewriter and start blindly churning out words in whatever intoxicated state they're in (whether it be caffeinated or otherwise. we are, after all, journalists). But people who have that gift should be able to just sit down and write a good article.

Rules have their place. Structure has its place. Editors have their place. But sometimes, good writing can be good writing, for no other reason than it just is. Maybe it broke a rule or two, maybe the lead was too long, maybe a couple sentences were passive; maybe there were only two sources. But even though a piece broke a couple of those "rules" we must abide by in class, it made for a good read. Because the quality of writing cannot be judged by yes or no questions or hard-and-fast rules. Because, like art, the quality is determined by each individual who sees it.

The Real Chad

Ochocinco [written 8/20/10]


I just read the rules on broadcasting NFL games on TV.

Why? What are the cool kids doing on a Friday night?

As I sit here, cursed with the knowledge I have just obtained, one thing stands out in my mind. NFL really does stand for No Fun League. Yes, business is business, and I'll probably understand when I join the rat race myself, but it was still a sobering experience to see just how much business there is to the game I love so much. Wouldn't football be so much better if we didn't have to worry about contracts, blackouts, union deals, player lockouts, and uncapped seasons? Of course, all of these things are necessary evils for the NFL we know and love to function normally. But they just make me appreciate the lighthearted fun in the league even more.

Enter Chad Ochocinco.

I know a lot of people dislike him for his flashy style, endzone celebrations, and trash talk, but why do you think he does it? Because it's fun. Many people try to paint the artist formerly known as Chad Johnson as an arrogant, selfish crybaby who only cares that everyone is watching him. However, this is simply not the case. Chad Ochocinco does the things he does for the love of the game, but at the same time he cares about winning.

Think about it. When were the Cincinnati Bengals at their best? The answer is arguably 2005, when “eighty-five” was setting records and incurring fines left and right. When Chad stopped being Chad, everything seemed to fall apart
. For his, and the team's sake, I hope Ochocinco is back up to his old tricks, and we get to enjoy a successful, entertaining season.

Seven months later...

Today, Chad Ochocinco (Johnson? No? Ok, Ochocinco) will set foot on the field for practice. But it wont be at Paul Brown Stadium. The field will not be 120 yards long and 50 yards wide. The goals wont be marked by the Bengals logo. It wont even be a football field.

At least not an American football field.

Chad will be tweeting about this all day, telling of his practices with the Kansas City Red Devils, using the term "pitch" like there's no tomorrow. But he won't be doing it because he knows people are watching (although I'm sure that doesn't hurt). He'll be doing it because he loves the game; he loves sports and competition in general. And he doesn't even know if he'll get that from the NFL this fall.

Fans shouldn't complain about what some call a "sideshow," this is just Chad being Chad. And besides, wont this keep him in shape and more ready than anyone to play *cough* real *cough* football whenever the next season kicks off? I think so. Who knows? Ochocinco may even turn out to be the next Deion "Primetime" Sanders.

He certainly has the personality for it.

Every-one Went Home

3. 4. 8. 11.

These are the seeds of the teams in the 2011 NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament Final Four. Notice anything peculiar about them? You got it. There are no one-seeds in the picture.

I was called crazy (I even called myself crazy) for constructing my bracket without any top teams in the semi finals of the dance. But the way I saw it, the gap between the one seeds and four seeds wasn't that big, so it only made sense that each of them would fall before the finals. Especially with teams like Connecticut going into the tournament red hot instead of lukewarm like some of the top seeds.

Last year's final four consisting of Michigan State (5), Duke (1), Butler (5), and West Virgina (2) wasn't too unpredictable. While only one top seed made it to the Final Four, no one was surprised that the Mountaineers and Spartans made it. Add up those seed numbers. They total 13.

This year, it's a different story. The 2011 edition of the Final Four have a collective seed total of 26.

To me, Connecticut dancing through the West Region and Kentucky upsetting Ohio State in the East seemed obvious. Although I admitted taking the Huskies to go all the way was either going to make me or break me. Granted, I had VCU losing in the first round and Butler getting bounced two days later, but for my first time, I don't think I did too terribly.

Next year, I'll definitely do some more research on the matchups I'm less sure of, but overall, I think the best way to go is to just stick with my gut and avoid overthinking the games. Because hey, right now I rank in the top 1% of brackets on Facebook... and that's good enough for me.

Yep, We Live in Indiana

This week, two small Indiana colleges will be buzzing. The schools are Butler and Indiana Wesleyan University, and both have great reasons to be excited. For the Butler Bulldogs, their excitement comes from a trip to the Final Four in the NCAA Tournament. For the IWU Wildcats, students have a much bigger reason to be excited.

We're getting a Chick-Fil-A.

According to IWU's school newspaper, The Sojourn, and its Twitter, the school will open the restaurant as soon as the fall semester of 2011. It will be located inside of the existing student center, in an existing food venue. Students will be able to use a meal swipe for the famous chicken dinner. This announcement will come as the university is set to induct Chick-Fil-A owner S. Truett Cathy into its society of "World Changers" on Wednesday.

I may only be a freshman, but from what I hear, rumors have been going around for a few years now that we would be shouting "Eat Mor Chikin" from rooftops all over campus. I also heard that IWU and the chain had been in talks before, but there were a couple sticking points that prevented a deal form getting done. I don't know, that's just speculation, I'll be reading The Sojourn for the real facts about the issue.

But for now, I'm just going to celebrate the coming attraction that is one of the best fast food restaurants I've ever eaten at. And now I'll have the chance to eat there daily. You can bet that there will be dancing in the streets here at IWU (we can do that now), because after years of just talking and dreaming about it, this is arguably one of the coolest things to hit this campus in a while.

Take that, Butler ;)

Useless

I couldn't even begin to tell you how many times I've heard students complaining about classes. I'm sure you've heard it too: "Why do I have to take math? I'm not going to be an engineer." Or something like, "I shouldn't have to take biology, I'm not going to be a doctor." And of course, my personal favorite: "Why do I have to take French? I'm never going to be... French."

I was tempted to think this way for a couple of my classes so far in my young college career (and by young I mean almost a quarter finished). A couple of these classes were things like speech, mass communication, and World Changers.

So yes, for a while I wasn't sure why I was taking this classes, and what I could get out of them. Then came semester number two, which I think is going to end up being the semester where I learn the most.

This semester, I took a class called Media Scriptwriting. In my mind, I had it confused with Scriptwriting, so naturally I was afraid I was going to be stuck with a bunch of weird theatre people who want to write the next Macbeth. After a few classes, I realized a few things. First, that it was a class about how to write commercials for TV and radio. Second, that I did not want to write commercials for TV and radio. And third, that it was going to be the greatest academic challenge I have faced thus far.

I found myself at the point of just taking the class to earn a good grade (or at least as good as I could get) so I could keep my GPA high enough to keep taking the journalism and writing classes that I actually wanted to take. But that was proving to be a challenge early on.

I really don't want to write commercials. Nothing against the career field (I have nothing but respect for what those people do after trying to do it myself), that's just not my personal goal. So I went to class, took notes, and did the least I could to get by.

But then I started noticing all the things that I could get out of the class, and actually trying to see how it could help me in my preferred career. Guess what happened. I started doing better and understanding assignments more clearly. I noticed some things about the way I write and work in other aspects of my career and applied principles from Media Scriptwriting to them, and I think I'm better for it. My grades went up, and I'm just generally enjoying the class more.

If absolutely nothing else, this class has taught me how to study for exams.

Keep on Keepin' on

Sometimes, I sit down and open up my blog and just start typing. I don't necessarily know where I'm going with it, I just go and see where the words take me. It's not always the most effective means of blogging, but it's what works for me.

But today, I sat down and started at an empty page for a while, not knowing what words would come to mind... none did. It was so bad that I turned to the person beside me and asked, "what should I blog about today?"

That's honestly never happened to me before. Ever since my 9th grade homeschool curriculum made me write a full page every day about whatever topic I wanted, I've learned to come up with something to say. I always have words.

I know why it's different today, I have a lot on my mind (but not the kind of stuff one can blog about) and I'm getting into the part of the semester where things are really heating up. So I'm busy. But still, I should be able to magically come up with words out of thin air like I always do, right?

Well, 194 words in... I guess things could be going worse.

Writing is like anything else, there are just some days where you're not as good at it as usual. Even Derek Jeter goes 0-for-3 on the occasional Tuesday afternoon game. Peyton Manning throws three interceptions once in a blue moon. And LeBron James misses a buzzer beater every now and then (although for a while there, it seemed as nightly as David Letterman).

But guess what? They all show up to practice the next day; they start the game the next week; they push through and keep on working. Why is writing any different? It's not. So I think for a while. I try to come up with a topic. And sometimes, in the end, the very thing that kept me from typing that first word of the post is what I write the entire thing about.

When I Grow Up

When I was 14 years old, I listened to a pair of AM sports talk shows every morning. Since I was homeschooled, it was easy for me to sit at the dinning room table and do my work while the radio was on. 1360 Homer The Sports Animal (now ESPN 1530) was my station. And you can bet every day at 7am my radio was tuned in to hear "The Two Angry Guys" give their take on sports around Cincinnati, and the rest of the country as well.

But my favorite show came on afterward. At 9am, Gregg Doyle and Mo Egger graced the airwaves with their show... I don't think it had a name... but it was really good. It was during these formative years that I began to really enjoy and appreciate the radio business, especially the sports talk side of it. I called in once or twice, but as a 14 year-old it was a very nerve-racking experience.

As my interest in the overall field of sports journalism grew, I decided I wanted to to learn more about it, so I began emailing both Gregg and Mo, asking advice and gaining insight to their chosen fields. Then, Gregg mentioned the idea of having me on the show as a scheduled guest to talk about the NFL Draft, which was what I enjoyed most at the time. Long story short (wow, that's a journalistic cop out if I've ever written one), I appeared on the station a while later as a guest, pegged "The 16 year-old draft expert."

I was still 15.

Part of me loved the title. I mean, really? What red-blooded American man doesn't want to be called an expert at anything, let alone sports? And to my 15 year-old self it was just that much more special. But a big part of me didn't care for the title at all. Partially because I knew I didn't deserve the term "expert" (and my mock drafts proved it) and partially because I sensed a hint of sarcasm in my newfound nickname.

But that's exactly why I was on the show in the first place, because it was a cute little gimmick. Nobody would have cared about a 30 year-old living with his parents, talking incessantly about sports, enough people fit that bill already. But I was different, I wasn't even old enough to drive. That's the reason I got noticed. That's the reason writers like Jason Whitlock responded to my emails. That's why I got the attention that I did.

But I'm not "cute" anymore. There's nothing too unique about a freshman in college working for his school newspaper and aspiring to be a sports writer one day. I've lost that special aspect to my writing. I tried to hold on to it for as long as I could (maybe a little too long), but as the years passed, I realized I had to give it up and try a new approach. So now I'm growing up. I'm stepping up my game.

I'm letting my writing speak for itself.

*sigh*

It's starting already. Three words into this blog post (four if you count the title) and I've already started down a dangerous path.

Here's the thing about writers: We're emotional people. And no, I'm not talking about the cry-at-Sandra-Bullock-movies-that-aren't-even-that-sad type of emotional. And of course, there is the occasional heartless cynical type of writer who loves covering events like the disasters in Haiti and Japan because it can produce some "good writing."

There, disclaimers aside, now I will proceed.

Maybe this is just me, but everything I put into a story, every interview, every word, every keystroke, is an emotional experience for me. I thrive off of it. I pour my heart and soul into it.

But what happens when my heart is heavy and my soul is weak? How can I write when the very thing I need to draw from in order to write has nothing in it?

I asked my mentor, a national sports writer, a question about how to deal with situations like this a few weeks ago when I was going through a rough patch. His answer was just what I needed. He told me that writers aren't that much different than anyone else in that respect. We all have days when we don't want to go to work, or work is tough for us. The trick is that we have to push through and just do it. It'll be hard, yes, but it's just something you HAVE to do.

So I sit here right now, not wanting to write. Not even wanting to write this. I just want to go to sleep for a long time. Not because I'm tired, but because I just do. But that's not an option. I have to keep going, keep typing; keep writing.