As I approached the front of the store, I saw two parents gently arguing with their kid, maybe four or five years old. He was holding on (both hands) to a fairly unremarkable walking stick, something he had clearly picked up on their stroll to the store.

I should note that it’s a balmy 40 degrees today in Minneapolis, and with the sun grinning hard on everything in December, well, to Minnesotans, this practically counts as a summer day. Driving to the store, I passed hordes of joggers, parents pushing strollers, and hell, I think I saw a woman doing yard work. I do love that Minnesotans see the December sun minus accumulated snow and think, ‘Fuck it: I’m going rollerblading.’

Based on how they were bundled, this family had clearly walked to the store.

Dad tried to coax the stick out of his son’s hands, *promising* that the stick would still standing against the wall brick wall by the bike rack when they came out.

While his son said nothing, the pout and mistrust on his face revealed his faith in Dad’s words.

The stick! This stick is everything!

You’d think I spent 10 minutes watching this drama unfold, but all this occurred during the twenty seconds it took me to approach and pass this family, entering the store. I had the fleeting thought ‘Oh, just let him carry his stick inside’ but when I saw the carefully piled apples, jars precariously arranged, and piled stacks of Christmas candy, I realized the parents’ wisdom.

Stick disaster lurked in every aisle.

As I searched for my salsa, I reflected about the time in my life when a treasure like a good stick was everything.

I once owned a small cedar chest, a cheap souvenir from when we visited Mt. Rushmore on vacation. It contained a feather, two unique pennies, the back of a cub scout pin which had broken off of something meaningful. I think I remember a piece of string that I intended to use for some future invention. Yes, I once owned treasures.

In the grove across from our childhood home, I would find amazing sticks from time to time and always relished my good fortune. Holding it in my young hands, I would marvel at how the stick was so straight, so powerful! Not a single knot or irregularity! Only the luckiest boy in the world could find a stick like that. I could use it for ninja fighting or when I played pirates with some of the other neighborhood kids.

“Where did you get it?” I imagined other kids would say with ill-concealed jealousy.

“Oh this?” I would reply casually, twirling the stick over my head and catching it with ease. “I found it.”

When I left Kowalski’s short moments later, I saw the stick propped against the brick building. Mom and Dad had won. At that moment inside the store, their son was fretting, worried that someone might steal the one treasure he owned in the world, the one possession he could say was truly his.

I got in my car, strapped myself in. Thought of my writing day ahead and reflected how much I love salsa. Wondered if I should have gotten cheese to melt over the chips.

I also thought about how lucky I am to not be shopping for Christmas presents today. I’m remaining in Minnesota for Christmas, the first time ever, and while I will very much miss my Huntley family, I need this break from traveling and gift-buying. My best friend is visiting. We will stay up late gossiping. We will reveal sad stories. Eat amazing food.

My many Minnesota friends are eager to celebrate with Ann, so with these friends we will make fires in my fireplace, laugh until we can’t breathe, and become friends all over again. I will try to force everyone to drink egg nog, though most people I know hate it.

I have treasures in my life.

I hopped out of my car and approached the stick.

I carefully positioned four quarters around the base of the stick, arranged in a pattern so that the boy would know some stranger didn’t accidentally drop these coins. No, the boy is right: the stick is truly blessed.

I remember a time in my life when a quarter meant riches.

And four quarters?

Well, that was like Christmas.

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I’m thrilled. Tickled, even. I’ve been eagerly waiting for the professional need to write this. Huzzah! My book is getting published! But as I sit before the soft glowing screen staring at my fingers hovering above the keyboard, ready to sum my relationship with writing in 200 words or less (and in third person), I find myself lost.

I’ve been experimenting with different approaches.

There’s the historical approach:

Edmond Manning has been writing for many years, but his first works of fiction were simply atrocious. Seriously. Should you have been unfortunate enough to encounter any of the over-exclamation-pointed drivel, you would not purchase this book you’re currently considering. Which you should. Purchase it, that is, because those over-exclamated days are long over!!

The out-and-out bragging approach:

Edmond spent years studying literary masterpieces and more recently attended the renown University of Iowa’s Writing Program. He spent years analyzing the craft from granular sentence construction to the loftiest thematic structures by European greats, all in service to realizing potent, melodic paragraphs designed to make you weep openly, laugh heartily, and then go purchase a silk handkerchief for the mere purpose of throwing it at his feet like a true Victorian homeboy.

I dunno. It’s only 73 words.

Also, it lies. “Years studying literary masterpieces” means I spent my lonely teenage years reading every Charles Dickens book I could devour in my bedroom. I only attended a one-week summer seminar through the University of Iowa’s Writing Program, available to anyone with a checkbook, where I listened to estate lawyers sick of their profession argue about whether “good abs” was a character-defining trait.

I need a different approach.

I’ve been writing fiction for 20+ years and for most of that time, never took writing seriously. I felt objective enough to realize my material was high-end mediocre, certainly not publishable. (Ann, my awesome friend and all-time cheerleader, often disagreed. She is wonderful.) While I definitely wanted my writing to be amazing and even entertained fantasies of around-the-block lines for my book signings, I can’t say that I developed a serious plan to make any of that happen. (However, I did practice my fruity, author signature.)

I took a writing class here and there. Wrote 100 pages. Realized it was kinda crap. Repeated.

My former neighbor, Jenna, had similar aspirations but much to my surprise, she actually did something about it: she pursued a Creative Writing master degree from a prestigious university, and then launched a writing career. I didn’t know you could do that — make yourself better and go after what you wanted. She did. I’ve read her fiction and she did it: she won.

I watched her growing success with a detached curiosity and wondered why I did not have that same drive, that internal passion that said, “I want this more than anything.”

I took another writing class. Wrote another 100 pages.

Through it all, I enjoyed myself. I liked finding unusual stories, mapping conversations, and creating unique approaches to characters. But I didn’t see myself as a writer, not really. Where was the passion? Where was the drive that Jenna had?

In 2008, I wrote a short story about something not terribly important to me but important to a closeted 20-year-old I met online. He was sad and alone. I remembered those days well and decided he needed inspiration, so I wrote him a story and published it on a free website. This was my “It Gets Better” project before Dan Savage’s amazing It Gets Better project became a reality. I decided to try a few literary tricks, fuck with the point of view, throw in some masculine archetypes, some Joseph Campbell shit, because why the fuck not? Who cared? It was just a writing exercise.

Because I wasn’t writing SERIOUS FICTION and had dropped all expectations (i.e. literary pretensions), a curious thing happened. The story flowed through me, relaxed and intentional. Decades of sweeping out mediocre sentences paid off, transforming my writing with surprising grace into a Cinderella story, a lyrical, ball-gown construction resulting in Beautiful Sentences. I had written Beautiful Sentences. And I really, really liked what I wrote.

So I wrote a little more.

Emails from readers began pouring in. First dozens, then hundreds. Men and women from Europe, Africa, and quite a few from the USA. People mailed me gifts. Through this experience, I found an amazing editor who said ‘You should get published,’ and made several incredible friendships. I was shocked by the impact these stories created and how individuals attempted to integrate the fiction into their reality.

I have tried to describe the 2008 writing phenomenon to friends as one of those romantic comedies where the protagonist suddenly realizes he’s been in love with his best friend all these years, and so he races to break up her wedding before she can utter the words, “I do.” I’m not sure I could run to the church without ending up wheezing and huffing, hunched over, but still, it fits.

I love writing fiction.

I feel lucky to be in love with my best friend, and a little foolish when I consider how long it took me to arrive here, but still, happy and dazed. (One of the first things I did was to call Jenna and say, “I get it now. I want this more than anything.”) I had a fear of dying without knowing how I could serve a greater purpose in the world, how I could offer my unique flavor of love to a world that has loved me more than I deserve. I really wanted to uncover my big gift, the thing where my soul and spirit locked together and everything inside me sang, “I’m home.”

How about this:

Edmond Manning has always been fascinated by fiction: how ordinary words could be sculpted into heartfelt emotions, how heartfelt emotions could leave an imprint inside you stronger than the real world. Mr. Manning never felt worthy to tread down these hallowed halls as an author until recently, when he accidentally stumbled into his own writer’s voice that fit like his favorite skull-print, fuzzy jammies. He finally realized that he didn’t have to write like Dickens or Maupin, two author heroes, and that perhaps his own insignificant writing was perfect just because it was his true voice, so he looked around the scrappy word kingdom that he created for himself and shouted, “I’M HOME!” He is now a writer.

That’s 118 words.

It could work.

simply brilliant tales
ordinary writing shines
plain is beautiful

“Grams, you look different.”
Family can be purchased.
No exchange on love.

Ever since a monster and his princess sister showed up around 5:30, we’d been tossing candy into orange, plastic pumpkins, pillow cases, and flimsy, crinkled bags.

We cheered on their costumes, howled with fear when appropriate, and expressed deep shock and awe when two Incredible Hulks (possibly twin brothers) lumbered up the front steps. On the short breaks between ‘treaters, Ron and I lazed on my couch telling Halloween tales which morphed into stories of stupid things we did as kids.

Each doorbell buzz made us jump and grab a fistful of chocolate. Over the evening, we handed out hundreds and hundreds of candy bars.

Best moment: Ron would sometimes put on the gorilla claw and while I handed out candy, make clawing motions at the kids. A young Superman shouted, “YOU DON’T SCARE ME.” While I handed out candy to his brother and two sisters, Ron turned around and put on the gorilla mask and jumped back toward Superman, prompting the man of steel to scream like a 10-year-old girl. Then he composed himself and yelled at Ron, “I’M NOT SCARED.”

Some didn’t participate much, older kids who looked at us with a surly expression, demanding in a bored voice, “Trick or Treat.” But most kids were amazing, bashful and stumbling, terrified to say the catch phrase, but once the goal was accomplished, they looked back in awe that this worked, these magic words, and only then they shouted with glee, “HAPPY HALLOWEEN.”

I love the Spidermans with puffy chests, Batmans who struggle to see out their mask eyeholes, and shy vampires. We got several variations on the Scream movie ghoul, including one with blood that dripped down the face. I yelled, “Holy crap that is scary!” and our temporary guest giggled and squeezed the bulb that made the fake blood spill out. I yelped again and he giggled again, delighted to be able to scare someone bigger than him.

It was a good night.

Like most people, I love Halloween.

The orange and black, the chill in the air, the mysterious other worldliness, and simply being scared. I mean, a little scared, not cancer scared. Blair Witch scared.

There’s enough to seriously terrify me these days, politics and the economy alone, forgetting momentarily about environmental disaster, crazy-spreading diseases, and the fact that CSI can have two or three spinoffs. Can there really be that many serial killers out there? I sometimes lie in bed wondering, ‘What will the world be like in a year? Will I even survive it?’

The enormity of this future overwhelms me quite frankly, so it’s fun to be a little scared of ridiculous things like zombies and ghosts. They’re easier to take these days.

Last weekend, I baked Halloween gingerbread cookies and delivered them frosted and decorated to my Illinois family. They loved the giant leaves and ghost cookies, but my sister pointed at the star-shaped cookies and asked, “Why stars?” Rather than admit the simple truth that I don’t own many Halloween cookie cutters, I shrugged it off by saying, “They’re haunted stars.”

We spent a delightful October weekend together. I mean, delightful. Yes, we do not share the same values on many issues. But we genuinely love each other. The more of us family gathered in one room, the more love we feel.

It’s harder to generate that happy glow with one of our key founders missing. Some days, thinking about my dad is like stepping on a tack, which means I don’t burst into tears in Target and curl up in a shopping cart, but rather, I say, Ow, dammit, ow. Fucking hurts. And after a minute of feeling sorry for myself, I drift into some better memory of him, and it’s okay again.

Saturday afternoon, Mom, Eileen, and I changed the over-sized storm window, the big pain-in-the-ass window we have been changing every Spring and Fall my entire life. As a kid, I watched Dad stride across the steeply-pitched roof tiles with billy goat agility, carrying a damn heavy glass window, while simultaneously yelling at me to go meet him on the other side, reminding me to take a screw driver.

He impressed the hell out of me.

But he’s not around; we had to change that window. Ow, dammit, ow.

The three of us managed to launch me up to the steeply-pitched roof and with a Phillips I unscrewed the little wood blocks my dad invented to secure this ancient pane. From this vantage point, the rich afternoon sunlight hit the thick, yellow leaves everywhere, making me feel golden inside, loved and happy and free. The world is messed up, but we are creatures of love. We will figure this out.

While screwing in the storm, I couldn’t help but notice that all the roof gutters were crammed full of leaf sludge, black walnut water and cold, greasy mush.

Completely and utterly revolting.

I absently started pulling out a few clumps with my bare hands. Each handful felt like tearing eggshells, rotten green beans, and tangled wet hair from the kitchen drain. I don’t even have long hair.

After the storm window chore, I had planned to go for a perfect-October-Saturday-afternoon walk around my home town but the sun was already threatening to crash in an hour and these gutters weren’t going to clean themselves. I argued with myself, claiming it was ridiculous to clean them, as clearly they’d been packed with squirrel vomit for months without incident. Why not wait for another weekend?

But in the middle of each new argument, I would reach in and pull out more sludge. I kept thinking about how much damage these packed gutters could do to the roof. I feel like I could see the ghost of my dad standing on the lawn grinning up at me, yelling, “View’s not so much fun from up there, is it?”

I am my father’s son, so I spent the next hour cleaning out the gutters by hand, then swept/raked up the black goo with a wet broom. Filled up a giant garbage bag. From the ground, Mom and Eileen figured out an ingenious way for me drop the goop without the bag bursting like a balloon.

The gutters got cleaned.

But I missed my October sunset walk.

Some days, I do not care for adulthood. (The more adolescent me would have used the phrase ‘fucking adulthood’ but see, I’m more grown up than that.)

I don’t want to retake Algebra and endure pimples again, but I want to spend quality time focused on obtaining free candy and obsessing over my costume details to make sure I am super tough-looking, or the perfect sour and scary.

Later that Saturday night, I did take my walk through my hometown, down the dimly lit street lights in Huntley. Each time I visit, I love this town more, cherishing the charming, dark streets where I have so much history.

I walked to Bernice Heinemann’s house and marveled at the force she was in my childhood. I’ve never met anyone kinder, not ever, and she had no good reason to be filled with such grace. Bernice lived a hard life. Both of her sons died in the same plane crash. And yet when she spoke to us kids, her eyes sparkled with joy. We loved her so much that we made her an honorary grandmother and we loved explaining this to her, repeatedly. She seemed to like it. She made Rice Krispie treats layered with a perfect chocolate. They were exquisite.

She’s gone.

None of you will ever meet her. You may appreciate her story, but I’m telling you, she glowed with love. Glowed. Every time I seriously doubt the existence of God or the Sparkling Spirit or whatever, I think, ‘Well then how do you explain Bernice?’

Continuing around town, I ended up in front of Grandma Hemmer’s home and studied its contour, recalling a few dozen of our hundreds of visits. Grandma Hemmer’s cookies arrived weekly with her Monday’s laundry. We’d endure the pecan sandies week, love the frosted molasses raisin week, but lived for the far-too-infrequent chocolate chip week. The cookies, her stories, the treasures we found in her purse. Her scary attic with dolls whose eyes opened. She watched us whenever we were sick and listened to our moaning without complaint. That woman loved the shit out of us.

She’s gone.

It’s Halloween night and I sure hope the world is full of ghosts.

I wouldn’t mind if they drifted into my living room sometimes and let me see the worn, soft eyes I miss so much. I want to see my Dad’s irritated scowl and hear his easy laugh that made other people laugh. I want to hear Bernice’s high, crisp voice telling a pinochle story, how someone overbid their spades. I want the ghostly apparition of Grandma’s knuckles rapping on the kitchen table like they did when you were taking too long, in her opinion, to play a card.

So, you know, ghost me up, Pops.

Now that we’re both adults, Bernice, I’d really like to talk to you again. I’d really to understand how you radiated joy after all the hurts you lived through.

I should admit that I do fear these ghosts. I sometimes fear they might be disappointed in me, that I am not living up to the examples they established. In my defense, these people set the bar pretty damn high. Other days, I am confident they adore me still and instead I fear forgetting some small nuance of personality or gesture erased in me due to years of absence. I try to remember Grandma’s under-her-breath humming. Bernice’s crooked gait.

But I will do my best to face those fears. Like Superman himself, I will screech out, “I’M NOT AFRAID” even when I am. And perhaps in that moment, the costume becomes real, and I will not be quite so afraid.

Thank you, little Superman.

Happy Halloween.

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