Clouded Clarity

The worst time to blog for me is late at night, after driving all day, and not getting much sleep the night before. But it is often at times like this -- near exhaustion -- that clarity imposes itself on my, otherwise, cloudy mental state.

I don't know about regular people, but this writer spends many days lost in a haze. I sometimes believe my ideas for stories are born from the fuzz of my consciousness. Not trying to sound deep, but am merely trying to explain something about myself.

In most of the blogs I write, I talk about writing, or craft them in a way that makes me appear to you, my readers, like a writer.

At times like this, I sometimes just want to write. Or share. Maybe it's that I want to open up.

I don't do that often. If ever. Not for real.

I'm good at breaking off relative insignificant bits of my heart and passing them off as soul-bearing. But it's really bits. Always bits. Morsels that wouldn't, shouldn't satisfy anyone listening. I feel like a magician when this happens. They way I talk, act -- behave -- it's convincing. You believe it's me your hearing about. You believe I'm the me that's being displayed.

I write dark thrillers. Pretty much always have. And even now, writing Christian suspense, they're still dark.

It's always about darkness.

The difference is, when I write, I am in control. I can create a world where, in a sense, I am God. I know what's going to happen before it happens. I am in charge of who says, and who does, what.

That, let me tell you, is satisfying.

Do I really think I'm God? Let's not be silly. Of course not. He has a job I'd never want.

If you read my books. If you know me. You will see a piece of me in each and every character. From the dumb dry sense of humor, to the ... well, to the I'm not really sure what else, aside from the dumb dry sense of humor.

But I'm in there. Me.

I have no idea who it was that said, "Writing's easy, all you need to do is open an artery and bleed ..." Or some such thing. You get the idea. It's blood that goes into writing for most writers. A manuscript is like a baby. One we writers have given birth to.

And I'm straying. I'm off topic. Because this isn't a blog about me the writer, as much as it is supposed to be about me. The person behind the writer.

Write about what you know. That's a rule many writers are taught.

It couldn't be any more true. When I was fourteen the first story I wrote was about a teenage dishwasher who becomes a busboy. I was a dishwasher who became a busboy. At fourteen, that's what I'd accomplished in life. That's what I wrote about.

My writing has matured, I believe, along with me. I've done more. Experienced more. Felt more. Saw more. And as a writer, I try to capture events and snapshots of my life and use them in the characters I create to make the story I tell more ... relate-able. Sometimes it works. Sometimes, not so much.

It seems like more and more I focus on my failures, and fears, and hesitations, and short comings, and spill them out into my fiction. Fiction is factual. Has to be. And finding the words and scenes and emotions needed to fill an empty page is not something I struggle with.

No one has led a perfect life. Life is not meant to go your way all of the time.

It's just that sometimes, I'd like to see the pain, the misery and the anguish of life let up a little. Just a little. As a person, a human, I need a breather every once in a while. I need to be let up from out of the deep depths for even a chance to fill my lungs with oxygen.

I'm laughing right now. I've taken a moment to go back and read the rambling rant I've written. And the truth of what I said at the beginning continues to hold true.

This is merely a morsel. A bit I've broken off from my heart and am now attempting to feed to you, my readers. But what insight have I given you?

That I'm in pain?

Who isn't? Everyone is in some kind of pain. Headed for some kind of pain. Or just getting over something painful. Again, that's life.

I've heard people say that artists (if you wish to call me an artist) can create art because they are a tortured soul. (This is yet another quote, or saying that I am badly messing up. But it's past midnight, and I'm in no mood to research the Internet for more accurate accounts. Not now. Not tonight).

So why write this blog, anyway?

I have no idea. It was in me, though. I thought about it on my drive back from Binghamton tonight. Three and half hours alone in the car, I had time to think. Time, for me, can sometimes be nothing more than an enemy.

Sympathy is not something I am looking for. Or empathy. And I am not trying to cause anyone concern. I'm actually just trying, and not succeeding, to open up. To share.

One reason I believe my marriage failed was centered on this very point.

I love to say that the leading cause of divorce is marriage. (That quote, I got right).

But I've heard the stats. Communication is key to successful relationships. And when it comes to communicating, ironically, I fall short. Every time. I fall very short.

There has got to be a bright side to this blog. I'm trying to look at it like a story. I'm writing it. Therefore, I am in control of the blog's outcome. Putting a positive spin on the despair I've just "penned" is within my power.

And yet, as I look across the room at my bed, I realize that getting sleep -- me falling to sleep right now -- is the highlight, it is the only positive outcome. The day is over. Half the night, too.

But, hey. There's always tomorrow.

I'll end this with something I always say. One day at a time. It's all we can do, all we can be expected to do.

Thanks for reading.

Have a great night and God bless.

Thomas Phillips

The Harvest Show (Pt. III)

It was time for me to take a seat on the set next to the two hosts that would be interviewing me, Kelly Morgan and Stefan Radelich. After the assistant producer clipped a mike to my sport coat, and attached the battery to the back of my pants, I stepped onto the stage, and immediately felt the heat from the lights. (This might explain why, off stage, the place felt more like an igloo.)

While we were still on a commercial break, Larry used my digital camera to snap photos of me with the hosts.

I'd asked the assistant producer earlier where I was supposed to look during the interview. Just make eye contact with hosts? Look at the camera? Keep my eyes closed?

I was instructed to constantly look at Kelly and Stefan. Never at the camera.

Naturally, as soon as I got comfy in the leather chair, the mike battery unclipped off my pants.

Ten seconds left of the last commercial.

I fumbled with the clip and finally just left it behind me and hoped if I sat on it by accident, it wouldn't cut out sound.

Then we were live.

Kelly and Stefan spent the next twelve minutes asking me questions that ranged from my growing up with a reading disability, and hating to read, to Wicca, research and the plot for the Molech Prophecy.

Luckily, they were questions I'd answered a million times before. Being comfortable with the questions helped me relax, and focus. And before I knew it, the interview was ending. It was over.

After the taping of the show, and Larry headed off to the airport, I was given a tour of the studio. LeSea is an impressive facility with stations across the globe. I will not get into all I learned, but encourage you to read up on the history of this network. Before leaving I was given a DVD of the show which included my interview and was off to the airport.

So. It's 10:30 AM. My flight out of Indiana is at 3:28 PM.

I have a book with me, Charlie Huston's Six Bad Things. (I'd finished reading Every Last Drop on the flights down). But I was tired and if I read too much, I knew I'd fall asleep.

The plan was to get something to eat, hit the gift shops -- because I knew my kids would expect something on my return -- and walk the airport people watching, read and eventually board my flight.

Unfortunately, if you have never been to the South Bend Airport, there is only one sandwich shop, one gift shop. So I ate, bought some small gifts and walked the airport twice.

Now, it was close to 11:00.

Uh-huh.

So I sat by United Express and took my book out of my bag. My airline tickets were my bookmark. I studied them.

Departing South Bend: 3:28 PM
Arriving O'Hara Chicago: 3:25 PM

I looked at it again. Panic filled me. Someone messed up my tickets. How in the world could I leave at 3:28 and land three minutes earlier? Impossible!

I ran up to the United counter. I showed the woman at the ticket booth my tickets. "Someone made a mistake on my tickets!" I wanted this cleared up. I didn't want to be stranded anywhere. I knew I had plenty of time before my flight left -- but you never know.

The woman smiled at me in the way older people smile at kids who have done something cute. "That's because Chicago's in a different time zone."

"Well, yeah," I said. I needed to pull this off so I didn't look too stupid. "I just assumed the tickets would show a consistent time ..."

Didn't work.

"But if you want," she said. "We can get you to Chicago on a flight leaving in a half hour?"

I exchanged tickets and took an early flight to O'Hara. I figured, at least in Chicago airport (which is Huge, Rochester, Huge), I could people watch, roam around and read if I wanted with plenty of activity going on all around. My flight out of O'Hara to Rochester was scheduled to leave at 4:54 PM ... or would it be 3:54? To be honest, at this point, no clue. I just knew that, no matter what, I'd be there and ready ahead of schedule.

I landed in O'Hara and thought, hey -- maybe I could exchange my late flight for an earlier flight to Rochester. I wasn't going to hold my breath. But when I asked at the counter, I was told a flight was leaving for Rochester in two hours. I was told they'd transfer my suitcase to that flight and that I'd be all set --but to check before boarding to ensure my suitcase made it.

I wasn't getting on a plane without my suitcase in the belly of the beast. As it turns out, you can't anyway. I suppose that makes perfect sense, when you think about it.

A half hour before boarding time, I checked with the United employee to see if my bag had transferred successfully. It hadn't.

Great.

She said she'd check again in a half hour. She made some calls. Put some stuff into the computer about my bag and told me to have a seat. (I thought, whoever she called, and what ever she entered on her computer, wouldn't make a difference. Looking for a single rectangular shaped, black suitcase was hardly any one's priority...)

I was the last to stand to board. I asked the woman if she could double check on my bag. This time, I did hold my breath. I did not want to sit in an airport any longer, and just wanted to get home.

The bag had made it. It was on the plane. I was assigned a seat on the 737--No one sitting near, or even across from me -- and before I knew it, I was landing, safely, back in Rochester.

Overall, the experience had been awesome. I love to travel. Had never been to Indiana (or Chicago, lol), and had never been interviewed on a National TV show. If I never write again, if I never have anything new published ever again, I don't care. I really don't. I've been blessed time and again, and have done things others have only dreamed of doing.

Listen, thanks for reading this "The Harvest Show" series. Please stop back regularly, as I am committed to blogging on a much more regular basis!

If you haven't read The Molech Prophecy, it is in stores nationally, and can easily be ordered online!

Have a wonderful week!

Thomas Phillips
Author of The Molech Prophecy