I’ve been slowly working my way back into things in the writing realm of late. More than anything, writing is an escape, a way to make sense of life when I can’t quite seem to do it on my own. It’s a way to put onto the page things I’m not quite sure of. Today, I dusted off a story in another writing realm (sports fiction) that I’ve been working on. An alternate history type of thing — it’s just for fun and has no serious goal, other than to tell an entertaining (if not tragic) tale, one filled with drama and narratives galore (as sports is wanton to do).

I got inspired to go ahead and move forward with a major plot point I’ve been debating for months — killing off a POV character which I really, really liked. And I did it in the cheapest way possible, an off-screen death which was blindsiding and surprising all in one. I hope those who read it don’t take offense to it, but it needed to be done in order to progress the story along.

It was empowering, to say the least, and it got me thinking if I was breaking some sort of unwritten writing rule. Sports often has a list of “unwritten rules” that the players in it don’t break, for fear of shame or being blacklisted. The prime example of this would be Pete Rose, who broke baseball’s cardinal rule of gambling on his team. Rose, if you’re not familiar, was one of baseball’s greatest players but has been banned for life from it’s Hall of Fame. He broke that rule, a rule that wasn’t unwritten but a rule nonetheless.

That got me thinking. What are the rules of writing? What exactly should one do in certain spots?

Which brings me to this list of rules that I abide by but don’t necessarily expect anyone else to. Everyone writes their own way, so by all means ignore most, if not all, what I write here. But do think about how you write — examine it, analyze it, mediate on it. Looking at the process might help you identify some things that work more than others. As with anything in life, finding your strengths and weaknesses is part of getting better — if you choose to try. Which brings me to my first rule …

Rule #1: Don’t Be Afraid to Try Anything and Everything.

Try. Try it all. It sounds stupid, because you simply don’t do this in life. You don’t try food you’re allergic to (because it might kill you), you don’t try on clothes that don’t fit (because they’re either too big on you or choke you to death), and you don’t try to perform ridiculously athletic stunts if you’re prone to injury (unless someone dares you, in which case you might try and injury yourself but at least you tried).

But in writing? Try it all. Try anything and everything, write things against your natural instincts sometimes. I’m not saying to always do it, because a lot of the time a story needs to be told in one way and you have to find the right words/phrases/description for it. I get that — I struggle with that. But, in my experience, it’s not a bad idea to just try something and stick it out there.

Fear — insecurity, really — is a writer’s greatest enemy. We are our worst critics. We can love something one day and the next morning look at it and feel like utter shit. We can hate ourselves for failing to achieve something, even though we really haven’t failed.

It’s not failing if you try. It’s only failing if you don’t.

Rule #2: Always Write Something.

Stephen King said this originally, I believe, and I agree with him: always write something. Anything. The reason I have so many writing projects going on is not because I like to have that many (I have a bad case of writer ADD and it hampers my efficiency, no doubt), but because I’m bound to write something for one of them. Even this blog (or my other blog) is writing something — any sort of focused writing will do.

Random posts on Facebook don’t count, unless you’re responding to a writing prompt: in which case, that counts. Twitter doesn’t count either (I hate the 140 character limit, it kills me). But some sort of focused writing works. Inspiration can come from anywhere, but I particularly like prompts. The Weekly Free Writes over at Ad Astra are a great way to get things in gear (you don’t even have to post them there, I have a ton of stuff I have written in response to the prompts that have never seen the light of day). It doesn’t have to be seen by anyone but you, but find a way to squeeze some words out, even if it’s only a 100 of them. Every little bit counts.

Rule #3: Find What Inspires You and Keep Coming Back To It.

It’s easy to say, but in practice it’s hard. Inspiration isn’t a consistent thing for most writers I know — we have highs and lows, and that’s a function of being the creative type of people we are. There are ruts and there are grooves, but when you find that inspiration, don’t let go. Keep coming back to it, even if you have to put the same song on repeat for four hours at a time (been there, done that).

Whether it’s music or art, whether it’s a particular episode or series, a movie, exercise, what have you — don’t be afraid to tap the vein for all it’s worth. There’s a thought out there, at least for myself, that I should “save” some of it, stash it away for a dry day but the problem is that inspiration comes and goes — it’s not savable. It’s there, a one shot deal, so when you see it, hold onto it for dear life and don’t let go until it’s been spent.

There’s a sports adage that says you can’t take your timeouts home with you, which basically means they’re good in the game and that’s it — they have no use otherwise. Inspiration, for me, is much the same way: it’s good when I’m writing but it stops being useful when I stop writing. As long as I’m writing, as long as I’m in the game, I can use it. When it’s done, when I’m done, it’s over and it goes away.

It’ll come back, it always does, but finding it takes a little while, or a long while, or sometime in-between and it can be frustrating.

Find your inspiration. Find it and use it.

That’s it for the rules right now. I’ll add more in future posts, I’m sure. As always, thanks for reading folks. Feel free to add some of your own rules in the comments below or start a topic in our forums.

Live long and prosper.

I’ve been quiet since the new year has rolled around. We’re in 2015 now (surprise!) and we’re without hoverboards, flying cars, the Cubs winning the World Series (sorry Cubbies), and nuclear generators that fuel our vehicles. But Nike is giving us the power laces!

Still, all that said, it’s been a quiet few months from my end, writing wise. Oh, sure, I’ve poured out my heart (and soul and blood and tears ect) into a few blog posts here and on another site. But as far as fiction writing goes, I have been dead creatively.

I’ve been dead since I got a taste of … life. That one week in November with that one girl from work was astounding on a lot of fronts, but it drove home how woefully inadequate my writing was in describing those types of romantic encounters. I mean, really, my writing skills just didn’t do it even remote justice.

With that first-hand experience now mine (as opposed to something someone relayed to me) I’ve been finding it difficult to write; I’ve been questioning everything that came before, naturally, but I’ve been finding it harder to think about what to write next.

Honestly, I’m more interested in trying to live my life instead of writing about one, and it’s the first time I can claim that. Living my life isn’t a favorite pastime of mine — I’d almost rather be writing about something else. But I had a girl like me enough to put up with me, hold my hand, and kiss me (repeatedly!) for just a week, but what a week.

And that week confirmed many things people had told me since I went from fat guy to not-fat guy; basically boiling down to “You’re not unlovable” and “you just need to put yourself out there.” Well, once more, it seems that people were right — again. I want to quote stats and odds, but I can’t in this. It happened and it was great and people were right.

I was me. I was myself and I got a taste of something great.

And I’m having difficulty translating that real-life experience into something to put on a page, at least in terms of fiction anyway. The Muse and I aren’t at odds so much as the Muse is speaking a new language. Probably a language everyone else, more experienced than I in life, has already mastered.

But I haven’t mastered it. I can make out a few words and phrases here and there, but I’m distracted by the newness, one, and the strangeness, two. They are separate things for me — it’s a new language and so I’m trying to figure out how things sound in it, but I’m drawing comparisons to the old language to do it. It’s a slow process.

And it’s strange because I never thought I’d really get to this point. It’s all well and good to talk and hope, but talk and hope matter little in real life: it’s actions that speak. This is a stark reality I have come across in recent years; people don’t seem to truly believe another person’s words unless they’re backed by actions.

Which brings me to my problem with the Muse’s new language: as far as “actions” go, I only performed a precious few in that week. How exactly am I supposed to write about the other types of actions one performs in the midst of romantic encounters? Making-out, sex, weddings, getaways … all of it is beyond my experience level.

This wasn’t a problem before because all of it was beyond my experience level, but that’s not true now: kissing, hand holding, arm looping, swaying to the wind — that’s mine now. Those are my experiences.

I commonly wrote above my experience level before but everything before seemed out of reach, or, at the very least, further down the road. That’s not so true here.

So, the Muse is speaking a new language and I’m having trouble deciphering it. This, very clearly, represents a divide in my writing, where real-life experiences influence the fictional lives I write. I’m going to have to practice writing with this new language, but it’s going to be a process.

I’m already beginning to work myself back into things with the wonderfully timely Weekly Free Write for this week, “Turning Points.” There’s a story there that ties directly into this, but we’ll get to that soon.

As always, any and all comments are welcome. Thanks for reading.

So, we’ve arrived at the final post on this subject. I’ve told the story, I’ve given the context, I’ve listed some life lessons and some writing ones, but now we come to the answer on why all this even matters. After all, she DID break it off.

“Why do you still care?” you ask.

The answer is simple, at least on the surface: I want Abbey.

Yes, it’s a rather trite turn of phrase, isn’t it? I’ve had multitudes of discussions on this entire situation over the last two weeks, with people on the forums (whom have provided great advice and insight) and my best friend (who has counseled me with similarly great advice and insight). The trusted people in my life, from my family on the forums to my best friend (whom is family) have all agreed: don’t push, be her friend, but don’t assume it’s dead — she didn’t say “never again” after all.

And guess who else told me to have hope? None other than Abbey, the night before she broke it off. She admonished me for being a hopeless romantic and told me I should be a hopeful one. I’ll admit, probably reading into that too much, but it’s a point in my favor, IMO.

I want her and I’m not under the impression it’s a one way thing. She initiated the hand-holding, the arm-looping, and the kissing — not me. That has to take a certain amount of “want” from the initiating party, doesn’t it?

But, why exactly, does any of the above matter if she ended it? Because, being on this end of things, doesn’t feel right. It feels wrong. Here are the reasons why I think this has a chance of working.

1. We get along really well.

I click with this girl like I have with few others. She’s ideal in multiple categories and, though I acknowledge that’s a dangerous thing, I don’t see it that way. She’s incredibly intelligent, has traveled (she’s seen various places in Europe, from Paris to Rome), is cultured (likes plays, dancing) and is a nerd, like myself. Her nerd love is Dr. Who, mine is Star Trek, and we’re both watchers of both things (though she’s still got a long way to go for Trek).

I’ve clicked with people like this in the single digits — add in the gender, and she’s one of three girls I’ve ever clicked with like this and she’s the only one out of the bunch who was single at the time.

2. The odds are against us.

The odds paint this as a harrowing, difficult, nearly impossible thing to pull off. Our respective religions don’t make this easy.

“Shouldn’t that be a bad thing?”

No, not for me. Historically, I thrive on long-shot odds. I lost 133 pounds in 11 months time. I survived two tire blowouts going really fast on busy interstates in the span of two months. I managed not to kill myself by refusing to go to the hospital for nearly two weeks (not my best moment), I survived multiple self-inflicted injuries over my childhood (I’ve never broken anything despite some amazingly poor decisions on my part) and my nearly 22-year-old car is still going (despite my poor automotive skills).

This is a long-shot thing. Just like the two of us meeting was (even though we had lived in the same area for over a decade). It’s a hard thing, a difficult thing, and a big thing — a combination of things that doesn’t make me scared.

3. She brings me peace.

Consumed as I have been with this, you’d think I’d have trouble sleeping. But I haven’t. My mind has a tendency to park itself in worst-case scenarios at night — whether that’s reflecting on horrible things that could happen to people I care about to reflecting on horrible “what ifs” from my past, sleep is not a given for me.

But it’s a given these last few weeks as I’ve had my focus on Abbey. One could call this obsessive and maybe it is, I don’t know for sure and I’m certainly not objective enough to clear myself of all charges.

4. I have eyes only for her.

This might be improper to admit, but I’m a guy and our eyes tend to wander during this stage of life. I’m a mid-twentysomething male with four eyes (glasses count) and they don’t wander anymore, not since this whole thing began. Is it horribly cliche and completely corny? Probably, but it’s true.

5. We have just as many differences as similarities and that’s pretty cool.

The biggest difference is that she’s a Whovian and I’m a Trekkie … 😉

Really, the big thing is the difference in religions. And this is where a lot of soul searching has had to take place, at least on my part. I was sure, sitting in my car and listening to her break up with me, that we could make this work. I said as much, but those things said in the heat of the moment could easily change with time and perspective.

Even with as much research as I’ve done, with the accounts I’ve read, with the measurements I’ve taken of my feelings and thoughts, I still strongly believe we’d make it work. Not because either of us are weak in our own faiths (a common phrase found in the accounts I read), but because both us are practical enough to understand we’re not enemies.

We’re not enemies. We’re different, but that doesn’t make us enemies and this isn’t some war to win or lose. It’s not a battle. It’s one person’s beliefs working in tandem with another person’s, not against.

I can’t convert to Mormonism for her because A) she doesn’t want me to (her words) and B) I don’t agree with some of their beliefs.

Mormonism was something she was raised with, since she was a kid, and it’s helped make her … her. It can’t be all bad if she’s a result of being raised in it. This is probably the one thing I’d like to say the most out of everything else listed here … this is the thing that might have allowed it NOT to end in my car two weeks ago.

As such, if Mormonism helped make her into the person she is then it has positives, even if there are things I don’t agree with. If it came down to it, in a hypothetical future scenario, I’d let her raise our hypothetical future kids in it.

Despite knowing the hell and flak I’d catch for that decision from multiple parties, I have no right to condemn something I don’t fully understand. I’m converting to Catholicism for God’s sake and it’s not as though Catholicism has been free of crimes in its history. No religion is innocent of anything because religions involve people and people are sinful, no matter what their title or position.

6. Life doesn’t seem so scary with her.

Life is big. It’s full of big things, big decisions, and a constant, ticking clock that could stop ticking any second of any day. Life is short, it’s long, it’s a conundrum and it’s blessedly simple, all in one.

It’s a scary, scary mess. And it doesn’t seem so scary with her.

Sure, you could easily make the case that I’m just stuck on her, and you might be right — I can’t claim to know what the feeling is. But I don’t feel that’s the case.

7. Everything happens for a reason.

Remember, I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t even really want this job because it’s retail, during the holiday season, and I pulled this stint last year and it wasn’t fun. I hated work last year. I tolerate it pretty well this year.

And I can’t believe in coincidences anymore. I just can’t.

The first day of orientation, when I was called in to run through the stupid employee videos and such, we were all crammed into a room and we had folders in certain seats with our name on it. Except, we all just chose our seats. I picked the seat with Abbey’s folder.

“Small, insignificant, random drivel! That doesn’t matter!”

Probably not. Maybe I’m looking for a pattern that doesn’t exist, but maybe I’m not wrong. Everyone always assumes that such things are just dumb little coincidences and that any case made otherwise is wrong.

What if I’m right?

8. Stop looking for the right person and become the right person.

She makes me a better person. It’s not simply because I’m better feeling but because, in our brief time together, I haven’t lied to her once.

Think about that in the grander context.

I’m a better liar than I’d like to be (a skill I improved on significantly in college). I can lie at the drop of a hat; coming up with fiction is easy. But, for some reason, Abbey inspires a sense of honesty about me that makes lying a far second to telling the truth. We’ve exchanged some hard truths with one another during that week of bliss, truths you don’t necessarily tell a person in the beginning of a relationship. But we told those truths.

And it worked. I don’t know if I am the right person for her (I hope I am, I want to be) but she makes me a better one.

9. We flirt like hell with one another.

If this were truly dead, the flirting wouldn’t happen. It wouldn’t exist. It would be awkward and a bit depressing, but this has been anything but that. There’s a pulse here and, though I’m rather unschooled in the ways of this, that says to me there’s hope. It would be something if she was like that with other guys, but she’s not (as far as I’m aware).

10. I care about her.

And that’s probably the only reason that matters. Even if this doesn’t have a chance of working (a strong possibility), I do care and I want her to be happy: I think I can do that, I think our interactions prove that, but it takes two to tango, as the old saying goes.

For now, I’m dancing alone, but I’m not dead yet.

My mantra is simple: I want Abbey. I’m not going to push or pull, I can’t say anything I’ve said here (at this point), I just have to try and figure out where to go and what to do. It’s not easy, it’s rather confusing, but it’s not depressing.

It’s hopeful.

So, the background has been given and a few life lessons have been learned. But, how has this entire thing benefited my writing? Well, in a few ways actually, so let’s roll down the list.

1. Relationships are far more nuanced than I originally gave them credit for.

You know, I figured there were only about three different states of relationships: the friend, the boyfriend/girlfriend, and the one-sided feelings. That was it. My writings reflect this, I think.

As we speak, I’m somewhere in between the friend stage and the boyfriend stage … I don’t know what to call this stage other than “more than friends” but that implies a certain level of physical intimacy that simply doesn’t exist between us (at least not in the traditional sense).

I’m stuck in this in-between zone and I don’t hate it; it’s certainly weird, and it’s different, and I like aspects of it (namely, interacting with her) but there seems to be a ceiling — I have yet to actually hang out with her as a friend only (and all attempts to do so have been turned down, though my attempts haven’t been outstanding by any measurement).

In my writings, this area that I’m in simply doesn’t really exist — you could make a case that Hank/Bethany might traverse into this territory during the latter stages of their relationship, but I never envisioned it things like this.

2. Flirting is fun.

I write a few flirty characters in my stories, but the level of fun they have seems small compared to the fun I’ve had. Playful dialogue and witty remarks are rife within this entire situation of mine and I don’t think I’ve portrayed that nearly as well as I could have.

There’s a certain level of tension in the interactions between Abbey and myself, a tension that’s not bad but there … the best parallel I can come up with is an instrument: guitar strings have to have tension in order to play well.

I feel like, in this situation, that tension between the two of us is part of the reason WHY we get along so well. Why we play so well together, so to speak.

In my writings this seems to be a missing element, at least in comparison to my feelings now as opposed to my feelings during my multitude of writings.

3. Heartbreak is more like an illness than a feeling.

Being heartbroken sucks, let’s just get this out of the way. I’d like to lobby to change the word to “heart sickness” but I doubt it’ll catch on.

Heartbreak feels like getting sick and just being done with life for a period of a few days. During my LONG weekend to think about how it all came crashing down, I felt like I was ill. I don’t recall feeling quite so bad in the past, but I’ve never gotten this far in the past.

In my writings, heartbreak is portrayed as more of a feeling … and that’s simply not the case, at least not exclusively. Heartbreak is an illness more than anything, and like any illness, it can last varying amounts of time.

The only reason I’m still not heartbroken is because I work with the girl, and we still work really well together (on multiple levels). That gives me hope (and other things as well, but we’ll elaborate on that in the final post).

4. The future is heavy.

Writing primarily in the 24th/25th century, there are just some things about the future one doesn’t worry about. Money, healthcare, finding a place to live … the universe of Star Trek has all that covered. It’s actually pretty nice, from a writing perspective, but it doesn’t mirror reality at all.

Reality is far starker than that. In my theoretical assumptions, in my time lost down the rabbit hole, I had to consider a lot of future scenarios and finances, healthcare, and housing arrangements all reared their ugly head. This stuff MATTERS and it’s fine to consider it in theory, but it just isn’t hammered home unless you’re really thinking about it.

Which, I did, and it wasn’t a set of pleasant thoughts.

In my writings, I definitely need to find something that echos this concern for the time-period; galactic politics, race relations, scary technology … something along those lines would probably work.

5. It is absolutely possible to be fixated on just one girl.

One of my enduring self-criticisms in my writings comes from the Hank/Bethany relationship and how Hank always has her on his mind in some form or another. I always found it a straight bit of fiction, definitely something that couldn’t really exist.

I find myself agreeing with my portrayal — maybe not over that long a time period (staying on someone’s mind is much easier when you see that someone often) — but it’s definitely possible over a short time period. My thoughts have been centered on Abbey for most of the last three weeks … admittedly, I am trying to solve a few problems and constant analysis is my go-to solution to do that, but the point remains that it’s possible.

6. Describing the sensations felt during the process of kissing/hand-holding is hard.

My descriptive process in that realm needs a lot of work. Not sure how to put the things felt during those things into words … but those things felt were awesome.

That’s the end of the list, at least for here. In the next and final post, I’ll go ahead and throw out my conclusions drawn from all this (there are a lot). As always, any and all comments are welcome. Thanks for reading, folks.

So, where did we leave off? Ah, yes, Thanksgiving week (continuing with more context, then we’ll get to the other things).

I have little appreciation for Thanksgiving nowadays. In the past, it was always a holiday I could look forward to for the great food. But, since I lost weight, I’ve viewed the holiday as more of an excuse to eat poorly than anything.

That, combined with the usual loneliness, makes Thanksgiving my second-least favorite holiday (Valentine’s Day is the first). This year, like the year before, I had to stay back and work while my family went to visit my relatives in Florida. Coming off a break-up (or whatever you could call it), I wasn’t in a particularly good spot last week.

Monday rolled around and I was still heartsick over things. Our shifts were scheduled separately, so I didn’t get to see her really that day. I was stuck on the afternoon/evening shift, and she was working the early morning shift. I thought I had missed her by the time 12:30 rolled around and part of me was glad.

But my head was stuck in it and I missed her. And then, as I glanceed down the main aisle, I see she’s walking toward me. We strike up a conversation, like we had so many times before, and things flow easily between us. We snark at each other and relay what’s happened to us so far that day, and it’s like it was before for a brief moment.

Then she leaves. I spent the rest of day trying to figure out what had just happened. Saturday I was told “Let’s just be friends” and Monday I’m being just as I was before with her, when we were more than friends. How does that work, exactly?

The next day it was more of the same, more fun and flirty, and I made time to help her out with her stuff as seeing mine wasn’t particularly pressing. We were great. I asked her, point blank, how long I had to wait before I could suggest doing a fun activity with her.

She didn’t know. It seemed, for once, that we were both equally stumped on how whatever we had should play out. I suggested something for that Friday, but she had plans already (hanging out with her cousins, watching Dr. Who — can’t knock those plans, though I did suggest Dr. Who be at the center of our potential activity).

Thursday rolls around — Thanksgiving, D-Day. I was given the dubious honor of being one of the cashiers for the beginning of our Black Friday sales (at 6PM on Thanksgiving Day). I didn’t expect her to be there, but she managed to snag a shift in the backroom (avoiding the rush of the front and working with our boss, Jeff, whom she likes to playfully suggest I’m jealous of — whom I’m not jealous of for I have more hair, am much younger, and don’t date people 17 years my junior, unlike Jeff).

It’s nice to have her there but I don’t expect we’ll see one another. The first few hours flew by fast as people come through, sales occur, and the process repeats itself.

And then my lane is clear and she shows up in it, her mom and aunt behind her. She introduces us, we do our flirty/friendly thing, and I get the impression her mother isn’t overly impressed with me (but she doesn’t seem to hate me). I notice that Abbey is wearing that same lip balm she kissed me with (I recognize what it looks like).

Later on in the night, after I clock out, I find her and ask if she’d like to grab some food afterwards to celebrate our survival. A late Thanksgiving dinner, of sorts. She turns me down, says she’s going to go home and sleep once she gets off (about twenty minutes later).

I’m disappointed but the night isn’t a complete waste: I got to meet her mom and aunt, which adds a new layer of information to the data I’m amassing.

I’m off the next day but back on Saturday. I get the close shift and our paths intersect again, where she stops me — unprompted by myself — and relays to me how Jeff (our boss) told her he thought I liked her, but didn’t have the guts to ask her out.

Abbey tells me she corrected him on that and Jeff, according to her, has a new level of respect for me (which he’s actually displayed this past week, amazingly enough). She’s smirking throughout all this and I’m pleased that she was able to defend my honor, little of it there was, and I’m wondering why she came up and told me this.

But I take it in stride, resume our playful/flirty dialogue, and try not to overthink it.

This past Sunday, we worked once more together (I actually got to leave before her, for once). Upon coming in, she finds me and delivers a fake punch to my jaw (sound effect included). We engage in more playful/flirty behavior, she sticks funny glasses/ornaments/things on me, is generally pretty amused, and it’s like that day we held hands.

Add in the Facebook convos (much like the above) and … well, I’m not sure what we are at this point.

We’re playful/flirty friends, I guess. Can you be that? I’ve never been that.

The questions nagged at me as I was at work all throughout last week … so, I decided to investigate her reasons WHY she chose to break it off, namely, Mormonism.

Lost Down the Rabbit Hole …

It began this past Monday. I typed in one innocent phrase in Google: “Dating a Mormon girl?” and came upon pages, and pages, of results.

I started from the top and worked my way through each one. It took almost three days of research to arrive at my initial conclusions (which are far from final, mind you). I don’t pretend to understand a lot about Mormonism, but the Internet has information out there — I started with BYU, to understand what they taught (since they’re a Mormon school and she went there for five years).

Suffice it to say, the stats didn’t bear out what I wanted to see. The stats were out of date by over two decades, they were collected by the lay persons of the church (since Mormon’s don’t hire specific people to be specific things in the church, the lay people do all the work, top to bottom), and BYU readily admits that this is a bit of an issue, in terms of accuracy, but they go forth and use it anyway.

Let’s put the statistician details aside, for a moment, and get to the bottom line: there is absolutely ZERO way I can ever approach the dream of a Temple Wedding for this girl. It requires me to be Mormon (not happening — she told me she didn’t want me to convert and I agree — me and the Mormon church would be a poor fit) and be in good standing. That’s off the books and, really, I probably should have stopped right there.

But I didn’t stop. Stats were given showing how horrifying mixed marriages (of mixed faiths) were and the one verse everyone uses to justify not having inter-faith marriages kept popping up:

Life is strange. As I sit here, I just got back home about twenty minutes ago. It’s fifteen minutes till midnight, I just finished a seven hour shift, my legs are tired and I have to report to work in the morning. Normally, I’d head straight to bed (after a shower, of course) on a night like this.

But, I have something to say and my mind has been wrapped up in it all night. I came to a conclusion at work … or maybe part of one. Whatever the case, a couple of days lost down one of the most sobering rabbit holes ever (and I mean it was SOBERING) has resulted in my being here.

This is the story behind this story here. And it’s a long one, and a continuing one.

So, let’s start this from the beginning.

A little over two weeks ago (11-14-14), I managed to overcome my usual lack of self-confidence, my scary over-analytical abilities, and my fear to ask out a cute girl I work with.

Her name is Abbey. She’s tall, she’s blonde, she has the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, and she’s an absolute joy to be around — at least for me, anyway (and I’d wager most anyone). The two of us went out for lunch, spent hours talking to one another, sharing life stories, engaging in pop culture debates, and having a good time.

The story, in short, is that she agreed to lunch with me. I only had money to pay for myself (which, in retrospect, was just stupid but I didn’t think she’d say yes) and I told her next time I’d cover for us both. She laughed at that, but she was cool with it. We talked until it got dark, we went back out to the parking lot and talked some more as we both tried to bid one another goodbye. We eventually succeeded, but that was the beginning.

The beginning of a week of utter bliss. The following Monday, we’d go out to a late lunch/early dinner again (we got stuck at work for hours after we were supposed to leave, I in groceries and her in shoes. I finished up groceries and then went to help her in shoes, which she was quite thankful for). We went to KFC (because she wanted to) and we, once more, ended up talking for a few hours. We traded more life stories, comparing our college years and the difficulties we encountered there.

Wednesday, we went out to grab some Chinese buffet. She told me the entire story of Les Miserables (she’s a big fan, having seen it multiple times) and then we left there afterwards so she could grab some hair dye at a nearby salon store. And, upon leaving there, she looped her arm through mine.

We sauntered into a Goodwill, the two of us quite pleased (and I quite surprised), tried on some clothes there in jest, left there and she then went for my hand.

“Do you keep your hands in your pockets so people can’t hold them?” she quipped after she grabbed it.

I could only tell her I’d never had anyone attempt to hold it before, at least not like that.

We eventually ended up back in the parking lot where, once more, we struggled to actually say goodbye in the biting cold. Even though we were both standing right beside our running vehicles, the heat inside them going, we didn’t budge for almost another hour.

Friday rolls around and we leave work once more. She has to get home and do some homework for the online class she’s taking, so no lunch. We set up at her car and she and I entered a frank discussion on our religious differences.

She’s a Mormon. I’m a Baptist converting to Catholicism. She didn’t want to get too involved with me, despite the fact we were so good together. It was tough to sit there and listen to her reasoning, not because I was against the religion — I didn’t know much about it and, what I did know, came from her (she was quite vocal about it during our lunches) — but because it seemed like such a bad reason to give up on something that could be so good.

I certainly felt it was good. I certainly felt it wasn’t wrong and I made those feelings known, using the phrase “Everything happens for a reason” as justification for why we came together.

She and I have lived near one another for the better part of the last decade here in my small (sorta) hometown of Alabama. We’ve never met before we started working together. She goes to church literally right down the road from me (there’s a Latter-Day Saints church right across the street from the entrance to the neighborhood). She went to high school at one of my high school’s rival schools (as that school was closer), graduated a year after I did, nearly went to the same college I did (but instead went to BYU) and, much like myself, has spent the last few years away from Alabama.

It’s amazing, honestly, that we met at all. And, though I don’t consider myself overly religious (can someone who’s converting be overly religious?), I do believe in God, fate, destiny, and karma. I believe in that.

How I ended up back in Alabama is a story unto itself, but I’ll simply say that I didn’t want to be back here. I wanted to be anywhere but here. Yet, I ended up here.

And I met her.

I told her all this as we stood outside her car, me leaning against it and she leaning atop her driver side door. She was clearly struggling with the decision and I asked her point-blank if she felt what we were doing was wrong. I didn’t feel it was wrong.

And she didn’t either.

So, after all that, the subject of kissing somehow comes up. I don’t have much experience with it (it’s in the lower single digits) and I recounted my few experiences. She recounted her many boyfriends (apparently being a Mormon boy doesn’t make you a better boy).

And then she told me she thought I was going to kiss her on Wednesday night, as we were standing out in the biting cold. I thought I should have but passed on it because I wasn’t sure how. Honestly, I can’t claim to really remember the last time I was kissed (back in 2007). I was hyped up on lots of orange soda and the night is really a blur (I used to get massively drunk on soda, no lie).

Upon hearing this fact, she leaned in and kissed me. I wish I could claim I was smooth, but I wasn’t. I was anything but. I was surprised, I was happy, and I grinned like an idiot. She wiped the smudged lip balm off my lips (it was berry-flavored), leaned into me, took my hand, placed it on her hip, and we swayed to the wind.

We kissed twice more (singlehandedly giving her the lifetime lead in “kisses from a girl”) before she left. And she left happy because we were going to see each other again Saturday for The Hunger Games movie.

And I left happy, too. I got back home and was in a stupid daze for the rest of the day. During the night, she hit me up on Facebook and we tangented into one of the best Facebook convos ever, IMO. We talked about what it would be like the next Monday, as vicious rumors of our scandalous relationship would swirl. We made up stories to tell our colleagues, we considered what our store boss would say (and mimicked his reactions in text), we made each other laugh … we were right with each other.

And then Saturday rolled around. We went to the movie, but our usual snark was muted. We went out to eat afterwards, but things were still awkward. I thought it was because we were playing to a script (in this case, a movie and food) — I’m bad at scripts, much better at improv — but, it turns out, she wanted to say something.

She broke it off in my car, in the movie theater parking lot. She cited our religious differences and how she wanted to be married in the Temple (the big Mormon church) and be with her husband/family forever in heaven (what they call being sealed).

On this count, two things were revealed: one, she thought we could go the distance like I could (and I verbally told her I had similar thoughts) and, two, we weren’t talking in hypothetical terms. This was all rather serious after only a week and it didn’t bother me then. It doesn’t bother me now.

I desperately wanted to argue against it, because I felt very strongly I could win. I still feel that way. But she asked me not to challenge it. Not to make my counter-argument. And I told her I wouldn’t.

I could do nothing but watch it go down.

This is where my story and Hank’s aligns. If not for the fact that all this actually occurred, you could easily call it a work of fiction. Except, it wasn’t fiction, it was life.

Our brief relationship ended in my car, in the parking lot of a movie theater, on a cool fall day. We promised we’d be friends (I literally pinkie swore to that, because, for some reason, I thought it was a good idea. In retrospect, I was using it to cover up how much it hurt, but I think she got that).

She asked if she hurt me, and I told her she had a little. I wasn’t so much disappointed as I was sad. I thought that was it. Once you get friendzoned, there really is no going back. We got into our cars and left the parking lot.

My drive back was not pleasant. I tried to figure out where I had gone wrong, what I could have done better, and I was stuck on how STUPID I was to agree NOT to make a counterargument. For some reason, I’m quite good at convincing people to do things with my words … I try not to, but I have been compared to a used car salesman by many, many people over the course of my life. I’ve never been proud of that skill (used car salesman have always been portrayed as kinda slimeballs in media and I don’t want to be a slimeball), but this was one time where I could have used it to win.

But I told her I wouldn’t. And I didn’t.

The rest of the weekend played out in a morose fashion. It was rainy, it was cold, and life sucked. On Monday, 11-24-14, I wrote this story to explain some of what had happened to myself, to try to wrap my head around it.

As I sit here, a little over a week past that post, I have a new (and evolving) understanding of what happened. I think.

But we’ll get to that part tomorrow. I’m about to collapse into my keyboard from how tired I am and I have work in the AM. Lessons have been learned from this, life lessons and writing ones, which I will elaborate on next time.

For now, I bid you all a good night.