Even the Longest Journey Begins With a Single Keystroke

I sat in the dingy basement shuffling my Magic cards as I prepared to draw my first hand. Two similarly nerdy young men sat at the table with me fingering their cards as they decided which spells they would employ to destroy me.

“So, have you seen Doughy lately (Phazzle)?” my buddy Bob asked.

“No, it’s been awhile since I’ve seen Dough. How is he doing?”

“He’s not Doughy anymore.” He laughed as he laid a goblin on the table.

“No kidding?” I replied incredulously. “How’d he lose all that weight?”

“World of Warcraft,” my buddy Jimbo replied as he countered my spell. “He doesn’t eat anymore. He just plays WoW.”

I was familiar with the game. I had played a bit in college, but I had never gotten too into it. The grind to 60 seemed like it took forever and I gave up at 55. My brother played religiously. As far as I was concerned he was the best player in the world. When I went to visit him at his apartment he would go into battlegrounds and murder dozens of people for my entertainment. He was an influential member in a good guild and he apparently had really good gear. I saw him standing at the top of the mountain and decided that it was too tall for me to climb.

“Heck, that’s quite a diet. I guess as long as he’s losing weight its ok.”

“Yeah, my mom checks on him a few times a day to make sure he is still alive.” Bob laughed “Apart from working that is about all he does.”

“I just got an account yesterday.” Jimbo said. “Doughy and I are starting a guild with Bob. You should join up too.”

“Huh. We’ll see. I don’t know if I have the time though.”

That was a lie. I had all the time in the world. I had just broken up with my girlfriend a few weeks ago and I was feeling my freedom. She was an oppressive, overbearing, abusive…young lady and I was glad to be rid of her. Once when we were at Borders she caught me admiring the new edition of Dungeons & Dragons.

“If you buy that stupid book I will break up with you.” she said arms folded and foot a tappin’.

“Promise?” I replied vindictively. It was that kind of relationship.

Needless to say I was glad to be rid of her and the more I thought about it the more online gaming appealed to me. At that point in my life any activity that did not involve some vapid little shrew screaming at me about spilling a few grains of salt on her table sounded like a barrel o’ laughs.

“What are you going to call the guild?” I asked.

“I have the perfect name,” Jimbo replied “We’ll call it ‘The Army of the Howling Wind.’” As he said it he made an arch with his free hand like he was delivering the name of a soon-to-be blockbuster movie.

“Yeah, no one is going to make fun of that.” I replied with a groan.

“I flip your deck.” Bob said as he finished his combo.

…

The Army started with six players. Five of us were newbs of varying degrees. I had played the game before but I was still completely lost. I decided to play a Priest since I knew our party would need a healer. I named him Phazzle since Phizzle, my former character’s name, was taken. My buddy Jimbo played a warrior and Bob played a paladin. Doughy was a rogue.

None of us knew what we were doing. Bob’s approach to the game was different than mine. I primarily leveled by questing through zones as quickly as I could. Bob, however, did not have the attention span for questing and just preferred to go to the middle of zones and grind until the mobs turned gray. Jimbo was even worse. His warrior was decked out in a mish-mash of cloth and leather gear. He chose the gear that looked the prettiest and he didn’t care that it took him a solid two minutes to kill a mob. He liked shields so he always had one on and he wouldn’t accept constructive criticism. He was playing the game HIS way and that was all there was to it. End of story.

Needless to say I notched 80 first and immediately found that I was alone in the World of Warcraft. Jimbo and Bob were still “climbing,” and Doughy, I found, was painfully shy to the point that he had never done a single dungeon, let alone a heroic. Heroic dungeons were something that I had only heard of. I had NO idea how you got into one or what you needed to do to succeed in one. I was a healer and I didn’t even know that there was such a thing as healing addons. I just clicked and prayed.

Eventually, however, I came to learn my spec and my class. I’ll never forget my first heroic dungeon. It was Utgarde Pinnacle. I was sitting in Dalaran spamming for a “dungeon,” (this was before LFD) when a group picked me up. As I was clearing trash I thought to myself “something is different about this.” The group wasn’t dying but it was going slower and it was hard on my mana. By the time we got to Svala Sorrowgrave it hit me. “Crap. This is heroic mode.”

“Sorry guys. I didn’t know this was heroic.” I said.

“Oh, lol,” Our tank replied, “You haven’t done UP on heroic yet?”

“Ummm…no. Not UP.”

“Well, give it a try and see how it goes.” He said “If it doesn’t work out you can go.”

That fight was beyond brutal in my greens and quest blues. I remember my horror when I got stuck under the sword as it bore down on me and a DPS went down. When I was free I had just enough time to get a Divine Hymn off to prevent a wipe. It came down to me and the tank whacking at her sword and wand, but we got her down. As soon as she fell a yellow achievement bar appeared on my screen for getting my first heroic token.

“Dude, that was your FIRST heroic boss?” the tank said “That was pretty good. Now please leave ”

…

The months rolled by and Jimbo and Bob caught up. I was heroics every day, PvPing every night, and the restraining order against my ex was holding up. Life was good.

By the time we were all at level 80 I had established myself as a competent heroic healer on our server. The Army of the Howling Wind had gotten a few members and we were starting to do Raids. Doughy was the guild leader, but I ran the show, scheduled events, and kept everyone in line. I remember the pride I felt when I showed up in a PuG Naxx and someone that I had never met said “Hell yeah, Phazzle is here!”

The months rolled by. Jimbo quit because the game was too boring. He got sick of people telling him how to play. Bob was more interested in making WoW gold than raiding, which was fine with us as long as he stocked the guild bank. Doughy and I were rising raiders on the server and before long Army was competing with the top Alliance guilds for progression.

I have not lost a single pound playing WoW but I have met some of the best friends in my life because of it. Now my brother and I sit and compare gear and progression at family gatherings. No one knows what the hell we are talking about. He is still at the summit of the mountain but every tier I get a little bit closer.

How I Became a Writer at 30

"Today, class, we are going to learn about the writing process." Mrs. Shaver stood in front of the blackboard, her hands were stained with chalk dust. They looked to be too big for her body like she went home and spent her evenings pounding coal.  I imagined that her palms were knotty and calloused.  She was an attractive woman otherwise, at least she would have been if she had not chosen to become an English teacher.  Her profession apparently dictated that she had to dress in long dark skirts, and shoes that could hammer nails.  And, of course, reading glasses were a must.  For all I knew she might be able to pole dance and  bulls-eye a fly at 500 yards, but the school district had decided to make her into Nurse Ratchet.

"So, before you write you have to 'pre-write...'"  I still have no idea what the fuck pre-writing is.  As long as you are "writing," something even if it is on a napkin with ketchup you are writing...right? I was to learn, however, that writing was a sacred ritual that involved dozens of steps and checks.  It wasn't something you could just do.  It was not composed of thoughts and feelings and experiences as much as outlines, note cards, and red pencil.  And it certainly was not fun, oh no, writing was serious business.  In fact, it was so serious that an entire body called the Modern Language Association presided over it imposing their own draconian rules as to how it was done.  Fie on you if you included another's thought in your paper and claimed it as your own!  Thoughts are unique, dontchaknow, no two people have ever had the same one.  If you have an "original," thought you had better make sure that no one has had it first.

Everything I had written up to that point and everything that I have written since I have written in the same way.  In front of a keyboard start to finish.  Once I finish I read it over and make changes if necessary, sometimes I skip the last step.  Too much editing makes it feel inauthentic.  When Mrs. Shaver asked me to start making note-cards I laughed and began to write my paper.  When I handed it to her the next afternoon. She refused to read it. "It's not ready," she said as she dusted the chalk off of her dry "old lady," hands.  "Where are your notecards?"

"I didn't really need them Mrs. Shaver," I replied confidently "I just sat down and wrote it."

"I need to see your note cards first,  go ahead and write them out.  Make sure you include no more than three 'thoughts,' per note card."  She said dismissively.

I stood there flabbergasted as I looked at my completed paper.  I had read it and I thought it was pretty good.  A couple of my buddies had read it and they thought it was pretty good...even if it did make me queer. I was open to constructive criticism, but she had none to give. "Aren't you even going to read it?  I would like to hear your opinion?"

She looked back at me as if to say "why are you still here?"  "Note cards." was all she said in reply.

I sat on my ass in protest for the remainder of the term.  We had weekly turn-ins.  Notecards, then outlines, then revised outlines, then rough drafts, then second drafts, then final drafts, then final drafts with MLA citations.  They were teaching us how to execute a process, but they certainly weren't teaching us how to write.  They were teaching us to hate writing.  Students hated that class.  Hated, hated, hated it.  I could see the other students slowly becoming good little automatons as they were carefully prepared for careers as accountants, contract managers, and salesmen.  The lesson was not about writing.  The lesson was that you did what the fuck you were told and kept your mouth shut or you got an F.  I didn't turn in a single note card.

On the last day of the term I handed in my final paper, it was the same one that I handed her at the beginning of the term.  She looked it over and returned it to me the following day.  I got an A on the paper but I had failed for the term since I had refused to do her busy work.  The fact that my work was good, in fact, better than most was incidental.  I decided then and there that I hated to write and I never did it again unless I absolutely had to.  When I did I did it "their," way.  After college I stopped completely.  Someone had to get a bullet in the head before I picked up the pen again.

...

"...I don't rejoice in anyone's death, but you have to admit that this feels right..."

The DJ droned on as made my morning commute.  I was hardly listening as I sipped my coffee.

"I disagree, Jim.  I thought it was fantastic when I heard that he got shot.  It was 10 years coming and all the people who lost loved ones can breathe a sigh of relief that justice has been done."

That piqued my attention as the gears in my sleepy head began to turn.  Could it be?

"Osama Bin Laden, is dead." the radio confirmed.

I would like to say that I sat there and gave a stoic nod of approval, but I did, in fact, scream and honk my horn all the way to my office.

...

As soon as I got to my computer an urge rose in me that was unlike anything I had ever felt.  I couldn't contain it.  I looked at my computer screen like I wanted to fuck it.  The keyboard was the only release from the tension.  It took me barely 10 minutes of clicking before I had finished the letter to the editor of my local paper.   I emailed it off and thought no more of it until I received a call that Saturday.


"Hello,"  I said as I picked up the phone.

"Mr. Phazzle, this is the editor of the letters section of The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.  We received your letter about Osama Bin Laden and we would like to feature it in tomorrow's paper.  We usually don't include letters that are more than 200 words but we do make exceptions.  Yours is a little long at 420 words.  Do you mind if I cut it to 380?"

"...sure," I replied with surprise.

"Thank you, it is very well written.  Look for it in tomorrow's paper."

And sure enough, there it was the next day in print in a nice little box with a picture of Osama.  I became a published author in less than 15 minutes.  My grandmother sent it to the president, and he replied!  Even if I knew it was an aide it was still pretty special.  I told her he signed it personally, it made her feel good I suppose.

And I didn't stop there. I continued to write.  I cruised message boards and wrote about my life, all in the first person.  I wrote about my daily struggles, about my hopes and dreams, and about my World of Warcraft character.  It was amazing.  People actually liked to read what I was writing.  I was floored.  I had been told my whole life that I didn't have the chops to be a writer and now complete strangers were asking me to start a blog so that they could read more of my work. 

I wish I had started sooner.  If not for the Mrs. Shavers of the world, I might have.  I am well aware that the above and much of what you will read on this blog should you continue to grace me with your readership will be mistake ridden, misspelled, and grammatically incorrect.  What do you expect though? I didn't use any note cards.  I hope you enjoy it anyway, though.