Hi, friends. I’m still on hiatus. I probably will be for a while, until I get some things figured out in real life. I promise I’ll have new episodes by the beginning of May at the latest, possibly sooner. Last night I worked on outlining what would happen in the start of season 3, so that’s progress.
If you’re new here, this is not a typical post. Don’t Let The Days Go By is an episodic continuing story set in 1996 about a university student figuring out life. Finish reading this post first, then please read some others. There are currently 88 episodes, listed either to the right or at the bottom depending on your device, so even if you’ve been following me for a while, most of you will have some that you haven’t read. So you can read those over the next few weeks while you’re waiting for me to write new ones. The episodes are best read in order, but can be read out of order, so if you’re new and ready to commit to be a fan of this site, you’re best off starting from the beginning, so you can experience the story as it unfolds. But, still, read this post first.
So I’ve been thinking about a few DLTDGB side projects, and I’d like your opinions on whether or not you’d be interested in these:
(1) A recap. I could do one post where I outline the entire plot of DLTDGB from the beginning of the prologue on July 5, 1993 until the most recent episode on June 15, 1996. I would summarize the highlights of Greg’s life so far, in a post no longer than one typical episode. I could also include links to a few episodes about the key turning points in Greg’s life, for those people who want to go more in depth without reading 88 full episodes.
(2) Avatars/Bitmoji/some kind of artwork depicting the characters visually. I can’t draw well, just to let you know. I made a bunch of fake email accounts and started using them to sign up for multiple Bitmoji accounts, with the purpose being to create Bitmoji for the main characters and show my readers what these characters look like. I did that for Eddie and Kristina and put the Bitmoji faces on top of the real faces in the photo I used for the most recent episode. I was having a hard time getting the Bitmoji to look exactly like the real people, but I know that I don’t have to make them look exactly like the people they were based on. In fact, it might be better to have them not exactly the same, for anonymity purposes. Most of the people that these characters are based on do not know that I am writing about them.
However, another glitch is that Gmail does not like that I made a bunch of fake email accounts, for obvious reasons. It makes me verify by text that I am a real person, and now it won’t even let me do that because I’ve used the same phone number too many times. I could start making fake emails with Yahoo or other free email services, I suppose. But there are so many characters that I could not possibly do this for every character, at least not with Bitmoji. I was planning on doing this for Taylor, Pete, Sarah, Liz, Ramon, Caroline, Eddie, Xander, Haley, Kristina, Brian, and Shawn, at least for now, adding others as needed if I needed to cover their faces in photos. I would not do every character, since the cast of characters for DLTDGB is just far too large. But those twelve are definitely among the most significant supporting characters at the current point of the story.
What do you guys think… is this something you would want to see? Also, if anyone knows a way to make characters similar to Bitmoji without having to have an account for each one, that would be helpful.
(3) Maps. Fantasy books with detailed geographical settings, Tolkien for example, often have maps to help the reader. Since I tend to describe Jeromeville and the surrounding Capital Valley Region in detail, I thought maybe I could do the same thing. The problem is, every time I’ve tried to draw these maps, they end up looking just like a slightly distorted version of the real-world places that inspired these stories, and while DLTDGB is based on true stories, I also want to make it my own fictional world, and I have not yet figured out how to make the maps not look like real places but still be true to the story so far. Any thoughts? Do any of you want to see maps of my semi-fictional world?
Finally, in addition to sharing any thoughts on anything above, please ask me anything you want in the comments. Questions about things happening in the story, questions about me as an adult, about the writing process… whatever you want. I’ll answer it, unless it would involve major spoilers.
I have always had a good ear for music, but I rarely did anything with it other than sing along in the car. I played piano for a few years in elementary school, but according to Mom, I quit because I thought music was for nerds. I do not remember saying that, but it definitely sounds like something that 10-year-old Greg would have said, not yet mature enough to embrace being different. I did not perform music in front of people again until three months ago, when I started singing at 11:00 Mass at the Newman Center.
Our experience levels in the church choir ranged from people like me who just liked to sing for fun all the way up to Claire Seaver, a third-year music major who had been performing all her life. I did not have much formal training in music, but I would occasionally try different harmonies with some of our usual familiar songs, because my ear could pick up harmonies easily. I was excited this week when Claire brought a new song for us to learn, with four parts. We had been practicing it all night, and the sopranos and altos had just finished doing their parts all together. “Let’s hear just the guys now,” Claire said.
Phil Gallo and I sang the bass parts, while Matt Jones and Ryan Gambrell sang tenor, Matt playing guitar as well. We sounded okay, although there were a few wrong notes sung and played. After this, we tried the entire song with every part singing, and after three times, it seemed like we finally had perfected the song.
“I thought that sounded good,” I said afterward.
“Yes!” Claire agreed. “I think we’re ready for Sunday!”
“Yes,” Danielle Coronado said. “Now I get to go home and write a paper.”
“Already?” Claire said incredulously. “It’s the first week of class!”
“It’s only one page. Not really a paper. Just an assignment.”
“Good luck,” I said.
“Thanks,” Danielle replied.
“See you guys Sunday,” I said, turning back to Phil, Matt, and Ryan.
“Take it easy, man,” Phil replied. I waved at the guys and went to find Heather, since we were neighbors and had carpooled here, but she and Melanie Giordano were busy talking, and I did not want to interrupt. I stepped back, waiting, when I heard a soft female voice behind me say, “Hey, Greg.”
I turned around and got nervous when I saw Sabrina Murphy looking up at me. There was just something about her that was cute, but I knew that she had a boyfriend, so any of these thoughts were hopeless. I was not sure how to explain it, she was not drop dead beautiful by Hollywood standards, but I found something about her attractive. “Yes?” I asked awkwardly.
“I just wanted to say you really have a strong bass voice,” she said. “It really comes out well when we sing harmony like that.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling and blushing a little.
“Have you ever thought about being in University Chorus? They always need more male voices.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I never thought about singing in any kind of group at all until Danielle talked me into doing this a few months ago. She’s in chorus, right?”
“Yeah. And Claire. I did it freshman year, but I haven’t been able to fit it into my schedule since then.”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”
“You should. I think you’d be good.”
“You ready?” Heather asked me, having walked up beside me and Sabrina a few seconds earlier.
“Sure,” I said. “Sabrina? I’ll see you Sunday?”
“Yes,” Sabrina replied. Have a great week!”
In the car on the way home, Heather asked me, “So what was Sabrina saying you would be good at?”
“She asked if I had ever done University Chorus.”
“You totally should!”
“I don’t know. I sing in the car, but I’m not good at, like, real singing.”
“I’ve heard you sing, I think you’d be great! Give yourself more credit.”
“Maybe,” I said.
Twenty-four hours later, I was sitting in my apartment alone, doing math homework. It was a Thursday night, and I was in a good mood. Thursday was my lightest day of class this quarter, and my tutoring job did not start until next week. But my good mood was mostly because I was still on a high from Sabrina’s compliment last night. Maybe I sang better than her boyfriend, and she was going to leave him for me. My attention drifted from my math assignment as I played out this scenario in my head, imagining what I would say if Sabrina came out of nowhere and confessed her love for me. I heard a knock at the door, and with this on my mind, my heart rate spiked and I almost jumped out of my chair.
I got up and peeked out the window; it was not Sabrina. Heather Escamilla stood in the dim glow of the porch light. I opened the door, wondering what she wanted, since there was no choir practice or church tonight. “Hi,” I said. “What’s up?”
“I was just thinking, I forgot to tell you last night. Saturday we’re going to have a birthday party for Gary at our place. And you’re invited.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sure! What time should I be there?”
“I’ve been telling people 7. I don’t know when everyone will get there, though.”
“That sounds good. Do I need to bring anything?”
“No. Just yourself.”
“Great! I’ll see you then!”
“Have a great night!” Heather said, waving as she turned back toward the parking lot. I closed the door and went back to my homework. I just got invited to a party, my first actual college party, other than the one in the dorm last year that I had walked in on uninvited.
As I worked on homework, I kept thinking about Heather and Gary’s party. I wondered if I would know anyone there. I wondered if anyone else from church would be there. Maybe Sabrina would be there. That in and of itself was enough to make me want to go.
My high had worn off by the time I got home from Jeromeville Christian Fellowship on Friday night. All day on campus, the universe seemed to be throwing in my face the fact that other people had boyfriends and girlfriends and I did not. I saw a lot of couples acting coupley all over campus today. This all-American jock type guy sitting across from me on the bus home was making out with a hot girl in a sorority sweatshirt the whole time. At JCF, I sat next to Liz and Ramon, who were two of my best friends, and had been a couple since early in our freshman year, but something about them being a couple bugged me tonight. And I overheard someone saying that this junior girl named Amelia Dye was going out with Scott Madison now, which meant one fewer girl left for me to possibly end up with.
As I sat at my desk listening to the whirs and whistles of the modem connecting to the email server, I saw in the corner of my eye the contact list for the Newman Center choir. Sabrina’s name was misspelled on the contact list; it had her listed as “Sabrina Murpy.” I would have spelled it right had I typed the list; maybe Sabrina was into guys who could spell. Maybe I would call Sabrina sometime this weekend, just to talk, to be friendly. Was that okay? I did not know. She probably would not be home. Her roommate would answer and tell me that she was out with her boyfriend. Sabrina and her boyfriend were out there driving a knife through my heart, unknowingly digging my grave.
“She’s out there, unknowingly digging my grave,” I said to myself. Very poetic. That has a nice rhythm to it. It was 9:45, I was home alone on a Friday night; maybe tonight would be a good night to write poetry. I put my sweatshirt back on and took a walk around the apartment complex and through a little bit of the Greenbelt behind the apartments, trying to think of more lines for this poem. When I returned about twenty minutes later, I wrote down all of the words that had come to mind, and by the time I went to bed, I had this:
“Hello, kid! How are you? How’s everything been?” I’m really stressed out, if you know what I mean. And how about you? Got exams coming up? “I’ve got one on Friday, I need to catch up.” I called you to see if your roommate was home. “She’s not, at the moment, I’m here all alone. Today, it’s not homework that keeps her a slave, She’s out there, unknowingly digging your grave.”
In November, I had started writing a novel; it was about a high school student who changes his name and goes to live with relatives to make a fresh start. I had written around forty pages so far. I had named the novel Try, Try Again, referencing the old saying about what to do if at first one does not succeed. The character, Mike, felt like he was not succeeding in his old life, so he is trying again. I worked on Try, Try Again for a few hours the next morning. It had been a month since Mike had made his new start, and he had found his way into a popular group of friends. A girl named Erin had taken an interest in him, and after spending a lot of time together at and after school, Mike got brave and asked her to a movie.
Three previews came on before the movie. Mike did not think any of the movies previewed looked good. When the movie itself started, he got comfortable in his seat, placing both arms on the armrest. A minute later, Erin placed her hand on top of his. Mike looked at her and smiled. He liked Erin. After a while, while he was watching the movie, he felt Erin’s hand move from his hand to his knee. He liked it there too. Eventually Erin moved her hand off of Mike for good. Mike, instead, reached over the armrest and took her hand in his, placing it on the armrest.
Mike took his eyes off the movie and looked at Erin. She did the exact same thing a few seconds later. He tightened his grip around her hand for a couple seconds, then loosened it again. Erin began to kiss him. He liked it a lot. It was nothing too unusual for most kids his age, but he had never been kissed so passionately in his life. He tried to return it the best he could, and he felt that Erin liked it as well. Their mouths slowly separated. “Thanks,” Mike whispered. Erin gave him a huge smile.
Mike’s eyes turned back to the movie. He reached his right hand over to her right shoulder and touched it. Erin moved her body a little to the left, closer to Mike. They stayed in that position for the rest of the show.
I wished I could be at a movie with Sabrina, kissing her lips, running my fingers through her pretty red hair, and seeing her cute smile as she looked at me afterward. What did her boyfriend have that I did not? A few months ago, I wanted to be kissing Megan McCauley, until I found out that she also was with someone. And before Megan there were lots of other girls who either had boyfriends or were just not interested in me. Sometimes it felt like the entire single female population all over the state were conspiring to make sure I never had a girlfriend.
Later that night, I left my home and walked to Heather and Gary’s apartment, in the same complex as mine. The party started half an hour ago, but I did not want to be the first one there, since I did not know if I would know anyone. I knocked on the door, and Heather answered. “Hey!” she said. “You made it!”
“I did,” I said. “Happy birthday, Gary!” I called out across the room when I saw Gary wave at me.
“Thanks!” Gary replied.
I looked around the room. Six other people were there besides Heather and Gary. I recognized Melanie from church, but no one else; Melanie was there with her boyfriend. Sabrina was not there. I made small talk with Heather and Gary for a bit, talking about school and my trip to Disneyland with my family.
“You actually drove past O.J. Simpson’s house?” Gary said, laughing. “That’s hilarious!”
“I know. Mom kept saying she couldn’t believe we were actually doing that.”
“What about O.J. Simpson’s house?” a girl I did not recognize said, walking up as she overheard us. She had long straight hair and olive skin. I repeated my story in abbreviated form, and she said, “My apartment isn’t too far from O.J. Simpson’s house.”
“This is my sister, Mariana,” Heather explained. “She’s visiting from California.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’m Greg.”
“So how do you know my sister?” Mariana asked.
“From church. We both sing in the choir.”
“How fun! I wish I could hear you guys sing in the morning, but my flight back home leaves at 12:15, so I need to be on my way to the airport by then.”
“I was in choir in high school and college, but I graduated last year, and I’m not doing any kind of singing right now.”
“Where’d you go to school?”
“Santa Teresa,” Mariana said as Heather and Gary went to greet more people who were just arriving.
“That’s cool. I’ve never been there, but two of my friends from high school go there.”
“Oh yeah? What are their names?”
“Paul Dickinson and Jackie Bordeaux. They would have been freshmen last year.”
“Nope, I don’t know them. It’s a big school.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“You go to Jeromeville? What are you studying?”
“Math,” Mariana repeated, making a face. “That was not my class.”
“A lot of people say that,” I said, laughing.
“Well, if you’re good at it, go for it! Do you know what you want to do with your degree? Do you want to be a teacher?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think I want to be a teacher, though. Too much politics involved in education. I just figure I’ll stay in school until I figure it out.”
“I understand that. I majored in English, but I’m not really using it. I work in an office.”
“Yeah. I was never very good at English in school. I never understood what I was supposed to get from the novels and poems that we had to read.”
“I did a lot of BS’ing on assignments like that, to be honest.”
“I see,” I replied, chuckling. “But the weird thing is, even though I was always bad at English class, I like to write.”
“Oh yeah? What do you like to write?”
“Sometimes I have a thought stuck in my head, and it’ll become a weird poem. And last year I wrote a short novel. I had a really interesting year when I was a senior in high school, so I turned that into a novel.”
“That’s so cool!”
“And right now, I’m working on another novel. It’s about a guy who runs away to live with relatives, because he wants a fresh start. But he pretends to be sixteen instead of eighteen, because he realized he missed out on a lot of experiences in high school, and he wants a second chance.”
“That’s interesting. Where’d you get that idea?”
“Probably just because sometimes I wish I could do that.”
“You feel like you missed out on a lot?”
“Yeah. Like I said with the first novel, I grew a lot my senior year, but then we all graduated and moved away. I feel like if everything that happened my senior year had happened earlier, I would have graduated as an entirely different person.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” Mariana contemplated. “Hmm. Interesting.”
“If you want, I can send you some of my writing,” I said. “Or at least I’ll send you what I have so far.”
“Yeah! That would be so cool!”
“Do you use email?”
“I don’t,” Mariana said, disappointedly. “Is that a problem?”
“You can give me your address, and I can mail it to you.”
“Sure! I’ll do that. Let me go get a piece of paper.” Mariana walked off and came back a minute later, handing me her address.
“Thanks!” I said.
Mariana and I talked for about another hour, about life, the past, the future, and many other things on our minds. I could not help but wonder, could there be something here? Might she be interested in me that way? She was a few years older than me, that would be different; hopefully she did not see me as some immature little kid. I had a way to keep in contact with her, and that was the important part at this moment.
“I’m going to get another drink,” Mariana eventually said. “But, hey, it was really good talking to you! Send me your story!”
“I will. Thanks.” I smiled.
“We’ll probably talk more later tonight.”
“Yeah,” I said.
No one else that I knew ever showed up to the party. I talked to Melanie for a bit about my winter break, and one of Gary’s engineer friends was drunkenly asking me about math at one point. The party got louder as the night went on, and I went home around 10:30.
As soon as I got home, I printed out a copy of the unfinished Try, Try Again to send to Mariana, and I excitedly mailed it with extra stamps the next day. This weekend sure turned into a great one. I met a girl who talked to me for a long time and was interested in my creative work. Maybe I did not need to hope for Sabrina to leave her boyfriend after all. Life was finally looking up for me.
Except it never happened. I never heard from Mariana again. I never found out if she read my story. She never wrote back, and Heather never mentioned her around me again. I could have asked, of course, but I never asked others about girls I was interested in. I was embarrassed for anyone to know that I liked a girl, ever since eighth grade when Paul Dickinson told the whole school who I liked.
Why did Mariana act so friendly if she did not want to talk to me again? Things like this had happened before. Jennifer Henson had been friendly to me all through senior year of high school, then that summer she moved away suddenly without leaving me a way to contact her. Many other girls would treat me like this throughout my life, and I had a tendency to misunderstand the intentions of others. People are complicated, reading and understanding them is hard, and I still had a lot to learn. Maybe I would figure all of this out someday. Until then, I had plenty of material for poetry and fiction.
A while back, after I wrote the post about my last week of freshman year at UJ, I decided that every six months in my fictional chronology, I would take a break from the story and write about something else. Six months has passed in the story, so it is time for a non-story post. Last week’s episode ended on kind of a dark note, but the beginning of sophomore year was kind of a dark time for me. I spent a lot of time alone and wishing life was different. But some big things will be happening soon.
Anyway, if you are new here, welcome, and say hi. It is very nice to meet you. Don’t Let The Days Go By is an episodic continuing story set in 1995 (so far) about a university student trying to make his way in life. I have been writing DLTDGB for almost two years now, since December 2018. It is based on my actual past, and I borrowed the title without permission from a line from a song popular at the time. If you have several hours to spare, you can start from the beginning and read the whole story.
I updated the dramatis personae a few days ago. I have introduced a lot of new people in the last few episodes. One thing that has kind of struck me as I have written this is how people come and go, in and out of the story. Sometimes I will realize that a certain story will be the last appearance of someone and wonder whatever happened to them. There is not always a good story behind someone’s disappearance; the most recent episode will probably be the last appearance of Mindy Jo, for example, and we just kind of grew apart for no particular reason as she stopped emailing as often. And I got the sense that a few of you who chose to comment were really rooting for me and Megan, but obviously that didn’t happen, and there will only be one more Megan episode. But that is life. If I am going to take on a project chronicling at least five and a half years of my life, there will naturally be people who were not an important part of all five and a half years.
Although I’m not doing this to get followers or be famous, I do enjoy comments on my posts, and it seems like I haven’t quite gotten as many recently. WordPress says I have 285 followers, but most of them I don’t know and don’t interact with. I suspect quite a few may be spam pages and the like. I know it goes both ways, though, and I try to read as many of your posts as I can, but I don’t have time to read everything, unfortunately. I’m glad I’ve made so many friends through blogging.
So, please, say hi. Leave a comment. Ask me anything that you are curious about. I will finish this post with an interesting story about the only time I’ve ever been recognized in public as a writer (kind of). I posted this on Facebook and Instagram back when it happened, in July, so some of you might have heard this story already. I was going to post four blog awards I have been tagged in over the last few months, but I’ll save those for a separate post in a few days so as not to make this too long.
I had an interesting encounter this morning (this is adult Greg writing in July 2020).
I found myself on the road on no schedule heading in the general direction of Jeromeville. I decided to turn off the freeway and drive through on city streets to the Happy Place (pictured below; see the 3/1/95 episode for more).
A while ago, I bought a huge pack of socks that didn’t fit me well, so I kept those socks in my car to give to homeless people. Yesterday, I approached the intersection across the railroad track from where Murder Burger used to be, and I passed two guys holding a sign. While the light was red, I rolled down the window and asked if they needed socks. One came up to me and said yes. He thanked me, and I told him to have a nice day. I was a little nervous at this point, wondering if the light would turn green soon, so I thought I wasn’t quite understanding when he said something that sounded like “I remember you.”
What could that mean? How can he remember me? I’ve never seen him before; I don’t even live here. Wait, who is this guy? Did he know me when I lived here 20 years ago? I just smiled and nodded, confused; maybe I told him to have a great day or something.
“I remember you,” he repeated. “You’re an author, right?”
And then I remembered. Ten months earlier, I was in Jeromeville for a game night with people not connected to the fact that I used to live there. Before going to my friends’ house, I stopped at Murder Burger and took pictures of the newly vacant building, knowing that I would use them for the blog (I eventually did in the Mid-June 1995 episode). This guy saw me and asked if I knew what happened to that place. I told him I had just read in the local news that they closed a month ago. I told him a little about my writing and how I used to live there. He asked, “You’re writing a book?” I said no, I was just an amateur writing a blog just for fun.
Back to yesterday. “Yes,” I told him. “I remember now. I saw you last year by Murder Burger, and we talked about my writing.”
“Yeah,” he said.
The light turned green. “I have to go, but I’ll see you around,” I said. “Take care.”
I felt bad that this guy recognized me after one chance encounter that happened almost a year ago, and I didn’t remember at first. I’m not good with faces. I don’t know his name, and he doesn’t know mine. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, and if I do, I don’t know if I’ll recognize him again. I don’t know what I can do for him. But I can watch for him on future trips to Jeromeville, since he apparently knows me now.
About a minute later, I turned on OJ Road and realized that this whole encounter happened with neither of us wearing masks. I was in the drivers’ seat, and he was at the passenger side window, so we weren’t exactly breathing on each other, but that’s still less than six feet, and these days [COVID-19] you never can be too careful. I wiped down the part of the car that he may have touched, I sanitized my hands three times, and I rolled down the windows and left them down for half an hour. And this is one of the things I hate most about this pandemic, that we all now feel like we have to be afraid of each other like this. It isn’t natural or healthy to be so afraid of close contact.
When I got to the Happy Place, I prayed for this man, that his life would turn around and he would get back on his feet. I don’t know what I can do for him, but God made our paths cross for a reason.
Hello, friends. I started this project fourteen months ago, and now that I have reached a natural stopping point in the story, I will be taking a break for a few weeks, maybe more; we’ll see. Life is busy. I need to plan what I’m going to write about for the next school year in the story. I also have a few related tasks I’m going to work on; for example, I need to organize some notes to myself, so I can stay consistent with characters’ names and such. There are already at least three Mikes, two Jennifers, and three Kims in the story (although to be fair those were common names for people my age).
This is not a regular post. If you are new to DLTDGB, it is an episodic continuing story about a university student in the western USA in the 1990s. Scroll down to other posts to read some of these stories. Or if you are in this for the long haul, click here to start from the beginning.
One of the related tasks I’ve been meaning to do is complete: I made a playlist of all the music I used in year 1 of DLTDGB (42 songs). It is mostly early and mid-1990s “alternative rock” and pop-rock, along with some classic rock, because that is what I was listening to at the time period I am writing about (and I was going through a big Pink Floyd phase at the time, so they’re in there several times).
Anyway… I definitely want to thank you all so much for your support. I have enjoyed getting to know those of you who have interacted with me and shared this journey through my past. Hopefully you have found something in my story that has influenced you positively.
But I want to hear from you. I have a lot of thoughts about this.
Do you have any comments or suggestions on this project? How am I doing? Is it easy to follow, or is my storytelling too confusing? Are the episodes too long? Too short? Just right? Does it depend on the story I’m telling?
Should I change the title of the blog? I took the title from a song lyric from the time period I am writing about, but I did so without permission from the artist, so if this blog gets too big I might have to change it.
I wonder sometimes if I have too many characters. I’m not really sure how I can do this project without a lot of characters, though (and this is why I included a dramatis personae page). But do I need more character development for the minor characters, or does that not really work well for short episodes told by me? Should I name other characters by just their first names, or would it make it easier to remember if I referred to more people by first and last names at least once per episode? Do I need more physical descriptions of what the other characters look like?
Of course, DLTDGB is based on true stories and real people, but I have taken liberties with many of the details, particularly conversations. I don’t remember every word of every conversation from 25 years ago, obviously. I also made some minor changes for artistic reasons. For example, I know I did not actually listen to Bush on the way home from my last day in the dorm because I never owned that album until I got it at a used music store in my late 30s. I wrote that in because I want to end every school year with the song that this blog is named after, but that song was not released to radio until early in my sophomore year, so the album was the only way I could have known the song by the end of freshman year. Another obvious example: the episode about the “football championship” did not use any actual NFL team names or trademarks, and the real life events that inspired that story happened during a regular season game, not the championship game.)
But I still wonder, how much should I deviate from the truth? Should I keep it mostly true in broad strokes as much as possible and just fill in the details, as I have been so far? If I have a story from another time in my life that would make a good DLTDGB episode, can I adapt such a story and pretend it happened in Jeromeville in the 1990s? Or would that take away from the integrity and truth of this project? I suppose ultimately only I can answer this question, since this is my writing project, but I am curious what people think about this.
I am also unsure exactly when to end the project. My original thought was to go up through December 31, 1999, since that is the last day of the 1990s, and then tie up a few loose ends with some “epilogue” stories set in 2000 and later. I am still leaning toward doing this. I also considered continuing the main narrative up to July 2001, since that is when I actually moved away from Jeromeville, but it seems like most of my most interesting stories happened before then, and if I deviate from the truth slightly, as I mentioned before, the most interesting stories from 2000 and 2001 I can probably rewrite as if they happened earlier.
So, yes, please share if you have any thoughts about any of the above, or about anything else, or if you just want to say hi. I can also answer questions about anything you read on here, although I might give incomplete or evasive answers if answering your question would give away major spoilers for future episode. (I know, for example, multiple people have asked me what my career is as an adult. I have not answered that question, because I will eventually write about experiencing the process of exploring and discovering careers throughout most of 1997, and since I am still today in the same career field that I settled on before finishing my undergraduate studies at UJ, answering this question would give away things that I will write about later.)
The University of Jeromeville is on a three quarter schedule. My classes last for one-third of the school year instead of the traditional half-year. Year-long classes are still year-long classes, but split into three parts instead of two. Winter break falls one-third of the way through the year, which is why UJ starts and ends later than most universities. The spring break at the end of March, which had just passed, comes two-thirds of the way through the year, so that this coming Monday morning I would have new spring quarter classes. The terms are called quarters even though there are three of them.
Right now, it was early afternoon on the Saturday at the end of spring break. I had left my parents’ house in Plumdale around 11 in the morning and stopped for lunch at a McDonald’s in Irving just off Highway 6, where I had Chicken McNuggets. I hadn’t yet outgrown Chicken McNuggets at age 18; that would happen over the next year or so. I arrived back at Building C a little before two o’clock.
The entire South Residential Area was quiet. Most normal students waited until Sunday night to return to Jeromeville, because most normal students preferred to be at home on vacation and not back at school. I would rather be here. It was quieter here than at my parents’ house. I didn’t have friends in Plumdale. And, perhaps most importantly, my computer was here. I didn’t take my computer home, and there was no way to access the Internet from my parents’ house.
It wasn’t exactly correct to say that I didn’t have friends in Plumdale. Melissa Holmes was home for break the same week I was, and we had gone to see some of our old teachers at Plumdale High. I stayed until lunch time and saw many of my teachers and some friends from younger classes, including Rachel Copeland, the only younger friend at Plumdale High who had kept in touch with me consistently. That was a great day.
I checked my email, and today’s date on the incoming messages caught my eye: April 1. April Fool’s Day. I got an idea. I opened a new email and copied and pasted the list of email addresses for all 70 students in the IHP.
I have really enjoyed being part of the IHP with all of you these last two quarters. Unfortunately, some circumstances have changed back home, and I will be unable to finish out the school year here at UJ. I hope to stay in touch with all of you, and I might be back someday when everything gets sorted out.
APRIL FOOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :) Gotcha!
After I sent my April Fool email, I replied to Molly Boyle, an online friend from Pennsylvania, telling her about my visit to Plumdale. I got to thinking about Plumdale High… I really needed another year there. Sure, I was done with classes, but I grew so much senior year, I made new friends and had so many new experiences, and then we all graduated and moved away, leaving what felt to me like unfinished business. I was the quiet kid who kept to myself and did homework at lunch, then all of a sudden I was performing in skits and working behind the scenes in the video yearbook club, and popular kids whom I barely knew were talking to me like old friends. But I never got the chance to get more involved with school activities. I never got the chance to find out if Jennifer Henson actually liked me, or if Annie Gambrell really meant anything when she told me to keep smiling. But I had a great story to tell. I decided I was going to make something of my senior year, and I did, even if everything I was building ended abruptly. It was the kind of story that could be made into a movie, or a novel.
Wait a minute, I thought. I opened Microsoft Word and started typing.
Roar Like A Panther A Novel by Gregory J. Dennison
That was a dumb title. I would fix it later, when I thought of something better.
“Tom,” Mom called out to me. “Telephone call.”
I hated taking telephone calls. I have always been really shy on the telephone. I figured I knew who it was calling. I took the telephone into the next room. “Hello?”
“Hey, Tom. It’s Nancy.” As I had suspected.
“How’s your spring break going?”
“Fine. And yours?”
“I haven’t really done much,” she said. “I’ve just been hanging out with my family.”
“I saw a movie with Kate,” I said.
“How is she?”
“She’s doing fine. We didn’t really talk much, though, but it was nice to see her anyway.”
“So anyway, I was going to go visit Mrs. Jordan tomorrow. Do you want to come with me?”
“Sure!” I said. “At the school?”
“Yes. They’re still in school this week.”
“Right. What time?”
“Is 8:30 all right, or is that too early?”
“Yes. That’s fine.”
“Great!” Nancy exclaimed. “I’ll see you there.”
“Bye,” I said. I hung up.
I wrote for hours, telling about my senior year as well as I could remember, except that I changed most of the characters’ names. Melissa was Nancy; one time in high school, she complained that someone said she looked like her name should be Nancy, so I figured I’d go with it. Catherine became Kate; that one didn’t change as much. Mrs. Norton changed to Mrs. Jordan. That one didn’t really mean anything. My name in the story was Tom, because this was going to be the next Great American Novel, and I noticed once that so many great works of American literature that I had to read in school had a character named Tom. Tom Sawyer. Tom Joad from The Grapes of Wrath. Thomas Putnam from The Crucible. Tom Robinson from To Kill A Mockingbird. Tom Wingfield from The Glass Menagerie.
Every once in a while, as I was writing, I walked down the hallway to drink from the water fountain; I also used the bathroom on those trips down the hall if I needed to. I always tend to do this as I write. I’m not sure if it helps my brain work, or if it is more of a distraction. By the time I went to bed that night, shortly after eleven o’clock, I had already written the story of my senior year of high school up until mid-November, filming other classes’ projects for my computer graphics and video production class and meeting Annie Gambrell (or Laurie Hampton, as I called her in my novel).
Church on Sunday was emptier than usual, and I continued writing as soon as I got home. Later in the afternoon, I started to hear more people walking around. Around three o’clock, I got up to use the bathroom, and I walked around the rest of the building, starting on the first floor. The common area and study room took up almost half of the first floor, and the door of the room closest to the common area was open. I poked my head inside.
This room belonged to a short brown-haired girl named Heather Beck, but no one ever called her Heather. She always had other Heathers in her classes growing up, so her friends started calling her Beck, and that mutated somehow into Bok, which is the nickname everyone called her now. (Bok rhymes with rock.) Bok was good friends with Skeeter from the third floor; both of them were free-spirited artsy hippie types, although I never saw either of them wear the stereotypical tie-dye with Birkenstocks.
“Hey, Greg,” Bok said, looking up at me through her glasses. She and Skeeter were sitting on the floor, looking at what appeared to be old newspapers spread flat on the floor. “How was your break?”
“It was good. I visited my old high school. That was interesting.”
“I’m sure it was,” Skeeter said. “I got this over break.” She gestured toward the pile of newspapers, and I saw in the middle of them a large sheet of high-quality paper with abstract green, gray, red, and brown swirls on part of it, along with a fancy set of watercolor paints, a few small brushes, and a cup of water.
“Nice!” I said as Skeeter painted black dots with long tails floating in a spiral arrangement. “Is it bad that I can’t really tell what you’re painting?”
“I don’t know,” Skeeter shrugged, smiling, as Bok painted a blue-gray cloud shape at the other empty end of the paper. “These look like sperm. The rest of it is just stuff. By the way, that was a great April Fool’s joke. Good one.”
“What was the joke?” Bok asked.
“I don’t want to give it away if you haven’t seen it yet,” Skeeter explained.
“I’m looking forward to seeing how your painting turns out,” I said. “I started writing a novel yesterday.”
“Really?” Bok asked. “You write?”
“I don’t know. This isn’t really something I’ve done before. When I was younger, I used to make comic books and copy them on the copier at my mom’s work. I’d sell them to my brother’s friends for a quarter. But I’ve never really written prose… at least I’ve never finished a novel.”
“How long is it going to be?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s it about?”
“A coming of age story. Based on my life last year. I was thinking about this when I visited my old high school last week.”
“Makes sense,” Skeeter said. “Let me know when you finish it.”
“Me too,” Bok added.
Monday was the first day of class for the quarter. I had math first thing in the morning, as I always did, except this quarter it was nine o’clock instead of eight. I had a whole hour more to sleep in every morning. I recognized some familiar faces from previous math classes: Jack Chalmers from Building F, Tiffany from Building K, and a cute redhead from last quarter.
“Greg!” Jack said, speaking quickly as he always did, as we waited for the class that met an hour earlier in the same room to finish. “How was your break?”
“Good,” I said. “I went to visit my old high school. How was yours? You went to Santa Lucia, right?”
“Yeah! Did you say to take the 122 or 127 to Santa Lucia?”
“127. Why? What happened?”
“On the way down, we couldn’t remember, so we took the 122 instead. It was beautiful!”
“Really?” I asked. “That’s a really windy mountain road, from what I remember.”
“It was great! My friend has a brand new car that handles mountain roads really well, so we really enjoyed the drive. And on the way back we took the 127. That was so much faster! It was only five miles to cut over to the coast. Thanks again for the directions!”
“Glad you had a great drive!” I said. I was surprised at his reaction. My mother apparently had a bad experience with mountain roads once, so she raised me to believe that mountain roads were the most frightening thing ever, to be avoided at all costs. Apparently it was evident from Jack’s reaction that not all people think this way.
My math class that quarter was vector calculus. I also had chemistry and physics later that day. I was taking a class for the IHP called Psychology and the Law, but that class met on Tuesdays and Thursdays, not today.
When I got back to Building C, Taylor, Pete, Liz, and Ramon were sitting on one couch in the common room, talking to Schuyler Jenkins and a girl named Jenn who lived next to Pete, sitting on another couch. I waved at them.
“Greg!” Jenn said. “You’re leaving us?”
I was confused by Jenn’s question, trying to process what she meant by leaving, but when Pete and Taylor started laughing, I realized what was going on here. “You didn’t read all of my email, did you,” I said.
“It was an April Fool’s joke,” Taylor explained.
“Oh my gosh!” Jenn exclaimed, laughing. “I can’t believe I fell for that!”
“Done with classes for the day?” Taylor asked.
“Yeah. It was a good day so far. I still have Psych-Law tomorrow.”
“Liz and I are in that class too,” Ramon said.
“I’ve been writing a novel for fun,” I said.
“Wow,” Taylor replied. “What’s it about?”
“It’s a coming-of-age story. It’s about my life last year.”
“Was your life really that interesting?” Schuyler asked in a dry deadpan tone.
“It was, actually. That’s why I decided to write about it.”
“I didn’t know you liked to write.”
“It’s kind of new for me too. I just felt like it. I’ve always had a creative side I don’t show much, but writing like this is kind of new for me.”
“Good luck with that,” Jenn said.
“Let me know when you’re done,” Liz said. “I’ll read it.”
“Okay. I will.”
I spent most of my free time during the first week and a half of spring quarter writing my story. On Friday, I got back from my last class in the afternoon, ready to write the chapter where we took our senior trip to Disneyland. But before I could get up to my room, I saw Skeeter and Bok in the common room working on two paintings. One of them was the one I had seen in Bok’s room a few days earlier, with the spiral of sperm, but the sperm had been painted over so that now they looked like crosses. Someone had written “the downward spiral” at the bottom of the page. I was vaguely aware of this phrase being the title of an album by the band Nine Inch Nails. I had no idea that this band, or their genre of industrial rock, even existed until a few months ago; no one listened to that back home in Santa Lucia County, at least no one I knew.
The other painting was a new one. The paper was in portrait orientation, the longer dimension vertical. A long light green stripe, almost straight, ran across the painting from left to right, with a dark green stripe just below it. The upper left corner had multicolored swirls, and something resembling a Venus flytrap was in the lower left, its mouth open to reveal red teeth. Directly above the Venus flytrap was a large orange circle, touching the green stripe. Skeeter was painting a pink swirly whooshy thing (I’m not good at describing abstract art) coming down from the orange ball.
“Hi,” I said in Skeeter and Bok’s general direction.
“Bok turned my sperm into crosses!” Skeeter said, sounding jokingly angry.
“I didn’t know you wanted them to be sperm!” Bok argued back.
“I think it’s interesting either way,” I said.
“Come paint with us,” Skeeter said, handing me a brush. On the right edge of the new painting, on top of a yellow spot, I painted twelve dark dots in a circle, with a thirteenth dot in the middle. I added some thin horizontal stripes to the left of this, just above the center of the paper.
“I like that Venus fly trap thing,” I said.
“That was my idea,” Bok replied. “So were the crosses.”
“They’re sperm,” Skeeter said.
“How’s your story coming along so far?” Bok asked.
“I’m getting there. I’ve been writing a lot.”
We continued talking and painting for about another hour. I added some abstract patches of color in the upper right, and Skeeter eventually painted a bunch of parallel diagonal lines on top of it. The pink swirly whooshy thing was extended toward the bottom of the page, where it split into several branches; other colored swirly whooshy things were added next to it, coming down from the parallel lines I painted.
When the page was filled with color, Skeeter said, “It needs a title.”
“Flytrap,” Bok suggested.
“I don’t know. That seems kind of obvious.”
I looked at the painting, the green stripe across its length, the horizontal lines just below now emanating from long curved strokes of different colors. I thought about the other painting, The Downward Spiral, how it had been named after a song and album. I had been listening to Pink Floyd’s The Wall earlier that day, a rock opera about a musician who deals with trauma by isolating himself from society and eventually becoming delusional. Toward the end of the album, in a song called “The Trial,” the character’s life is presented as a judge accusing him of having human feelings, as if doing such is a crime. The song ends with repeated chants of “Tear down the wall!”
“How about Tear Down The Wall?” I asked.
Skeeter and Bok looked at me. “I like it,” Bok said. “I think it fits.”
“It’s got this wall separating the two sides,” Skeeter explained, tracing the green stripe in the middle. “And there’s all this tension building up against the wall here,” she added, pointing to the horizontal lines just below the wall. “Go ahead, Greg. Add the title.”
I painted TEAR DOWN THE WALL in black paint, in between the orange ball and the Venus fly trap. Later that night, when the paint was dry, Skeeter and Bok taped both Tear Down The Wall and The Downward Spiral to the wall in the common room, where they stayed for the rest of the school year for all of Building C to admire.
I finished writing my story the following Monday, after I got back from my classes. At 51 pages and about 33,000 words, it was a little short to be called a novel, but it was still the longest piece I had ever written, and it had only taken ten days. I loaded the printer with paper, but before I started printing, I went all the way back to the first page and deleted the title. Roar Like A Panther was a stupid title, and I knew it all along.
The Commencement A Novel by Gregory J. Dennison
Graduation ceremonies are also called commencement ceremonies. To commence means to begin, which at first seems like a counterintuitive title since graduation is the end of school, not the beginning. But a commencement ceremony is the beginning of real life. And my senior year of high school felt like the beginning of something new in my life. This was definitely a better title.
When my hard copy of The Commencement finished printing, I punched holes in the pages and put it in a report folder with a clear cover. I wanted other people to read it, so I could find out what they thought of my story. I brought it with me to the common room after dinner, where I sat doing homework and waiting for someone with whom I felt comfortable sharing The Commencement. Liz and Ramon walked by about fifteen minutes later. “Hey, Greg,” Liz said. “What’s up?”
“I finished my story,” I replied, holding up The Commencement.
“That’s cool! Can I read it?”
“Sure. I’d like to know what you think.”
“Do you need it back in a hurry?”
“No. Just eventually when you’re done.”
“I don’t know how long it’ll take. But I’ll let you know.”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
“No problem. I think this is really cool. I hadn’t pictured you to be a writer.”
“Thanks. I don’t know if I had either.”
Skeeter and Bok were painting in the common room again three days later, and Pete, Charlie, and Liz were all on the floor painting too. Bok’s stereo had been temporarily moved to the common room, and a strange song played, with a vocalist speaking monotonous rhythmic lyrics over a bass-driven melody. It sounded like some kind of blend of rock, rap, and funk.
“Hi, Greg,” Liz said. “You like our painting?”
“I do.” This painting had four distinct quadrants arranged in a two-by-two grid, each with a distinct color scheme. One was shades of gray; one was pale pastel-like colors; one had swirls of simple, bright colors, like red and blue; and one had dark shades of brown, olive green, midnight blue, and black. The painting was almost finished, there was not much more to do, so I just made blobs and swirls of color, trying to stay close to the colors near what I was painting.
“What’s this music?” I asked.
“Cake,” Bok said.
“A local band from Capital City, called Cake. My friend and I went to their show the other day. Apparently they’re going to be the next big thing.”
“They sound different. But I kind of like it.”
“That’s how I feel about them too.”
“I finished your story,” Liz said. “I put it over there on the coffee table. I really liked it.”
“It sounds like you really enjoyed your senior year.”
“I did. I feel like I was really growing. And then it all suddenly stopped.”
“But now you’re here. And you’re still growing.”
“Yes, I am,” I said. Liz was right. Sure, I never got to be in another Homecoming skit, and I never got a date with any of those girls I liked back in high school. But instead of standing there looking through a door that had closed, I was now looking at new doors opening here at UJ.
“Does anyone have a good title for this painting?” Skeeter asked.
“Not really,” Pete answered.
“Maybe we should just look around somewhere and find some random title,” Charlie suggested. “Like, look at these newspapers on the ground and find something in there.”
“I like that idea,” I said. “Then the title will be something really off the wall and silly.” I scanned the newspaper. My eyes quickly fell on an advertisement for a furniture store, and I pointed to a phrase from this advertisement. “Like this one,” I added. “‘Everything 25% Off.’” The others laughed.
“I think it’s perfect!” Skeeter said. “Because there are four parts. Fourths, like 25 percent.”
“I think we have our title,” Pete said. I took a paint brush and painted EVERYTHING 25% OFF in a corner of the painting, and later that night Everything 25% Off joined The Downward Spiral and Tear Down The Wall on the wall of the common room.
By the end of the year, there were around a dozen paintings on the wall. When we moved out of the building, Skeeter and Bok let those of us who helped paint each keep one that we helped with. To this day, Tear Down The Wall hangs on a wall at my house.
After I printed The Commencement, I left it in the common room for about a week, in case anyone else wanted to read it. I’m not sure who all did, but Schuyler Jenkins pointed out a typo, and Skeeter told me it was a good first draft. I also sent it to Molly from Pennsylvania in eleven separate emails over the next month, and she said she really liked it and felt like she had gotten to know me better.
Skeeter’s comment seemed kind of disappointing at first, since I thought The Commencement was finished, but she was right. It was a good first draft. My writing style was too dry; I just listed things that happened instead of telling about them in a way that engaged the reader. I worked on The Commencement again for a while in 1996, and again in 2002; by that time, it was almost three times as long as the original. Interestingly enough, one of my friends who read the 2002 version said that the most relatable part was a chapter that I completely made up, something that never happened to me in real life.
I never considered writing for a career. I was a math guy. I didn’t write. And creative writing wasn’t something that could make a steady career. It is possible to make a living writing, of course; many writers and artists and musicians work on art in between working normal jobs, waiting to get discovered. Some of these actually make it. Bok’s friend who said that this local band Cake was the next big thing was right; Cake had several big hits over the next decade. But making a life out of art requires much patience and uncertainty, and that part of it didn’t sound appealing to me. I’d stick to writing for fun.
The Commencement was the first piece of fiction I wrote that was based on myself, and it felt good to open up and share my story with a few others. My own life has been my favorite inspiration for my writing over the years. I’ve written stories not based on me, but I do best when I write what I know, and I don’t understand others as well as I understand myself. I hope that someone out there can learn something from reading my story.