Tripping on Tears Read Free

way of pointing out that it was this encouragement that led me into the life of a writer. My younger brother went into banking and my sister into nursing, leaving me the only member of my family to pursue the arts or as my brother pointed out to me, the only member of my family who was willing to accept or pursue a life of poverty.
    “Who the hell is going to read anything you write?” he once asked me. “Mom and Dad can only buy so many books and not enough to put you on the New York Times Bestseller List.”
    I believe, “Bite me,” was my response.
    Yes, I know what you’re thinking, not all that creative a response for someone who fancies themselves a writer. At the same time, who wants to waste any of their good material on their little brother? Actually my sister came to my rescue pointing out to my little brother that as long as he was successful in the financial community I’d know where I could go for a loan whenever I needed it. Strangely, this didn’t seem to please him, although it did give me a solid game plan.
    Up until the end of high school I had written a lot of short stories, none of which were published anywhere of any renown. I took a stab at a novel, but came up short; who knew it took that much effort to actually write professionally?
    Like most aspiring writers, I decided to study journalism. What better way to become a writer than to be making a living writing while trying to achieve that dream. Journalism, of course, is supposed to be about the facts and getting them right. That kind of training is not conducive to the art of writing fiction, as I found out, and many of my college classmates, who had the same idea as me. At the same time I found an outlet that seemed to agree with me. I graduated and started working for a small regional newspaper, doing everything that was required of me; it wasn’t glamorous, and the pay certainly confirmed my little brother’s predictions about my seeking out poverty for a living, but I liked it. I didn’t know how far I was going to take it, but I felt I’d found my niche in life. Maybe writing fiction wasn’t for me; maybe my talents lay in non-fiction; exploring the world and relating it back to my readers.
    And, yes, I can say readers because believe it or not I found them, or should I say they found me? Back to the concept of thinking we’re special. Why me and not someone else in my journalism class? Or one of the many journalism graduates around the world? I sold a book and it became a substantial enough hit that I was able to pursue writing books full time. Was it because I was more special than everyone else, or just dumb luck? It was the latter, even though if Mom were still alive she’d say the former.
    I had a good friend in college who had scored what every guy thinks is the jackpot in a girlfriend—a stripper. I’ve never been one for adult entertainment and the so-called ‘Men’s Clubs.’ Yes I’m being diplomatic, but I’ve never liked the term ‘Peelers’ when talking about strippers.
    I’d been in clubs before. All young men at some point or the other find themselves drawn to the establishments. I mean you can have a beer and watch women get naked on purpose. The draw is pretty simple to figure out. I went a few times with some buddies, only to discover that these places were quite boring. You drank overpriced alcohol, and watched the standard three-song rotation of dancers. The first song, she just dances in a sexy outfit; the second song, she might take off her top; the final song, she goes completely naked—over and over and over again. The funny part is that having been a film buff for quite some time, my impression of strippers was that they performed on stage. What I discovered was that half the time the girl on stage looked like she was going through the motions, absolutely bored with the whole routine herself. We referred to these girls as walkers , as that seemed to be the extent of their dancing—they were