Life

Invest in What Matters

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

Greetings from the land of Daylight Saving Time, everyone. It has been a slow adjustment over the last couple of days, but I may be back on track by Wednesday, who knows. At least I have energy drinks and all the writing I can stand to keep me going, right? I have been hard at work on Mother Mine lately, and it is shaping up to be one of my creepier offerings in some respects. If you want to learn more about that, stay tuned here and be sure to jump over to my newsletter for some snippets and samples as the book progresses.

In addition to writing hard on this and other new and familiar works, I am currently prepping one of my Eddie Blake-related short stories for release very soon – you will want to check that one out! My plan is to have the release for that story set for Saturday, March 14, which just happens to be the date of my next event! I am super excited about this event, as it takes place at the Tazewell Public Library. It is going to be quite surreal to have a book event at the very library that helped instill and nurture my love of reading as a kid. I went to this library as often as I could possibly get there, and I have memories on top of memories of books and events there. It’s such a facet of making me who I am that I can’t wait to hopefully give back to the place in some small way.

Speaking of events, that is one of the things I have been focusing on very intensely so far this year. For the last handful of years, I have been doing almost strictly local events, which often are centered around Appalachian crafts as a whole, as opposed to the specific products or genres I work in. This year, however, I (and my amazing manager/wife/better half) have been finding a wealth of horror-themed events in which to throw my hat. The first of these is going to be Screamiverse Expo in Roanoke, April 18-19. This event is geared entirely toward horror nerds like myself, and will be an amazing time. Horror actors such at Felissa Rose and Brett Wagner will be there – not to mention the original Green Goblin head from Maximum Overdrive! I am thrilled to be a part of this event and several others throughout the year, but it has been something I had to truly dedicate myself to – with an immense amount of support and encouragement from Amanda, of course.

The local events I am used to doing have been either free or comparatively cheap in relation to the bigger, horror-themed ones I am diving into this year. Even so, those events are very hit or miss. It is fairly common knowledge, I assume, that a lot of people in the Bible Belt may not necessarily gravitate to my brand of horror and literature, least of all those who go to craft shows where Bluegrass, knife-making, and wood carving demonstrations abound. In the event I sold little or even nothing at these craft shows, it was a loss, of course, but one I could handle if it helped put my name in people’s minds. These bigger events, however, have a much heftier fee involved with being a part of them. That is a bit scary, to say the least, when I look at some events in the past where I did not sell well or at all. Like I said, though, an Appalachian craft fair is not always going to lend itself to a horror and fantasy author, whether he/she is local or not.

Horror cons like Screamiverse and Nashville Celebrity Comic Con (Oct. 9-11 this year) will likely have much more of my intended audience present, though. Knowing tons of horror-loving folks will fill the venue during these events gives me an extraordinary sense of hope that they will be wonderful for my brand and for bringing my name to new audiences. That’s where the real motivation comes in, for me. Yes, these are huge investments, but it comes down to the idea of truly seeking out your audience.

All too often, authors and artists may think they can just produce work and their audience will find them, and in some cases, this may be true. But, when you are a creative, it is important that you believe in yourself. Push yourself. Invest in yourself. You have to see that you are worth so much more than just sitting there and hoping the wind blows people into your frame of view. As terrifying as it is, bringing yourself to those new horizons, those bigger events, investing money you may have to heavily budget and account for in the hopes that it elevates your audience and attention to your work in new ways is sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself and your art. Speaking from that point of view of the scared artist who is hoping these events pan out, I also feel a huge sense of potential, of hope, for these events and for the connections I can make there. At the end of the day, just like with the local events I have attended – regardless of their overall sales – as long as I am having fun and making the most of the experience with my amazing wife by my side, it will definitely be worth it.

I think that may be one of the most important and one of the hardest things for an indie creator to accept. Self-investment is not something that comes naturally to many of us. If you, like me, have ever been told that your stories or art just “aren’t for” some people or that certain events or groups won’t like what you do, it can be hard to bounce back from the immediate thought that no matter where you go, you are going to run into that opposition. It makes it hard to feel confident in spending hundreds of dollars to buy your spot at an event where your audience could be waiting just around the corner – especially when you’ve done events where you have sat there all day and waited for a single sale, a single bit of interest, and gone home empty-handed. Or, rather, I guess it would be worse than empty-handed, because you are going home with every bit of art you left with. It hasn’t found a home. And you haven’t found a new audience.

But that’s part of the game, right? You have to be an active participant in your life, in your marketing, in your sales potential. Granted, nothing about being an indie creator is “about the sales.” I never once put pen to paper with the thought that it would make me X amount of money. I want people to read my work. To experience it. I want my words to live in people’s heads long after they finish the book, and resonate with them in ways they simply have to talk to others about. That’s the real dream. To be remembered. So you have to make the investments, friends. You have to throw caution to the wind at least one good time and see if something that seems too big or too wild could be EXACTLY what you need. I have no idea how well these events are going to do for me this year, but it will put me in my element. I will have the chance to meet hundreds, if not thousands, or like-minded, horror-loving people, and that in itself is going to be freaking awesome.

Destiny

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

Do you believe in fate/destiny?

I absolutely do. I have been given so many examples of fate, destiny, purpose, universal alignment, whatever you want to call it in my life that I couldn’t imagine not believing.

From my own story and life, to the way my wife and I reunited I know I am destined to be exactly where I am in this moment. Far more than the possibility of things just “happening” in coincidence, I think a universal plan (I do choose to believe it is God’s plan, but I do not and will not force that belief on others), makes the most sense.

As a caveat to that, I do believe things can disrupt, slow, or event prevent some fated events from happening. Perhaps not forever, but definitely at their originally intended times. I believe every action we take, every choice we make, every ounce of life we live has an effect on how and when our destiny will unfurl. At the end of the day, we know somewhere inside of us what we’re meant for. The real task is just being brave enough to chase it.

Reading, Winter, and the Future

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

Greetings, all! It has been an eventful couple of weeks since my last post. I have been working tirelessly on my newest piece, Mother Mine as well as reading pretty steadily. I’ve gotten through some good books, and have also hit a string of rather “not for me” DNF titles that went straight to my eBay store (https://ebay.us/m/9MEKYC for anyone who wants to check out my long list of titles and merch). That’s one of the things about thrifting and being addicted to buying books and giving them a new home – sometimes you can’t tell they aren’t quite for you based just on the description on the jacket.

In reality, a lot of life is like that. You look at certain experiences, foods, events, places to go, and so on, and think “man, this seems right up my alley.” Then, once you get there, once you have your hands immersed in that thing or event you realize that it isn’t all you thought it would be. It’s hard to accept that something you thought you wanted is not quite it, but sometimes it really is for the best.

I’ve had plenty of things that fit that bill. Getting closure on my dad’s abandonment, working in the theatre program at my school, and going to bed early, to name a few. The thing about diving into those things, or at least the search for them, is that I allowed myself a chance. Just like reading those books that might sound cool on a whim, trying new things is important. Giving yourself over to new experiences, getting a bit of vulnerability in the day-to-day, is irrevocably important for personal growth.

What it really boils down to a lot of the time is a mix of being willing to admit that you are not already at your absolute best (who among us has no hopes of a better job, more travel, a better salary, etc.) and being willing to leave your comfort zone to get to that higher level of existence. It’s wild when you think about it. Waking up in the morning and knowing that you want to do something new, even if it may not necessarily turn out to be “better” is beautifully freeing.

You have to be willing to turn things around in life. Read the book that may not be in your preferred genre, travel to a new place or in a new way, break into new experiences and new modes of life. Don’t ever limit yourself to what you know, or what you already have. That’s not to say that you need to dig into your subconscious and find things to be unhappy about. If you can’t think of anything new you want, even if it’s just a new recipe or a new pair of pants, then maybe you HAVE already reached that new level of personal enlightenment. And that’s nothing to turn your nose up at.

As mentioned before, I’ve been working on Mother Mine, and it is going swimmingly. I broke into a second notebook yesterday and am in the midst of a scene that gives me chills. There’s something special about this one (which I think about all of my books/stories/poems, but that’s beside the point). I look very forward to sharing it with you all ASAP.

Regarding this entire post and the future element I mentioned in my title, we have been looking into new events to try selling my wares at. Amanda is the best manager, of course, and she has helped find tons of horror, fantasy, book, and nerd-themed events around us that look like great places to take my work. I’ve only been doing closer events, mostly themed around Appalachian crafts, etc., and, as awesome as that is, it doesn’t exactly open up the full potential for finding my audience. My hope is that jumping in on these horror-themed events will bring a larger audience to my writing and really get my name out there. As I get confirmation on these events, I will be updating my events page on my website, and I’d love to have as many people who read my blog come out and meet me, say hello, grab a book, and just chat about all things horror and awesome. Immense thanks to my awesome wife for her continued encouragement, and to everyone who has been supportive of my writing. Knowing I have people in my corner who understand and encourage my calling is something I call on any time I feel down about not riding the bestseller list yet. I know that God’s purpose for my life is writing, and the spread of my work and my name are about His timeline, not my own.

So, I am going to use the second snow day of this week to write more, to look at and apply for more events, and to write a new round of letters for my pen pal group. The group, although slowing in momentum a touch, is still a great experience. I love writing letters to people from as far and wide as possible, chatting about how life goes, and doing anything to break away from the world of instant gratification that has taken away the intimacy and importance of things like letter writing and written communication. Anyone interested in joining the group, please check us out on Facebook and write letters to anyone and everyone you’d like. You can go to the page here. If you want to allow everyone on the page to write to you, feel free to leave your address in the pinned comment at the top of the page, but if you want to be selective about who you communicate with, just look through that list and pick people who match your interests, etc. With luck, this group will go international and allow us to have real, classic pen pal communication. I’d love to reach out and talk to people all around the globe, so by all means, please help me do that. If you love literature, horror, fantasy, food, travel, photography, and life in general, write me! Let’s kick letter writing back into one of the most cherished forms of communication.

In the meantime, everyone, I challenge you all to do at least one new thing this week. Let yourself embrace the fun in life. And if anyone tries to get in the way, just laugh them off while you grow and live. It’ll be worth it.

A Year After Knowing

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

It’s odd, writing this blog post, to be honest. Through most of my life, I spent more time than I should wondering about my biological dad. Where is he? What is he doing? Does he think about me? Does it even matter? Then, a little over a year ago, I got a message from a cousin that he was dead. No more chances at reconnecting. No more half-assed excuses on the off chance I did get up with him. No more confusion about whether the numbers or addresses I had were no longer valid or if I was being ignored. In essence, if he was in the ground, at least I knew where he was.

That’s a harsh reality, sure, but from a man who had never had the security of knowing where one half of his biological makeup was, it did bring me some sick comfort. I would never again have to look at a passing car and wonder if HE was in it. Never again get a hang-up call and wonder if my answers were on the other end.

What has replaced those curiosities, however, is a certainty that I won’t get those answers. My biological grandmother and uncle have made no efforts to reach out to me since the funeral I attended (where one wasn’t in attendance and one had to look at the guest book to even know who I was). Not that I really expected to hear anything.

Sure, in a perfect world, there would have been some letter he never sent, or some journal entry that talked about the choices he made. Maybe he had some explanation that was supposed to be sent to me after his death. But, no. This isn’t a spy movie. He wasn’t a man who explained himself. He was just… a bad person.

I don’t know that he stole, or murdered, or did anything we usually think classifies someone as a bad person. Nothing like that. But, I do know what he did. He lied to his child, abandoned his child. Handed over the reins to a single mother who did her best, as best she could, at least. But, as an adult, a teacher, a grown man who understands responsibilities and mental health, I can safely say he was not a good man. The choices he made may have been what he, in some way, thought to be best, and maybe they were. I have heard from more than one person with knowledge of that side of my family tree that him being a part of my life would almost certainly have prevented me from being a successful human. Maybe that is the case. I don’t know.

What I do know is what it taught me. There is never an excuse for making a child think they have done something to push you away. There is no reason good enough to choose to leave behind a kid who knows no better than to rely on you, to trust you. Disappearing from someone’s life may seem like a valid option to an extremely selfish person, but that only shows how truly self-centered you are. No matter the cause, no matter the outcome, responsibilities run deeper than that for a truly good person.

I think that is one reason I strive so hard to show my students that I am there for them. I teach in a region where poverty is the norm, where single-parent households are increasingly more common, and where some people do not know their parents at all. Because of this, I make it a point to be reliable. Whether that is through grading, lessons, or being there to listen when they are having a bad day. No student leaves my classroom thinking they are unimportant if I am doing my job right.

Should my wife and I have children, the same will go for them. No matter the lack of closure, the lack of “this is how you do things” type lessons I got from my biological dad, no matter the one-sided nature of my female-centered upbringing, I know how to be different. Scotty taught me, through omission, the exact way to be sure no child I have will feel like I did.

When I started my teaching journey almost 6 years ago, I knew the first thing I needed to do was work on those elements of trust and care. Now, teaching at my Alma Mater, I can remember (and actually work with) some of the teachers who showed me that same respect and care. It makes a difference. A year after realizing I will never know why Scotty made the decisions he did, I feel all the more confident in being the person I am. I feel I have made the right choice in building those elements of care and trust with my wife, my friends, my students, my coworkers, anyone who may need to know – even just for one day or just one minute – that they are not alone.

That’s what it all comes down to, right? No matter who we are, what we are going through, everything seems like it is just a little more bearable if we know we aren’t alone. That’s why I’m here. And I always will be for anyone who needs me.

The Age of Innocence

/ Damean Mathews, Author / 2 Comments

As another school year is slowly winding to a close, life moves back into the familiar mode of Summer (and yes, that’s Summer the holiday, not just summer the season). One of the good things about being a teacher, of course, is that we also get to enjoy some of the freedoms we can all remember from our youths – and it is a highly coveted thing. Even now I can remember the way things altered as the school year wound to a close. After all, as a kid, that’s the way life is split for you, typically. School and not school. Summer and not Summer. Play and not play. It’s just a fact of life.

The thing many of us never wanted to think about, though, is what happens when that separation is over. What life is going to look like when Summer just becomes summer, when time changes from being a split between school and not school. Apart from the days when we rested in the satisfaction of having that dichotomy we have only the nostalgia of looking back at “the good old days.” That’s where I find myself today, lunch block slowly slipping away minute by sleepy minute. I’m not alone in today’s reminiscence, though.

Outside my classroom windows there is a small lawn where the younger children in another section of our school have recently been going out to play on warmer days. Today they are out en masse, and my classroom and I have found ourselves immersed in watching their antics. From my students, between the ages of 14 and 17, myself in my mid-30s, and my school’s SSC who is older than me, we have all been drawn into their games.

Sun shining on the bright green lawn, clouds passing over just enough to provide a break for the eyes, if not the skin, the children who have been granted their momentary pre-noon freedom engaged in activities ranging from dodgeball, one-armed baseball, tag, sidewalk drawing, and their own games that seemed to combine some combination of all the above. It was just as amusing, for me, to observe the way we all reacted to their spectacle. We laughed when one of them got a win, or took a rolling tumble to avoid getting hit with the ball. Arms shot up in victory, while none of them showed the standard and dreaded playground separation tactics that plague older students. It was, in the words of our SSC, innocence.

It’s no secret that I do teach at-risk kids, that I myself could have been considered an at-risk kid based on my mother’s income and my status as a child of a single parent household. So when these students, whom many stereotypically assume are troubled and trouble-making, are taking the time to bond and enjoy life while living simultaneously through the playground games of others, it says a lot. Students, who sometimes have to live their lives on guard for themselves and their loved ones for fear of injury or worse, sitting in a classroom and talking amongst themselves while reflecting on the times they had in those playground settings truly puts things in perspective.

I see it as a highly important and therapeutic activity, in all honesty. The fact this allowed students who have to build walls in order to keep themselves safe to drop those barriers and look back on times of innocence means a lot to me as a teacher and a nostalgic person. Most, if not all, of my students know my room is a safe space anyway, and this secured that even more. I take pride in my efforts to meet my students where they are coming from in an intellectual, educational, and social-emotional standpoint. I ask them how they are doing, and they know that is not just a nicety. Seeing the way the games of others put a smile on all of our faces today, it really made me think that humanity as a whole is truly striving for the freedom of a child. The unspent innocence so many take for granted without even realizing they are doing so.

When we were children we couldn’t have imagined the way our lives would alter by the time we left school. That long-distant future was as unreal to us as waking up one day with no sun in the sky. Teaching high school seniors for four years has allowed me to see that change first-hand with others, and it’s impressive how well some handle it. Some students rise to the occasion with plans and schemes galore and provide themselves with failsafes to protect them in the event life gives them a turn for the worse. Others… Others slip on the cap and gown and venture out into the final great Summer with little more than hopes and dreams in their reserves to get them through.

Regardless of the way we approached the end of those playground days, the truth of life comes into play in just how much we allow ourselves the freedom to observe and enjoy the innocence of youth. Wherever life has taken us, it is important to remember those days of fun. The bonds of youth, of innocent life, of going outside and truly just enjoying being alive, are something none of should ever forget. The blessed simplicity of just living for the moment, not having to concern ourselves with what bills need to be paid, what stresses await us when we look through the checkbook or get back home, the idea that we are all just able to enjoy spending time with our friends or even alone is truly something to savor.

I know it isn’t always easy, but I recommend taking a moment to do just observe the life of youth. Enjoy a moment of watching children play without judgement, look at animals lounging in the sun, watch a river flow, anything that pulls you out of the stresses of life. We all deserve a moment to remember how good life should be. That’s the truth of our situations in the world. We have, most of us, forgotten that life is supposed to be enjoyable. It shouldn’t be competition and anger, stress and work, bills and class status. It should just… be. But until that’s something we can make happen, the next best thing might be to just relax. And, hey, while we’re at it, why not find a playground that’s empty and have some fun of our own?

Superstition

/ Damean Mathews, Author / 2 Comments

I do want to say no to this, but to be honest, it’s hard to be Appalachian and not hold some superstition. Growing up in this area you hear a lot of wives’ tales about why things work the way they do, what this event or happenstance might mean, or how changes in the weather can effect the seasons ahead (can anyone say “mythology” and the origin of storytelling?). Hearing those things, you also can’t help but notice that some it does kind of make sense. For instance, there is a saying that if you see a bee/hornet/wasp nest built high off the ground in a tree or on a structure it means there will be a bad winter. The idea is that insects know that bad weather is coming and try to build high enough to stay out of the snow.

I noticed late into Fall and early into Winter there were several nests/hives built high in the trees on my drive to and from work, and made note of the myth. This winter we had some decent snows – nothing like the 3 footer we had about ten years ago, but a decent amount. You can see how there are some elements of potential truth to things like that, I hope.

Knowing there are truths to some of the superstitions in these mountains is not exactly a bad thing, either. Seeing the leaves turn upside down in the summer typically means there will be rain soon, so that can give you an indication you should seek shelter soon. Likewise, the color of the sky in the morning or at night can give you an amateur meteorologist’s view of the day’s weather (Red sky at night, sailors delight vs. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning) and let you plan a little.

On the other side of this, there was a wives’ tale I heard growing up that said if you hear a Screech Owl (one of my personal favorite sounds in the mountains) at night while in the bed you should tie a knot in your bedclothes or someone you know will die. Needless to say, I don’t have any reason to necessarily believe this is true, but when I heard that lonely, warbling screech last year I was sure to tie that knot. In other word, I may be superstitious at times but, with some things, it’s better to be safe than sorry, right?

Daily writing prompt
Are you superstitious?
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Coming to Terms

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

I went to the visitation service for my biological father last night. I’m not at all sure what I expected to happen there, but it was certainly not the way things went. Or maybe it was.

For those of you who don’t know, I was raised in a single parent household because my father made his own choices. Those choices did not involve me. Through the years I have made an abundance of attempts to reach out to him and create some sort of relationship, against the advice and better judgement of pretty much everyone around me. For a little while at one point it worked. When I was 12 I convinced my mother to take me to his adoptive parents house and ask about him. This resulted in his nephew taking us directly to his house and we began forming what I hoped would be a real friendship, if nothing else.

It may have lasted a year. During that time we went to a few movies, ate a couple of meals. he bought me an action figure or two and I paid for at least one of those movies with saved allowance. Of course, toward the end of this period of time as we were driving him back to his home he asked to stop at a convenience store and borrowed money from me for a beer. I probably should have known.

Not long after that the contact stopped. Again, his choice, not mine. He stopped answering calls and letters. Faded into the distance again with no explanation or excuses.

For five years I didn’t know if he was alive or dead until we received a letter from the state that he had been summoned to court for back child support. The state’s choice. Not ours. So, at the age of 17, I convinced my mother to go with me to the courthouse and see if he showed. Surprisingly he did. He was told to pay, said he would, walked out the door with barely a glance in my direction, but I followed. I shouted for him and watched as he thought about walking on and getting in the car as if he hadn’t heard me.

But he stopped. He turned around and came back with his shark-toothed grin and made me feel like he was happy to see me. More empty promises of future contact, blank apologies for a lack of communication, and we went our separate ways.

I never heard from him again.

For nearly 18 years I went without a single word from him. Nearly as long without any word about him, save the mention of him given by his brother after the man found me online. I could have had a child of my own in that time, and watched them grow to be the age I had been the last time I laid eyes on the man who contributed to my DNA. I know damn well I would have treated that child a lot better than I had ever been treated.

Several times during those 18 years I attempted contact again, including one shameful time when I went to his house and knocked on his door. As I looked at the window I saw him looking back out at me before the woman he lived with opened the door and told me he wasn’t there.

I told myself that was it. I had done more than enough. But, it didn’t stop me from sending some last ditch letters. Or from making a phone call after my grandmother passed. A phone call that asked me to leave a message on a voicemail that had his name on it. I told him I wanted nothing from him, no money, no goods, I just wanted to speak to him. Even once.

I won’t even pretend I was surprised when the call wasn’t returned. Or that the next time I tried the number it had been disconnected/my number was blocked.

That time it really was over. I stopped trying. I won’t pretend I hadn’t thought about trying again, but I hadn’t. I had no clue if the man was alive or dead, if he had other children, if he thought about me. I knew nothing. Until I got the message last week that he was actually dead.

If you haven’t lost a parent, I’m glad. It has been something of a whirlwind for me, and nothing like the standard I’m sure. In talking to friends who have reached out, I do realize how many of us have a non-standard (read non-glamorous, non-Hollywood, non-cookie-cutter) relationship with our parents, so I definitely know many of you will know what I mean. A parent who has been nothing but a repeated disappointment, who you truly had no relationship with despite your best efforts, suddenly passing, is still quite a shock.

As I said, I went to the service last night. A more than two hour drive from where I work and nearly the same back to my house. To say I was nervous is an understatement. I have always hated funeral homes and hospitals, and this made that even worse. But I went. I’ve asked myself why it was important that I do so, and others have wondered the same, and I think the full truth is exactly what I said from the start. This is the only time I have had full control over the way this relationship ended. I never got to say my goodbyes. I never got to be the one to really choose how things would progress, or whether they would progress.

Sure, I had decided to stop trying to reach out, but that was really tantamount to deciding to stop pounding a closed door and let my bloodied knuckles heal. It was already sealed. I merely gave in to the choice of others. No, this time I was the one who had the final say. So I went to the service. It took a while to work up the gumption to walk in, but I did it. Amanda and I were 2 of the 7 people there for the man who had isolated himself from his flesh and blood. I will never be able to thank her enough for putting herself through that for me, for supporting me in what she knew was a lost cause. Having her by my side was the only thing that kept me from losing my grip, as it so often is.

When I went to the casket he looked so different from the man I remember, the man who I have maybe three pictures of, that I was worried we were in the wrong chapel. But it was him. His mother was there. My grandmother. Whom I hadn’t seen in probably 25 or more years. She had to subtly walk to the sign-in book to see if I was who she thought I was, but she came up to me and spoke. Told me she knew the effort I had put in, but chalked it up with the true Appalachian “you know how he was.”

No, ma’am. I do not know how he was. He made sure of that. You all made sure of that. I know next to nothing about the man. Even the things my own mother can tell me about the father of her child is little more than three decade old facts. How much of that changed? How much different was the stranger in that box who made sure I never had a chance to know any version of him from the 22 year old she had once cared for? I have no idea. And, given the likelihood those who have chosen not to reach out in the past will continue on that trend, I may never know.

Not once did my grandmother ask about me, my life, my wellbeing. Would it matter to her? No. Just shrugging off the way her son had behaved the same way he shrugged off his own child. I can’t pretend I’m not upset by it all, but I finally am at a point where I can truly say I did everything I possibly could. I will be able to go to sleep tonight and every night knowing I never closed the door on my father, though I likely should have. At the end of the day I was able to say goodbye on my own terms, something that feels as close to satisfaction regarding the matter that I may ever get.

Confusion and Grief

/ Damean Mathews, Author / 3 Comments

Last night, I found out my biological father died this week. No way to sugarcoat that information, really. I hadn’t spoken to the man in nearly 18 years, not for lack of trying. I sought him out time and time again, wanting to have a relationship with him, no matter how small it was. I put myself out there and gave it my all to try and be a son to a man who didn’t want to be my father. I’ve never gotten to share my accomplishments, my sadnesses, my truths, and myself with the man whose DNA I share. I might never have even known he was gone because of these decisions on his part.

I am forever grateful to the cousin who made sure I knew, also. A lifetime of potential memories gone. A lifetime spent wondering why I wasn’t good enough, if there was something wrong with me, if I would ever even know why he wanted nothing to do with me. Now I guess I will never know the answers.

I think that is the strangest part of the whole thing for me. I have thought about going to the last place I knew he lived and seeking him out, or pushing harder to find the relatives on that side of the family that are still alive (which, according to his obituary – in which my name is not even correct, I might add – is nearly everyone except his father), but ultimately have chosen against it. For the last few years, I honestly didn’t even know if he was still alive, with Covid running rampant as it did. Until his brother found me on Facebook last year and at least confirmed that much for me, that is.

Even until I got the obituary and saw the face of the man I barely remember looking back at me, some part of me said my cousin must be mistaken. But there it was. The first line in the obituary read that he died with his daughter by his side. A daughter I’ve never met. Not a biological sibling, I know now, but nonetheless, someone who mattered enough to him for him to raise. To stick by. To live for. Someone I never even knew existed. Did she know about me?

Did he ever mention me? Could she hold the answers to why she got a father figure out of him and I never did? Do I even want to ask?

Those questions and more have been flooding my mind for the last 16 or so hours, and I am no closer to deciding if they are even worth asking. I have a whole side of my family whom I know nothing about. My father’s obituary said he loved God, loved to cook, was a great dad. Two out three ain’t bad… we have those in common at least. Is there anything else we share?

There is a service for Scotty Wayne Osbourne on Monday. A time for those who knew him to grieve him, to say goodbye to him, to pay their respects for a man they now have to build a life without. Do I fit that mold? I know next to nothing about him. I only know life without him in it. But I’ve never gotten to say goodbye. I never knew I would have to. Until it was too late. Just like this time.

Erosion of Free Speech

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

Good morning, all. Of course, in the states, one of the most talked about issues right now is the ban of Tik Tok. While I’m the first to admit I was slow to the game, and I definitely didn’t utilize to the full potential I could have for my writing and business ventures, I did enjoy the app. Fortunately, I was not one of the thousands, if not millions, who used the app so successfully they were able to start making their living as content creators and no longer need a day job. I will say that I know some of my posting drove people to my books and my events – because they told me so.

Since I started using the app to promote my writing and my travels, I have had numerous encounters with people who found me and my work through the app. At one of my events I had a young man who left his job early one day, telling his boss he was sick, just so he could come to the book store I was at and meet me and buy some of my books. Another time I was out in a local store and met someone who frequently interacted with my videos and we were able to make a face to face connection. These are just a couple of examples in my own personal life that came about because of the freedom this app allowed.

Of course, I would be remiss if I didn’t also mention the hours of laughing and simple entertainment I have gotten from the hilarious content there, as well as the bands I have discovered (one of whom, Definitely Maybe, has even graciously allowed me to use their work and their name in a book of mine) because of the platform. This is all a drop in the hat to international connections made because of a simple video platform.

I mention because I want to emphasize that the app was more than just a silly place people could go learn dances or recipes. It allowed homebound individuals to catch glimpses of faraway places they might not ever be able to go. It allowed readers to connect with their favorite authors, genres, or other readers to discuss books in an easy to use way that offered real time discussion rather than short messages back and forth. It gave truly free speech to a number of people who might otherwise be too timid or worried to speak to people outside their home. Introverts thrived on Tik Tok.

In order to truly understand s to have this platform taken down, you have to be able to look beyond the surface and the lies that politicians and nay-sayers have been spreading. There little to no “data breaching” happening on this platform. As long as this country still orders mass amounts of goods from Shein and Temu, those will always be a much bigger threat than Tik Tok. No, the threat was not to data or citizens. The threat was to the lies we are told every day. The threat was to the control the U.S government wants to maintain over its citizens and the information they receive.

Therein lies the true issue. As long as people across the world have the chance to speak their mind to others without interference from the Powers That Be, we will always be a threat to them. Of course, Agent Orange is pretending that he is going to save the day, despite being the one who started the whole issue 5 years ago, but is he? Will anyone offer the same brand of freedom and connection without limitations? Sure there were issues with the app. There are always issues with new things. But even I witnessed the growth it experienced. Growth that now doesn’t stand for much. 

The point I’m making is that, with this ban, goes the first in what could be a long line of changes toward information sharing and free voices in this country. What will be next in the list of things that keeps us from connecting with like-minded people both in and outside this country. If you want to see some possibilities, you can always grab a copy of “1984” or even “The Handmaid’s Tale.” Oh, wait… those are banned books. Books that the local and federal governments have deemed in some ways dangerous or damaging to the minds of learning individuals. Coincidence? I think not….

Childhood Love

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a youth. What became of it?

The biggest thing that comes to mind here is the stuffed Bugs Bunny I had as a kid. I’m not sure when I got it, but it was legitimately my favorite thing in the world. I always have and always will love Bugs Bunny, and this little guy went everywhere with me. The store, vacations,  libraries. Everywhere. I recall the various stages of “well-loved” he went through. From hearty and whole, to slowly becoming more threadbare, holes in his body, the wire that held his ears up starting to poke through the fabric. Unfortunately, I do not know what became of him, but I do know I would do a lot of sketchy stuff to have another one. I’ve seen some that are on eBay and online elsewhere, but they don’t look like mine. He would have been released probably between 1990 and 1995 if anyone has any clues on where to find one… what about you guys? What was your favorite childhood thing?