Jordan P. Barnes's Blog

A:

Aloha Rose,

I get this question from time to time, and when I do, I love it because it makes me believe so many of us have our own stories to tell. 

Before I can answer this though, I need to distinguish something important: My story isn’t exactly my story, per se, but that of my family who helped rescue me from the throes of addiction to get me the help I so desperately needed. That was the story I wanted to tell with One Hit Away because I wanted to reaffirm how valuable it is to have a support system for someone struggling with addiction. 

That said, those who know my story have often told me how inspired they were because of it and that always made me dream of writing my memoir. Family and friends connect with the love they have for my parents who faced the insurmountable odds of finding me and getting me help. They respect the hoops we had to jump through to get me into detox, then into treatment. And they love how things worked out, which sadly is not always the case.

So that’s the first answer—I wanted to share my story with others because I believe there’s value in knowing hope is out there.

When it comes to publishing, I should note that prior to going the indie route, I did try to query an agent (many, many agents ugh) and obtain representation but hit a wall. I went indie as a result of refusing to let gatekeepers hold me back from sharing my truth. I was told I needed a platform to be sellable; without one, it almost didn’t matter what the writing looked like. 

I refused to let that hold me back, and fortunately, One Hit Away has been well received so it worked out in my favor . . . but it’s been a struggle learning all of the facets of indie publishing. Everything is on my shoulders from the craft to marketing to website design et cetera. But I love it, and if you have a story to tell, you can always query first and if there are no bites, go indie. Don’t let anyone hold you back from sharing the story you were born to tell.

That said, opening up to the world is an interesting experience, to say the least. I struggled with it for a bit when drafting the book and came to a fork where I had to choose to be completely honest if I wanted to make the most impact. There are scenes in One Hit Away that, prior to publication, I had never shared with the world, yet I knew people would relate. I shared my step one, which is my lowest of lows, but sometimes that’s what it takes to connect with others. That scene and others like it were important to include because people like me who have been there knowing exactly where I’m coming from, and if I could make it out . . . maybe they can too.

I also am cognizant that my boys will read my book one day and while that’s good and bad, my apprehensions take a backseat to the greater good I believe has come from sharing my journey. I can’t tell you how many reach out to me and share how my writing has impacted them, and for all the fears I had going into this project, that makes it all worth it. There’s nothing better than staying in service and turning a negative into a positive and in that regard, I wouldn’t change a thing.

A.

One of the hardest things about alcoholism, especially when it comes to someone you love or care about, is the powerlessness one feels when seeing others suffer from their disease. It can be gutting, frustrating and outright painful to watch someone you care about or look up to hurt themselves and others—whether it be through their actions or compounded by denial—especially when we all know the fallout of one’s addiction can have wide and lasting implications.

Assuming you haven’t yet broached the subject with them, I would suggest you start by educating yourself on alcoholism and alcoholics if you have not done so already. There are groups such as Al-Anon, which were specifically designed to help loved ones of an alcoholic navigate their trying relationships, all while protecting themselves.

It’s okay to be angry and feel pain, but I suggest you make it a point to constrain yourself. Speaking from experience, I know that I often pushed my loved ones away because they were the biggest threat to my addiction, and though it wasn’t personal, I’m sure it often felt like that to them. 

Want more concrete advice?

Do: Speak from the heart and listen well.

Don’t: give ultimatums, lash out in anger, or give up hope.

There are things you can say, but there are also things you can do, such as maintaining strong boundaries like removing yourself from the situation to avoid becoming an unwitting participant to their disease. For example, my brother Jonathan, who died a few years ago from complications due to his drinking, absolutely refused to let me broach the topic of his drinking. He often responded with anger or by shutting down if I addressed it, and since he wouldn’t listen or communicate with me, I did the next best thing and let my actions speak for me. If I came to his house to visit or hangout, and he was either drinking or drunk, I’d tell him I loved him then hop back in my truck and return the way I came. 

I’ll end with this: whatever you say or do, know that in the end, you are powerless when it comes to controlling others.  We are all masters of our own destiny, and we cannot force others to change even if we think it’s in their own best interest. Addiction and substance use disorder can be extremely difficult to watch as it plays out, but always remember that there is hope and we do recover. 

A.

This is a complicated question because my program of recovery has evolved substantially over the years. Remember, when I first got clean, back in 2011, I did so in an intensive inpatient treatment center with a rigorous schedule packed with A.A. meetings, group classes, one-on-one counseling, etc. I detail it in One Hit Away, and it was a lot. The running joke at the time was that after two years of inpatient treatment, any graduate from the program “should” leave with more education and experience in recovery and the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous than most men and women on the streets. In fact, there was a point where I could accurately recite entire passages of the program by heart, but now, if I were put on the spot and asked to recite the Twelve Steps verbatim, I’d probably make a few mistakes.

But hey, progress, not perfection, right?

After leaving the program, I participated as an outpatient client until I received my clinical, but during that process, something really cool happened. My parents, who owned a family business that was right up the road from the treatment center, agreed to hire a close friend of mine to work for their company alongside me. He proved invaluable, and that started a cascade event that led to the hiring of a large number of clients from the program, both men and women, and it worked wonders both ways. It also kept me very close to the program since I found myself managing these people who were still fresh in recovery and rebuilding their lives.

In time, as my life outside of the program grew and grew, what can I say—I found myself busier and busier and attending fewer meetings. I also haven’t been back in a while, not since they relocated, however, I am still in good standing with the program and have a key to the city so to speak, meaning I can return anytime to attend a meeting or seek out a counselor if needed. They’ll drug test me of course, as they do anyone who hasn’t been around for a while, but this is a good thing and critical to keeping the client population safe. Also, by now I truly consider most of the staff my ʻOhana and we’re all “Facebook official” so they know what I’m up to these days.

The biggest shift in my program as of late came when I embarked on the journey of writing about recovery and substance use disorder. Trust me, writing a book is equivalent to a monstrosity of a thought process, and whatever the chosen topic is, authors take a deep dive into the subject matter because we’re all trying to convert meaning, themes, and purpose in our stories. One Hit Away took two years to complete, and in that time, I found myself rehashing all of the lessons handed to me that I wanted to convey to others who were maybe “sober curious” or wishing recovery for a loved one who was struggling with addiction. That process took me back in time when I cracked open all of the dusty journals I kept from treatment as I sought how to convey what recovery ultimately means to me.

Today, I do a few things to stay sober and ward off complacency. I attend meetings from time to time, mostly virtual, and fellowship with old friends from the program when time allows. I read a lot and write a lot, which helps me stay connected to where I came from. I recently returned to working out consistently, mainly in the form of swimming, which helps to neutralize stress and clear my head. I’m on a text-based gratitude list with my Uncle and I still journal. I also communicate with readers who reach out to me and do what I can to answer their questions the best I can, which ultimately piqued my interest in starting this advice column.

I’ll end with this; my program has changed over the years and it surely will change down the road. Today, I am forever fortunate to be in a position where I have found peace in recovery, which affords me to let my guard down and enjoy what life has to offer. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t play stupid games to win stupid prizes and though today I don’t suffer with thoughts of using, that wasn’t always the case. There was a time when I combed through the big book like a sacred text, but that’s what I needed at the time, and while I still work the program, my focus today has shifted to giving back, staying in service and sharing what was so freely given to me.

Guess what! I have a new writing “partner”!

(Albeit granted . . . he is four weeks old and can't speak a lick of English, but at least he has a great attitude (and I can train anyone with a great attitude.)

As one would suspect, the addition of a newborn can really stir things up quite a bit. Colby—who just tuned a month old—is nestled here beside me as I write this. He’s sitting pretty in his Mamaroo conveniently located in my author shed, swaying back and forth with not a care in the world.

He has been such a blessing to our family—especially to Logan who ADORES him—and one of the many benefits of working from home/being my own boss is I get to soak up every minute of it. But understandably, and certainly as expected, the addition of a second child means I've seen quite a shake-up in my routine. However, no complaints here. 

As for writing, I write when I can, and must admit my word count has dropped. I still write every day, but gone are the 1,500-2,000 word sprints because I just can't carve out the blocks of time. The good news though is that I am still making progress on Late Blight in the Ko`olaus, and just broke the 46K word count, so a little over halfway. The draft is coming along nicely, and since I don't have much else to talk about, I'm including the opening scene as a teaser. It's not edited, so please go easy on me lol. I'm running on fumes here.

Logan and Colby

Late Blight in the Ko`olaus: A Novel Teaser

All along the windward side of Oʻahu, stirrings of sunlight illuminated an impenetrable mountain range that disappeared into a lingering cloud cover. Scooting forward in her seat, Lauren glanced through her streaked windshield and admired the awakened forest that clambered up the cliff side, infiltrating its inhospitable, knife-like ridges.

Beyond the break of dawn, the lush backdrop of the Koʻolau mountains took on a vibrant hue spoiled only by a slew of decaying trees that burst through the canopy and speared toward the heavens. Lauren’s sharp, emerald eyes bounced between the road and the hillside, canvassing the treeline from one dead Albizia tree to the next. Their naked branches, long since defoliated and cleaved bare of leaves, offered no protection to their sun-bleached trunks with bark as dry as bones. Lauren closed her eyes and imagined she could make out their unified, harmonic death rattle over the rumble of her Jeep’s knobby tires. 

Lauren cursed as she bounced in the seat of her somewhat trusty Wrangler. Glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw past her reflection and squinted at the shaky two-lane road snaking behind her. She registered a new pothole brought to the surface by the latest flash flood and seconds later, it disappeared behind a corner, but not before she committed its location to memory, hoping to avoid a future surprise down the road.

Turning her attention back to the road ahead, she wondered what the dying trees in her peripheral view could teach her. Imported from Indonesia to Hawaiʻi as fodder for roaming cattle, the invasive Albizia trees exhibited mysterious growth rates in their new home, garnering them the title of fastest growing tree in the world. While not a forester, Lauren understood that co-evolved pests native to Indonesia were indispensable in keeping the trees’ growth-rate in check. But in the absence of these pests, the exploding Albizia population became a scourge betrayed by their very root systems that failed to latch deep enough into the volcanic soil to support their own weight. And when they crashed—often under the cover of darkness—their thunderous, boisterous cries echoed through the valley and rumbled through Hale Maluhia.

Lauren creaked to a stop as she approached the finish line and rolled down her window as a moss-covered sally port came into view. With her free hand, she flashed her delaminating employee badge to the security guard before returning it to her purse and trading it for a cup of coffee.

“For me?” Cap asked as he received the drink with both hands. “You know you didn’t have to.”

“You’re right,” Lauren said, tilting her head out of her window. “I didn’t have to, but I wanted to.” She grinned, but stopped short of smiling. “Cap, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you could use a nice, long vacation. Is there a reason you’ve been burning the midnight oil?”

“Vacation?” Cap smiled with his eyes and took the world’s smallest sip. “What’s that? And where does one go when home is paradise?” He set the cup down and squinted at his wristwatch. “Trust me, the only place in the world right now I want to be is in my bed, but I can’t just abandon my post if my replacement is running late. I’m not sure what’s gotten into Jeff, but if he doesn’t start taking his job seriously, I’m afraid someone else will.”

“Is it something you need my help with?”

He flashed a beaten smile as another car rolled up behind Lauren’s Wrangler. “No, not yet,” he said. He punched a button that set an old wrought-iron gate into motion. “Let me try talking with him once more, see if I can’t appeal to his senses. He’s got a family to feed.”

“Then maybe he should act like it.” Lauren shifted into gear and passed the gate as she entered the Hawaiʻi State Hospital. She took her time easing over a series of speed bumps, then turned into the asphalt parking lot and backed into her reserved stall. Stepping down onto the side steps of her Jeep, she watched as a late-model Toyota eased into the stall beside her.

From her vantage point, Lauren watched as her secretary collected manilla folders from her passenger seat and took her time getting out.

“Need a hand?” Lauren asked as she jumped down and circled Gail’s car. Before Gail could refuse, Lauren placed her coffee in the crook of her elbow and pulled Gail’s door open for her.

Gail flashed a wrinkled smile and clutched the paperwork to her frail torso. She stepped aside to allow Lauren to close the door behind her, and as the two of them headed for the steps, Lauren insisted on taking a load off Gail’s chest.

Swiping her badge at the entrance, Lauren allowed Gail in first, then followed in stride through a long, tiled corridor that ran parallel to the Step Down Ward. The ward housed several low-security patients in a community program, most of whom lived in anticipation of the day they could reintegrate back into the community. As the two women passed a window recessed into a steel security door, Lauren ducked to avoid her arrival being noticed. 

At the end of the corridor, the two women hooked a corner and Lauren questioned the accuracy of her growing silhouette in the bubble mirror behind her. Together they entered a crammed, shared office and Gail took a seat at her desk and began completing the last round of monthly court letters for each patient, a continuation from the work she took home last night. Lauren headed to her desk in the back corner and began digesting a nursing report left for her by the night shift crew.

The report read like Cliff Notes on the previous night’s events. Lauren scanned the body for any potential fires waiting to be put out and held her breath when processing that Dylan’s younger brother was in a car crash in Las Vegas. Fortunately, he was both alive and stable, but knowing Dylan, he could take it either way. Lauren was disheartened to see that Kalani had yet another med refusal and she made a note to address this developing pattern with the treatment team. Several patients returned on time from their field trip to an off-campus AA meeting and those who stayed behind were marked as baseline—always a good sign. Everything else seemed business as usual until she reached the last note.

She rubbed her brow and read Avery’s notes a second time before rising to her feet to make her way to the ward. As she passed Gail’s desk, a lanky Psychiatric Security Attendant knocked on the open door.

“Morning Lauren. Morning Gail.” Sam rubbed his dark, wrinkled hands together and forced a smile. “Before I jet, I wanted to come and see if you reviewed last night’s report?”

Lauren placed her hand on the edge of Gail’s desk and nodded. “I did and was just on my way to check on Avery. Any chance you were around during his outburst?”

“I was in the community room when it happened and the first PSA on scene.” Sam scratched his beard and smiled at Gail, who continued on with her work, undeterred. “I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s so out of character for him.”

Lauren twisted a tuft of her hair between her fingers. “Was Marv in the room when it happened?”

Sam nodded. “In his bunk as usual, but not involved as far as I could tell.”

Lauren smiled and pushed off of the desk. “I’m going to go check on him. I think I have an idea what this is about.”

Sam nodded and stepped back into the corridor. “Do you want me to escort you? In case there’s another outburst.”

“I appreciate that, but it’s okay.”

“You sure? Even though he wasn’t violent last night, he was still destructive and we both know there’s a thin line between the two.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine. He’s lashing out at the process, not a person in particular.”

Sam shrugged. “If you say so.” He waved goodbye to Gail and started down the hall. 

Lauren followed at a distance as Sam’s boots clunked across the tile. He punched a code into a keypad, and a brief flash of natural light flooded the corridor as he exited the building. Lauren listened for the door to lock before she made her next move.

What a week! Bridgetown: A Harm Reduction Novel just dropped on #BlackBalloonDay and hit #1 in the Drug Dependency Category on Amazon. All around, it was a wonderful launch and I was able to go live with both Jen Cutting and Haven Wheelock, MPH . Those videos are live on my Facebook and Instagram author pages if you’re interested.

As with all launches, there always has to be something that doesn’t go as planned, and this go around it was an incorrect publication date on Amazon. I still don’t quite understand what happened (or why) but my paperback version posted with a release date of July 31st, 2021 . . . about 8 months prior to the actual launch. This error did two things: it made the paperback version of the book appear to have been out for 8 months (with zero reviews) and also led BookBub.com to believe that the book was out for some time. This temporarily prevented them from including Bridgetown in the New Release Alert email, but only until I cleared up the issue with Amazon. Fortunately, everything is handled, and at no point did I feel overly stressed. It’s amazing what acceptance can do for stress.

And if that was the worst thing to happen for this book, I am happy.

There are so many moving pieces that go into any book launch that it’s easy to let some benchmarks slip through the cracks. But with everything I am sure to have forgotten, I am grateful for a series of amazing reviews from early readers and audiobook sales are much higher than expected. I am grateful to be in a position where I can send/donate a few cartons of books to both Haven and Jen to do with as they please. I know Jen has already ordered some copies for clients/friends of hers and that’s the best feeling.

I’ve also taken this “downtime” to do something I’ve been looking forward to for some time. My wife and I agreed to convert a shed on our property into a writer’s studio and I’ve been knee-deep in construction. I’m finishing off the walls with shiplap and drywall, I’ve insulated the gabled ceilings and added a ridge vent, and we’ve even purchased a nice patio door that opens up to the garden. I have to say . . . this writing full time gig isn't half bad. I get to do what I love, help a few others like me in the process, and create. Life is good, and now it’s on to the next one.

Bridgetown is available here .

Savannah Gilmore, Narrator of Bridgetown by Jordan P. Barnes

Aloha all,

I wanted to provide a quick update on the status of my second book. Bridgetown: A Harm Reduction Novel, which is slated to drop on March 6th, 2022 (#BlackBalloonDay). Black Balloon Day is a day to remember and honor the lives lost to overdoses. It is a fitting launch date with the subject matter of Bridgetown: A Harm Reduction Novel aimed at overdose awareness and prevention as we navigate the worst year on record for the overdose crisis.

When I released One Hit Away back in 2020, I was blown away by the performance of my narrator Ryan Haugen and knew that I had to do an audiobook for Bridgetown. People just connected with it so well, and after releasing the audition of Bridgetown to ACX (Audible Creation Exchange), I had several awesome narrators submit their samples, but one stood out above the rest. I chose Savannah Gilmore not only for her obvious talents but because I believed she could honor and respect the subject matter. This proved to be the right call and last night, as I clicked [approve] to submit the files to ACX QA (quality assurance), I couldn’t help but feel like we did something great together. Mahalo Savannah.

Savannah was the perfect voice for this audiobook because she got the intent from the jump. Working with her was a breeze, even under a tight timeline that was compounded by a full request from a literary agent. Ultimately, I decided to withdraw my query and forge ahead with production, and the narration is brilliant. Each chapter received was like opening a gift on Christmas Day. Even as the author and knowing what was coming, some scenes were soooo moving, gutting, and inspiring. There were a number of heavy moments that she performed flawlessly, both capturing the tug and pull of high-stakes dilemma in a way that humanizes both sides of the coin. Navigating these scenes, like when a mother hopes to catch her daughter at the syringe exchange, is not only a story that needs telling, but a perspective that is real and guttural and happens all the time.

I’m really proud of the work that we did to bring Bridgetown to you in audiobook format. Ultimately, Harm Reduction seems to be making national headlines lately as the Biden administration makes moves to make progress across the board so it feels like the right time to release the book. My story also essentially came to life as Mayor Bill de Blasio (NYC) approved the opening of the first Overdose Prevention Sites in the country in November 2021. As an author, you can’t plan these sorts of things, but I’m happy to be part of the conversation and hopefully present another compelling conversation piece to the public. I’ve learned loads from writing this book, and hope you get as much out of it as we put into it.

Aloha,

Jordan

#harmreduction #audiobook #overdosecrisis #bridgetown

It’s funny when you meet people in life–virtually or otherwise–who go on to become a part of your journey and you a part of theirs. 

I met Glen Dahlgren through social media at a point in my life when I was about to switch careers and pursue writing full-time. Glen and I had a unique shared background; he was leaving a partnership with the same small publisher that I was considering signing with. Ultimately, my cousin who is a film exec inspired me to pursue Independent Publishing, and I passed on the contract and self-published my memoir, but Glen and I stayed in touch ever since.

That put me in a similar position as Glen where we both sought to navigate the vast and complicated journey of putting our works out there. And even though Glen and I are in two genres that couldn’t be further apart, we both discovered that our paths often crossed right before our eyes. We competed in similar contests, albeit different genres, and shared both wins as well as tough breaks with one another. To have someone in your corner to bounce ideas off of, to share research and connections, editors, opinions on covers, narrators, distribution companies, release schedules–the list goes on and on and on–has proven to be absolutely invaluable. And though Glen and I have different enthusiasms and approaches for many things in life, I like to think we both have made each other better writers and businessmen and we chase the dream to share our stories with the world. Like they say, the biggest gift you can give is that of your time, and I guess what I really wanted to share is that Glen has always been there for me, and for that I am grateful.

I was inspired to write this after watching success catch up with Glen as his efforts are paying off in real-time. We each recently won a finalist award in a contest that we both entered, as I learned tonight that he is short-listed by Chanticleer International Book Awards, aka the 2021 Ozma Book Awards for Fantasy Fiction. As someone who has learned to love Fantasy through Glen’s writing, I wish him the best-continued success moving forward for not only himself but for his amazing series including both The Child of Chaos and The Game of War. I highly recommend them both and am grateful to call Glen my friend.

Learn more about Glen here.

One thing I love most about writing is the challenges it offers. I am one of those people who still get excited about learning new things and am painfully aware that I know very little in this vast and complicated world.

Add into the mix an awareness that we are all imperfect beings on a perfect journey and the pursuit of storytelling becomes so much more enticing to me. But buried deep within the power of story lies a sense of responsibility to leave this place better than I found it. At least, that’s how I approach it, from a framework likely based on long-standing experiences where I did so much harm for far too long.

I wanted to talk a little about language and what I’ve learned recently from crafting my second book, Bridgetown: A Harm Reduction Novel. Specifically, I’m talking about stigmatizing language regarding substance use disorder that is likely more common than most think. It was a learning experience for me because of where I’m coming from. As a person in recovery, I have been out of the game for over a decade now, but still approached the language describing my time from where I left it. At least, that was me at the beginning of Bridgetown.

So what language am I talking about? Words and terms such as addict, addiction, drug abuser, and other stigmatizing words that diminish an individual down to disease or disorder. As an aside, it’s important to note that people have every right to self-identify any way they please. For example, I still often refer to myself as a grateful addict in recovery, and if I happen to call myself a junky, a term that many of my friends have embraced over the years, it’s very different from you calling me a junky. Of course, the problem arises where there is an incongruence in how people describe themself and how they wish to be addressed because it can confuse, so I very may well change the descriptors I use when referencing myself in the future.

For other less obviously degrading terms, the problem arises when people use language to describe others that are hurtful and demoralizing, often, without even knowing it. Another great example is the word houseless over homeless, which may imply a person without a mortgage or rent can’t have a space they belong to.

Language changes over time, and there are new ways of describing individuals such as myself that I wasn’t familiar with a decade ago. This is why learning about what and whom you are writing about is a practical matter all writers should embrace. For example, PWUD, or people who use drugs, is considered a proper reference and replacement for the word addict. And when you think about it, the term “drug abuser” also links violence to a person’s behavior, which is neither helpful nor necessary, especially when there are many consenting adults who are able/capable of using certain substances responsibly.

Something else that a friend/sensitivity reader pointed out to me was the idea of person-first language. I had scribed a scene where my main character was suggesting a client of hers find a using buddy, and it was recommended to consider the phrase “a buddy to use with”. Slight changes such as this, especially considering the book's totality, can go a long way to show how one of our most basic functions, that of free speech, can move mountains.

As I’ve always said, I’m learning as I go, and this is not an attempt to change how you speak or the language you use. One would hope if you read this, it helps add perspective to small ways we can lift up others, or at the very least, not put them down.

If you want to learn more from people who are much smarter than me, here’s a link to an “Addictionary.” https://www.recoveryanswers.org/addic...

If you ask me, this whole writing thing is a bloody wild ride. In February of this year, I was finally positioned to leave a job I was patently unhappy at to focus on something that gave me unlimited satisfaction and joy, and it was the best decision ever. Not only do I get to put my energies into something that gives me a sense of purpose, but I get to do so while bouncing my ten-month-old co-author on my lap. It’s a win-win for all involved, and I feel like I’m contributing something to this world for once.

Working from home and for myself is something I am committed to pulling off for the long term. And to me, writing doesn’t feel like a job, meaning I finally understand what they meant when they said, “if you do what you love, you never work have to work a day in your life.” It’s funny how I used to pull up to my job and sit in my car, debating whether I should call in sick from the parking lot. Now, I routinely wake up at 2 or 5 am to join a writer’s room on Clubhouse to learn everything I can.

The other thing I find fascinating about writing is the challenge it presents. I learned early on that having a story to tell is nowhere near enough. It has to be conveyed in a way that draws people in (or pushes them away) enough for them to want to know what happens next. I’ve changed a lot in how I contemplate communicating ideas into the written word and am playing catchup as I study the craft to make myself as good of a writer as I can be with no prior experience. Story structure is a new one for me, and everyone has their opinion, making it challenging to form my own. But I’ll get there, eventually.

I’m also compiling a running list of stories I want to tell, or instead lessons I want to entertain through stories. I have a few options to expand outside my niche, though as a new author, I’m not sure I should do so under the same name. I have interests that lie in both comedy and (of all things) horror, though I’m not sure where that drive stems from as I’m not necessarily a fan of either. Maybe it’s more of a challenge, and if that’s the case, it’s not something I’m willing to shy away from just yet.

What else? 

My second book, Bridgetown: A Harm Reduction Novel, is nearly completed and ready for audiobook production. I’m excited to find a talented female narrator but have to bide my time as I have a few queries out and have submitted to this year’s Pitch Wars contest. Nevertheless, I’m prepared to go indie again if I hear crickets, which worked well enough with One Hit Away and Rules to Die By, because if I’ve learned anything with my first book, it’s to believe in myself first, and others will follow. Besides, the publishing industry may be a highly competitive landscape to navigate, but it’s not to only way to bring a story to market. Not by a long shot.

Speaking of Bridgetown, here’s the current summary I am rolling with:

After losing a brother to addiction, Harley Hammond became a dedicated harm reductionist who manages a syringe exchange program in Portland, Oregon. When a batch of fentanyl-laced heroin floods the streets and overdoses skyrocket, Harley scrambles to put life-saving supplies into the hands of those who desperately need it. As her marginalized clients suffer through a public health crisis compounded by stigma, blame and fear, she aligns with dealers who have access to an untainted drug supply and opens an illegal safe consumption site under the veil of her syringe exchange. But after a young man takes his last breath in her lobby, a pitbull District Attorney delivers Harley an ultimatum that teaches her saving lives starts and ends with meeting people on their own ground.

I think it’s a decent summation that does the story justice, which in the end, is the ultimate goal. I also struggled quite some time with character names, likely because I do value the opinions of others so much. My original name for my MC was Oaklynn, which I ran with for a bit, though others struggled to give it their blessing. Then, Oaklynn became Sydney/Sidney (never quite settled on the spelling), but the “place-name” issue still wasn’t resonating. My wife eventually came up with Harley, and it just . . . worked. She also named another character Liv (short for Olivia), amongst many other contributions.

Now I’m shooting out requests for blurbs/endorsements from fellow authors, harm reductionists, doctors, advocates, et cetera. It’s one of my more favorite steps, terrifying as it may be because I’m sending out something so near and dear to me to be judged by others. Adding to the stress is I’m not on the finalized version quite yet, so it’s sort of like laying myself bare for all the world to see. Let’s hope I don’t make an ass out of myself.

I think that’s a good check-in. It’s been a bit, but I feel compelled to blog more again with the new site. Let me know below if you have any questions or topics you want me to expand more on. Writing can be many things to many people, so it need not be so isolating. 

I knew something was wrong when he didn't call me on my birthday. 

May 13th, 2019. Mother's Day.

My mother, bless her heart, gave birth to three boys—all Taurus's. All addicts/alcoholics. My oldest brother, Justin, celebrates his birthday the day after mine, which also happens to be the day before Mother's day (usually).

This year, we were all riding the Hawaiian Railway with family friends who were visiting us here in Hawaii where they used to live. I was expecting my middle brother to call at some point, but the connection never happened. I didn't think much of it when I called it an early night to prepare for a busy work week ahead.

Sometime around 9:00 the next morning, I was finishing clearing SPAM from my Inbox when my cell phone rang. It was Jonathan Reid, my brother's close friend of the same name who also worked with/for my brother. He sounded concerned that my brother's cell phone was off. As an owner of a Tech company, my brother's phone was never off.

Jonathan Reid asked me to perform a welfare check on my brother and I didn't hesitate to drop everything. It wouldn't be the first time. Within twenty minutes, I was walking up his steep driveway to his home on Ward Avenue. Breathing heavily, I saw his doors propped open, which was not uncommon for those who knew my brother even semi-well. But when I called up from outside, he didn't respond, and that silence put the fear of God in me. 

Charging up his stairs, I went straight for the living room, and saw more beer cans than any single 7-11 has in stock at any moment. It reminded me of how I used to drink, binge-drinking for weeks on end and throwing up a silver tongue. We are, after all, brothers from the same mother. When I didn't see Jonathan sitting in his soiled lazy-boy or in his bed, I kicked back the bathroom door with my heart in my throat. 

The last place to check was his kitchen, and I slowly made my way through the hall. Two dirty heels stuck out from around the corner, and my eyes exploded in tears. When I rounded the corner and saw his head in his open fridge face down, I caressed his skinny back and dropped to my knees. I was there for him, just not when he needed me most. Choking on regret, I kissed the back of his head and burst out of the room. 

Collapsing on his handrail overlooking Honolulu, I wailed one hopeless torrent of rage and hung my head. If the earth didn't shake beneath my feet at that moment, it never will. I made three calls: 9-1-1, to my father, and to my wife, then stepped back into the kitchen to pray for my brother as best as I knew how.

My brother was a good man who left this life before the miracle happened and those who know him will remember him as such.

In my sobriety, I am very clear in that I do not drink and do not drug, and have no business hanging out with other alcoholics or addicts who use. Jonathan was the exception, in that I had missed out so many years of brotherhood at the hands of my addiction that I wasn't interested in instilling any boundaries that cut him off from me. I was there for him always, and though I requested him to not be loaded when we hung out, I knew that his drinking was so ingrained in him that if he wasn't drunk, he was coming off it or ramping up. 

In many ways, I had so much to offer my brother regarding recovery, but he refused any mention of his drinking at every corner. So, rather than talk about it, I showed him what a good life could look like. A new house, a beautiful wife, money in the bank, good friends and healthy relationships. He wasn't interested, and I never held it against him, even as I handed him my first draft and waited for him to make it past the first chapter. 

Sadly, he never got that far, and I regret spending so much time writing a book in hopes of helping others that I distanced myself the one person who needed me most.

The lesson from my brother's death is that in hindsight, so many friends and family members are living with regret that they didn't do more. Some will say, "What more can you do for an addict or alcoholic who doesn't want help?"

To me, that's an excuse.

Waiting for an addict to ask for help is the common convention but I know from experience that the day may come when they're no longer around to ask for help. 

So what to do?

Talk to them. Don't let their addiction push you away or quiet your concerns. Don't be bullied into every setting aside your concern for their health and well-being. It is the most common thread between nearly all addicts—our addictions push away those we love because they are the single biggest threat to our using. While it's true you can't force a person into getting the help they need—it is equally true they can't force you into not caring.

Be there for them, when they can't be there for themselves.