A book update can mark the beginning of a new creative project. In “New Poetry Book Coming,” Greg Luti reveals that he is compiling a new poetry collection from poems he wrote a year or two ago — before he began regularly blogging — while noting that work on Hit of Henry remains on hold as he prioritizes the blog and editing. A New Poetry Book in the Works About a year or two ago, before I started posting poems on this blog, I wrote up enough poems for another poetry book. I don’t have a name for the poetry book yet, but I do plan on looking over as many of those poems as I wrote and putting them all together in a book. I have included a poem from the collection here for you to read. Hit of Henry Update I don’t have any new updates on Hit of Henry, since that is not what I am working on at the moment. The blog and my editing are really the priority right now. Most of the book is done, though. So that is good news. Note about Waking Up For Garcia

A writing update often signals a major shift in an author’s routine. In “Twice a Week Newsletter,” Greg Luti reveals his goal of reaching 5–6 blog posts per week by the end of June, his decision to move to a twice-weekly newsletter, and his plans to expand workbooks, include full chapter previews in book updates, and adopt a tighter schedule for longer writing projects. Pushing for More Blog Posts I have been trying to improve as a writer, and the way I challenged myself this year was to write up posts on this blog consistently. I am happy to say that I have done that for the most part. Because I have proven to myself that I can write up the flash fiction and the writing updates and everything else on this blog, I am now going to see if I can write a little bit more for it. What do I mean by that? I mean, I am aiming for about 5-6 pieces per week for the blog. I won’t really get into the details of which posts will go on which day, but I am definitely going to see if I can do that. I mean, by the end of June, possibly sooner, there may be 5-6 pieces per week on the blog, which I think is great. Twice-a-Week Newsletter If there are going to be that many pieces per week on the blog, then it would only be natural for me to add a second day of the week for the newsletter. Yeah, that would be a great achievement for me as a writer, considering this blog didn’t even have a weekly newsletter at the beginning of this year. I don’t want to give the readers everything (meaning posts from that week) in one long newsletter. My god, it would be a half-hour read. I think it is fair to then have two newsletters per week, where I give the readers the quality I give them when I had one a week. That seems fair across the board. I have not set a date for this yet, but I am working towards this goal. More Workbooks Coming I have been working on getting more workbooks for readers available to read, so that people can learn a writing lesson with the posts. Right now, I only have the one workbook, but over time, I definitely want that to become more of a part of the site. Sticking with Static Images I do static images on social media because I don’t get the correlation between reading and watching videos. I never watched a video of someone, whether it was on Instagram or YouTube, and then thought, “Boy, I should really buy that person’s book.” I think sticking to the words and the more traditional method makes it clear that I am a writer, more than anything else. A Tighter Writing Schedule I have no issue writing the poems, flash fiction, writing updates, and the writing and editing advice pieces for this blog. That usually takes me a pretty short amount of time, honestly. I like to get into the mood of writing and then just go. The book updates and the short stories are a little tougher because I have to get a little better at writing them. I think by changing the writing schedule for the blog to be even tighter, I will force myself to be a better writer for my books and my short stories. Sometimes I write up some of the shorter pieces, and then call it a day, even though the short story or the books need work. Better Book Updates I was just thinking about the book updates. I will probably give you guys an update on the actual book, and then a chapter from it. Rather than just a chapter from whatever it is I am writing. That feels a little more complete than what I am doing now. Making Time to Read Again I have been so busy with writing and editing and everything that I have not had much time to even read on my own. For those that don’t know, I like reading poetry, short stories, myths, classics, and history. My sister just asked me what I have been reading, and after I answered, I realized I have to get a little better at reading on my own. So I hope to find some time for that in the near future. Learning to Manage My Drive You guys know that I'm the type of person who will think they should do it all right now. I then push myself to do it, and get a lot done, but then I am exhausted at the end of it all. And if I missed out on something I feel isn’t important, I don’t even try to do it. I can’t really change that part about myself, but I can just learn how to make that part of me so that I am helping myself more than hurting. \ Writing Without Looking Back I am definitely the guy who will write a great piece, and then say, “Yeah, but I have to write another piece. That is due soon.” Honestly, I like to write, and I always do, but sometimes I feel I don’t enjoy the pieces as much as the readers do. I write them and then leave them to write something else. The readers sometimes have more of a connection to what I write than I do. There have been times when readers brought up something that I wrote, and I kid you not, I forgot I wrote that part. I mean, I didn’t completely forget it, but it was not something I ever thought would stay with someone. Some writers like to write and then talk about what they wrote. I hate doing that because that is time I could otherwise spend working on my next piece. Like I said, though, this is how I am, so I am not really knocking the writers who like to talk about what they write. I am only saying I don’t care much for it. The Quiet Joy of Finishing I remember when I finished my latest book, there was a moment of silence I had, when I realized I actually did it. The book is done. No one was around. No one congratulated me or anything. I sat there and thought, “I did it. I took this book as far as it can go. And I finished it.” I don’t know if other writers love that moment, but that is the moment where I am quietly happy. Sure, the readers loving the book is great. If it sells, which it has not (I will be honest with you there), that is fine too. But to be able to have an idea for a story, and then do all you can to make that story a reality, is a great goal. That is really the only time I reflect on what I wrote. After that brief moment, it is back to the grind.

A flash fiction story can reimagine one of history’s most dramatic moments from an unexpected point of view. In “The Light,” Greg Luti takes readers into hell itself, where Satan and his demons celebrate what they believe is their greatest victory — until a powerful beam of light reveals Jesus in a triumphant confrontation. Satan sat on his throne nervously biting his fingernails. He whispered to a demon standing by his throne. “Is it done?” “Yes. All reports we have say that Jesus Christ died. He is dead.” A second demon standing by the throne suggested, “It sounds like you won.” “He is dead….” Satan said aloud. “I won…” Then a beam of light came from above, and a figure came down from it. The speed at which the figure came down was so fast that it knocked back all the demons in the area. Satan almost fell out of his throne. A glowing figure spoke, directing his words at the demon on the throne. “It is over, Satan. I have won. I have conquered death itself, the last hold you had over the soul. You no longer have any control over the living, for any who believe in me shall know my grace. The Lord’s love has no end. The Lord’s kingdom has no end. All those who believe in me have to do is call my name, and they will know my love, my gift. I gave them myself for I loved the world, in a way that you never could. I let them arrest me, beat me, ridicule me, debase me, and put me on a cross to die a horrific death. And why? For I love them. I am the Lord. I am love. I am the one, and all who know me shall know that death itself could not stop me, and neither shall you. I created this world, and I will be the one who ends it. I will always outshine you, Satan, because my light is pure and so great that even in the darkest of places I shine. I stand in hell, surrounded by demons and nothingness, yet all I bring is Light. The ending was always written, Satan. You ignored it, and you still continue to, seeing those around you as worthy members of your cause to dethrone me. They are here, not because of your greatness, but because they reject mine. All who reject me shall be left for you, for I do not wish to have non-believers in heaven. I have won. All you do going forward will be nothing more than steps to your own demise. The next time you see me, I will end you and all the evil in the world. I will have no words for you the next time we meet.” Satan sat there speechless, and a light came from above, as Jesus then disappeared into the light. “Jesus Christ.” A demon watching the scene uttered to another. “Yeah, that is who that was.” “I am starting to think we picked the wrong side….” “Me too.”

A common piece of writing advice is often too vague to be useful. In “Should You Just Write?,” Greg Luti critiques the popular “just write” mantra as unhelpful for most people and offers more practical guidance: choosing a specific topic to spark ideas, writing without the pressure to publish, and maintaining consistent daily practice to build real skill and flow. The Trite Advice: “Just Write” One of the most common pieces of advice you will hear writers give you is that the only way to become a better writer is to just write. It is one of those practical pieces of advice that they say in a way that you should recognize that no work can get done without effort. But after hearing the saying for like the hundredth time, I started to think about it a little more deeply. Who Is This Advice Actually For? Who are all these writers out there who think they can improve without actually writing? Is there some way I can improve as a writer and not write? My god, is there a steroid I can take to help me here? Perhaps there is a drug I can take to magically make me a better writer. Telling writers the only way they can get better at writing is such an obvious statement that it makes you question the viewpoint of the speaker. What the hell do they think an actual writer does? Correct me if I am wrong here, but if you are a writer, then that means you are writing, making the very point of you having to write to improve negligible. And if you don’t write, then you aren’t much of a writer, now are you? A Catch-22 for Writers It is a catch-22. The writers who are writing don’t need to be told that they can improve by writing, because you know, they are already doing that. Those who are not really interested in the craft and don’t want to write won’t really listen to the piece of advice anyway. Who is the writer who heard another writer tell them the trite advice and finally got to work? “Oh boy! That writer told me the only way I can get better at this is to actually do it! I'd better get started!” If that is how you think, then maybe you should do us all a favor and not actually write. Advice Only Works If Someone Listens I was talking to someone the other day, and it was about giving advice to people. Not about what advice to give, but who is actually receiving it. A thing you rarely hear people say about advice is that you only give it to people who actually freaking listen. I mean, why am I going to tell a moron who doesn’t care about a thing I am saying, great sound feedback to improve himself? See, if you give advice, you learn that there is an art to actually giving it, and that includes not wasting your time on a person who won’t give you the time of day. I wonder that about writers who have to be told to write. You only ever hear the line about writing to improve as a writer in magazines or random blog posts like this one. And there is a reason for that, I think. It is advice that sounds like it can be for anyone, and the speaker doesn’t really need to know the person. It reminds me of when people say that balance is the key to a good life, but don’t really go into more depth about it. And that is really simple… they would have to know your life in order to help you there. If the speaker were to say to the person not writing that they have to write to get better, I wonder how the exchange would go. I suspect it would not go as grand or as expected for the writer. If the listener is like me, they would look at the writer as almost insulted by the idea. But if they are not like me, and they don’t even listen, then the speaker has to think about who they are even giving the advice to in the first place. Here’s Some Actually Useful Advice Now, this is the part where I have to back up what I say and give you something useful to go away with, because if I don’t, then I just sound like a complete jerk. That is fair too. So here you go, some reasonable advice, rather than you just being told that to be a better writer, you have to write. Yeah, no shit. Practical Tip #1: Start With a Topic I would give you two things to do. The first is to write about a topic, and have that be the starting point for your piece. I like to write about certain topics like history or whatever, and then I let my mind go where it will when I write. I never get too far away from the original topic, so that I know there is something to direct me. You also learn how much you know about something when you make that thing the focus of what you are writing. Practical Tip #2: Write Freely, No Pressure The second thing I would do is to set aside time to just write, but not with the intention of it being published or anything. Yeah, forget about it. Write about a topic, and then go. Just go. See where your mind takes you. Don’t think about it needing to be edited for a book you are working on or for a blog post. Writers worry too much about all of that. You should note that you are trying to improve your flow in the piece and how you are able to connect thoughts and ideas under one umbrella. You are not just trying to write to write here. Practical Tip #3: Keep Writing Anyway One last thing I would tell you is not to worry about what you write so much, in terms of feedback or perception. Write so much that you are viewed as a writer, and you do that, rather than that person who wrote that one blog post that one time, and then never did a thing again. Yes, there are some things you write that will be more read than others, but that doesn’t mean you should ever stop wanting to write up new things. Why “Just Write” Sounds So Obvious I hope that you are a writer who views the nonsensical advice of “to be a better writer, you have to write” the same way I do. I am not sure why that has become such a profound thing to say. That is like telling a runner the only way to get faster is to run. I would hope they know that.

Greg Luti’s poem “I Guess I’m a Ghostbuster Now” reflects on the suspicion society places on adult men around children, the disappointment of fallen celebrity idols, and one man’s quiet resolve to be a safe, reassuring presence for kids. There is a lot of talk today about kids, and the feeling that kids are when they are with guys of my age. Adult men. And let’s not even sugarcoat this, let’s get right into the deep end. Hold your breath. There is a stigma that the average single male of a certain age is more likely to be a predator or pedophile. That man will touch kids, and everyone should be afraid when he is around. Which they should. I don’t like pedophiles. I don’t like predators. Both are scum of the earth. But then there are those who are accused, and there is a problem. No, it is not how the kid is doing today. But we like the guy who had the accusation. We like his songs. We like his movies. We like his look. We like the art he gave the world, so when we hear he was a bad person, we all pause and wonder. Did we miss something? Was he that good at hiding it? How could someone be so popular and yet still get away with a crime? Was there something more going on? What the hell? We are disgusted and confused at the same time. Disgusted by the abuse and manipulation the kids had to deal with. Kids are young and should be given a chance, not forced by adults to do favors of that nature. Confused by the exposure of it all. What went wrong with it? Because clearly something did. I, like many, have had conversations of this nature, and there is one part of this I have now taken into consideration. What if that was me? What if I were that guy? I am not, for the record. And I thought of something, I would be hurt because the accusation that my character is awful towards kids would hurt me more than anything else. I deliberately go out of my way not to be viewed in a bad way by kids. I don’t ever want a kid to feel uncomfortable around me. I have taught kids and been around them, and not one would ever accuse me of anything like that. Because I never did anything remotely close to that, which would make anyone question my character. I now find myself not defending any of the accused, for the simple reason. It is hard to be that awkward, that sick, that weird around kids. You have to try to be that way, or be a complete sicko. Any rational guy would know that he shouldn’t do anything stupid because that means he can be seen in a certain light. The guys know. We are not stupid. Some of the younger ladies may not like it if you are too close to them. Kissing is a no-no. Hugging is not much more than that. I mean, we are talking about kids that are not yours. They are not your children, not your family members. Why the hell does a grown ass man have to touch or kiss or even be close to a child he does not know? If you are close to a child, then you are probably doing something with the kid, which means the task at hand should be on your mind, not that other stuff. There was a list released with celebrities who did bad things. You know the list. I thought to myself, if I would be hurt if any of the celebrities I like, would be on it. At this point in my life, I would not care. It is not like I know the celebrities. They are not calling me up to see how I am doing. If they turn out to be a weirdo or a creep, then screw them. But I will be honest, there would be a part of me that would be hurt by it. The 8-year-old Greg. The kid Greg. The part of me that was not writing up blog posts, or worried about the next day at work. The kid in me would be devastated if a few of the celebrities I liked were on that list. Like the Ghostbusters. That would hurt me. The 8-year-old Greg loved those guys. They were something he needed at the time in his life. There were the guys who would fight the monsters. All the scary things in the world, all the fears, the Ghostbusters would say, “Don’t worry, kid. We got you.” They were not supposed to be the monsters themselves. The 8-year-old Greg would have been heartbroken to learn that they were bad people. As for me today, I have grown up and endured enough pain that the idea of a fictional character to aid me in my quest for peace and hope is silly. I’m not stupid. They were characters. It was all a story. In real life, the Ghostbusters would never come to really save me. There is another reason I always try to be good around kids, and that is because of my cousin, Paul. See, growing up, I was always forced to attend family gatherings because that is just how it was. There were people from all sides of the family, aunts and uncles whom I was being introduced to, and then I had to either talk to them or pretend like I remembered their name. I had my sisters, but I had already seen them enough. I didn’t need more of them. There were my parents, but even they wanted me to talk to other people in the family aside from them when we were with the rest of the family. There were my cousins who were my age, but they were not always there, so I could not always rely on them. I would then find myself looking for someone to talk to at these events. Someone to just sit by and be able to chill with. That was my cousin Paul. He was about 10-12 years older than me, but he was never better than me. He was fine with me just sitting there and talking to him about stuff. When I was unsure of who to speak to, it was my cousin who helped me and made me feel comfortable. Now that he is no longer with us, I find myself trying to be that way with kids. Not some great saint, or some great teacher. Someone they can sit with and be comfortable around. Because that is all kids really want. That is what I wanted. A friend. Someone who, when you are unsure or even a little afraid, will say to you, “Don’t worry, kid. I got you. It’ll be alright.”

A writing update can show the real behind-the-scenes work of an indie author trying to grow their audience. In “SEO to Rank Higher,” Greg Luti discusses his recent push to improve the site’s Google rankings — from requesting indexing on dozens of pages and adding meta descriptions to every post, to learning the hard way about Google’s daily indexing limits. Working on SEO for the Site I have been really working on getting the SEO for the site down, and as much as I like to focus on only writing, and the stories, I do recognize there are other aspects of the field I have to know about just because they are important to the lifespan of a writer. One of those areas is SEO. I have been indexing every page from my site, and even getting meta descriptions and snippets in every post to better help my standing in SEO. What Is SEO? What is SEO? Google. It is to get ranked higher on Google. Yeah, let’s face it, everyone has to at least know how to be on Google in today’s world, or at least get traction so well, that Google notices. It is why you will see a third person description of my posts at the beginning of each one. That is to tell Google what the post is about as much as you the reader. Google’s Daily Indexing Quota What I am amazed about the SEO part of this is how Google has a limit to the number of pages you can request daily to be indexed. I don’t know why that is the case. I mean, we are talking about Google here. Are they really not able to get more than 8 requests from a site per day? That seems so strange that you can’t actually request hundreds of pages to Google for a site. As much as technology is great, there are certain parameters or limitations that surprise me. The Extra Responsibilities of Modern Writers I don’t mind doing a few extra minutes per day to get the SEO up to date. I understand that is apart of this all. But there seems to be an unfair playing field with writers today. They have to run their website, then get the newsletter out, then run social media. Oh, and by the way, they also have to write. It seems the first thing a writer should do when they get money is to hire a few people to help them with other stuff in their writing career, as much as the writing itself. I noticed I had to learn social media and be involved in it, regardless of my negative attitude towards it. There is no hiding from it, so I was forced to basically learn about it. I still don’t like to make videos and go with more of the picture format with most of my posts. I think that is a trend in writers today, in that they are not really only writers. I don’t know what the word is, or if there is a word, but the writer has to be multiple things before they even get to their writing. What is fascinating about that is how the words and the stories are then affected by the involuntary participation of the writer. We are learning new skills to keep up with writing and those new skills or at the very least the exposure of the information those new skills give us, has to, in some way, seep into the stories. The Writer Who Had No Social Media I don’t like social media. I have said it many times before, and I will probably say it many times again. I am definitely the old man on the block who is mad at the kids running on the grass, with social media. My family is on it, and I just don’t bother with any of it. That is not to say I don’t love them or want what is best for them. I do. But I have only ever been on it because of my writing. Yeah, if I could be a hermit and basically not be on the internet and people still read me somehow, I would. I read about a guy who did that one day. I am not entirely sure how he did it. He had no website, no social media following, nothing that a modern writer would include in their writing portfolio, and yet he sold more books than I ever did. There is a certain level of irony in that I am writing this post about that guy, whose name I don’t even remember, and I will share this on social media. How Social Media Sparks Stories There is one thing that I like social media for. There is a dirty joke here that I can make about there really being two things that I like about it, but I want to stay on the point I was trying to make. Social media is good for stories, because there are a bunch of people who share things on it, but not in a way that is useful for a story. They share a random clip, or an opinion on something and that by itself is not really a story. I then think to myself, “You know that is a great jumping off point for a story. I can use that as inspiration for something that I can write.” I have an example of this too. I saw a video of a guy saying he was so surprised by what the stranger said to him that he didn’t even remember what he went into the store for. Now, on its own that is not a story. It is a brief mention he tells you during dinner, a write-off in a conversation, but if you add a few other elements, which I did, then you have a flash fiction piece. (I made the stranger have more of a role in the story, and I gave the stranger a intriguing theory about math, rather than something you may hear a conspiracy theorist say. There was also more of a beginning to my story. I didn’t just jump into it, telling about a guy saying something to me.) That is what I mean when I say that social media is good for stories. Then again, that may just be me. I am a storyteller, so I look at basically everything and wonder if I can make it into a poem or a story I am writing. Social media may suck, and I just look at the world as though it is a story to be told. The Real Lesson: Stay Ready for Inspiration I guess the lesson for this writing update, since I did say I wanted to include a proper ending in these, is that you make more of the situation than you think. Your mindset dictates how you handle something as much as the scenario itself. There were a lot of people who viewed that short clip and just moved on with their day. I saw it and said, “I can use this for a story. Remember this.” Because as much as anyone wants to tell you they know about life, they really don’t. Nobody knows. You don’t know where inspiration comes from, the only thing you can do is be ready when you see it and capture the moment.

A flash fiction story can deliver sharp irony at a deathbed. In “Death of Michael Veil,” Greg Luti follows a detached legal consultant at the final moments of a renowned self-help philosopher — a man famous for preaching inner strength and self-determinism — only to witness a quietly ironic ending. Michael Veil was supposed to be dead when I got there. I was only there to sign some documents of his life away after he died. I wasn't supposed to see him die. In fact, I didn't know or care enough about him to see it. The man was nothing more than a client for me. I was his legal consultant, or his lawyer, that he went to in matters of law. I knew he was dying, and the current case he was involved in would be ended once he passed. Mr. Veil is what you would call prominent in the world as a great thinker, as I heard from him many times, in a rather pretentious tone that he was a man who could fill a room. And he had, from Oxford to across the sea, the man drew a crowd for his speeches on self-determinism. I believe that he started as nothing more than an assistant for some newspaper, if I am not correct, but later in life he went on to be a philosopher of sorts, preaching that you are the way, you are the light, and that you should only look inside to find all that you need in life. He marked his own life as proof of that. He had dozens of books written and was a man that people would pay to give speeches on life, so I suppose the small, stocky man from the small town across from the main city train station was correct in his assessment of his philosophy. You make of yourself what you want. I must admit that I never looked much more into his life than the legal requirements, as I didn't particularly care much for the man. I showed up to see that there was no one outside of the hospital room. As I stepped inside, I saw a woman crying in the corner, not facing anyone. From the back of her brown hair, I could tell it was the soon to be widow. I was too soon in my arrival though as Mr. Veil still lived. He was lying on his bed as two other gentlemen in the room were by the man. I did not recognize them. "I am George." Said the taller of the two, who sat by the bottom of the bed. "This here is Karl. We are friends of Michael." The fatter man, with his monocle in his right eye, spoke as he stood next to the dying man. "We are like him. Yes, I know him from a time before it all. Don't we, buddy?" The man on the bed lay still, not opening his eyes. The only way for me to know he was alive was the machine attached to him. "How do you know him?" Karl asked me as I looked at the woman sobbing in the corner. He whispered, "She is only waiting for the end at this point. We all are." "I've known him for a while," I said. "I notice you speak nothing of his friendship." George, who had a lean face, spoke up. "I knew him. I can't say well." I said no more of my reason for visiting. Neither spoke of my relationship, for we were all there for one reason: to wait for this man to die. We knew it was going to happen; it was only a matter of time. The three were there for support, as compared to me, who viewed the entire experience as a business transaction. I needed him to die to finish the case. Karl, spoke up as though to try to maintain some level of normalcy to the situation, that none of us felt. "We were speaking of the new theory proposed where the stars aligning have matched up perfectly with our friend's death." "If you have the right alignment with the stars, then your death should be peaceful, the theory goes." "Who was it again? Some German fellow, I believe, came up with the idea. Quite groundbreaking, if correct." "You are here for that as much as support." Joked the tall friend. "Nonsense." The man standing next to me said. "I have been a friend of Michael's for years. I knew him back when he was a reporter, not known for his brilliant mind. He worked for a site called Breakin Out, where he wrote silly observations he had of the world." "It seems our friend's mind was too great for simple topics such as that." "So it seems. I do miss those days, though, as he didn't have to prove much intellectually speaking. Isn't that right, Michael?" The short man standing said to the dying man as though he could hear him. I only stood in the middle of the two, slightly behind Karl, as to give myself room. Then, the eyes of the dying man opened as wide as I have ever seen eyes open. It was as though he was given a shot of something. None of us reacted, for we didn't understand what was going on. Was he still alive or not? The gloom in his face seemed to suggest the death was close by. Then Michael called out, staring at the ceiling. "Oh god, the flames! They burn! They burn! Help me! Help me! Help me!" Then his eyes closed, and the machine shut off. He was dead. Nobody spoke of the last words of the man, or what they even meant. The nurse soon came into the room, and wished us all the best, and instructed Michael's widow of what to do next. I was told to head to the front desk to receive further instructions on the legal matter closing due to the death of the man.

A flash fiction story can playfully reinterpret a classic novel. In “Gatsby Dies at the End,” Greg Luti follows a teacher who jokingly tells a student that The Great Gatsby is all a dream — only for the student to later repeat the same playful theory to his own English teacher. I am a pretty easygoing teacher, the kind of teacher who will look at the cover of Romeo and Juliet when the class begins and tell the kid that Romeo and Juliet die. I’d add a little note that Tybalt is kind of a jerk, and Mercutio is funny, but I get why some thought that he would kill Shakespeare. The character talks too much. Of course, the kids I teach don’t get these jokes, and I don’t expect them to. I guess this is just my way of enjoying the job, aside from sitting down and telling the kids what they are supposed to hear. I taught an SAT kid recently, and the kid was not the most studious of kids. I am certain he never did any of the work I assigned for homework, and he barely studied independently. He is what you would call a hands-on learner and someone more fit for physical labor jobs. He told me that the class in school was reading an old favorite of mine and many other readers, The Great Gatsby. I made a joke about how the original title of the book was The Moderately Above Average Gatsby, but that the editors didn’t think that had the same ring. That joke went right over the student’s head, and I continued for my own amusement as much as his. I told him it was all a dream, never making it clear that I was not being serious and that the 20th-century novel was far from a dream. You can say it is about the American Dream or how one fails to obtain it, but you can’t say that it is all in the guy’s head. That would be wrong. We continued on with the lesson about something that the student should have learned years ago, and I was forced to reteach him. You know the topic, something like punctuation or parts of speech. Anyway, the class ended, and I went on with my life, doing other things aside from teaching. I am not one of those teachers who lives in the classroom. I live in my office writing stories all day, more than any true teaching credentials on my end. I forgot what I told the kid about the classic novel. A week later, the kid showed up for another lesson on English topics that he should have known already. The one that gets all the kids is semi-colons. They never know what they are. I asked him how his day was and how school was going, and he told me something I didn’t expect to hear. “Hey, you know I told my English teacher that The Great Gatsby was all a dream, and he said that I was completely wrong.” “Oh, that’s because it is not. I was joking.” My humor goes over the kids’ heads sometimes. “Well, at least you are interested in the book. Did you start reading it?” “No, we only read a few pages so far.” I told him to open the laptop and start the questions I had assigned to him. I felt like it would be cruel to tell him that Gatsby dies.

Some of life’s harshest truths are the ones no one ever warns you about. In “They Don’t Tell You That,” Greg Luti captures a woman’s sudden emotional breakdown during an ordinary lunch break — the quiet regrets, aging fears, and unspoken anxieties that surface without warning. They don’t tell you about that day. The one you will question everything you are and, what you became, and where you will go. Where the world seems to stop for a moment, and you are uneasy about the motionless. It will be on a Tuesday mid-morning, At around 11:12 AM, On your lunch break, As you eat your chicken McNuggets with that sweet and tangy sauce for the third day in a row. You would have gone to Panera Bread, but that is expensive, so you are now in your leased Nissan, which you overpaid for, eating the golden fries and McNuggets. As a pop song from your childhood comes on the radio and is deeper than you remember it being. You know the song. The one by that girl who only sang that one song, that wasn’t even that big of a hit, but is now a classic on the pop station you listen to because you have now gotten to the point where new music scares you. Pop songs aren’t supposed to be this deep. It is pop, for Christ’s sake. Nobody tells you about the flashbacks and the regret you have then. How you are supposed to deal with all the wrongs you made, as you are alone, and there is no one to witness your agony. Maybe you should have stayed with that boy you met in college. Remember his name? He was nice. A little weird, but he was nicer than other guys you met. Maybe you should have been a nurse instead of a teacher. Or hell, maybe you should have done something else entirely. You sit there as you sip away your large Diet Coke and notice the shades don’t hide the darkness under your eyes. Exhaustion has become a good friend of yours. You didn’t think that it would be the closest friend you had as you enter your thirties. My god, are you really that old? You want kids, but you also want to be with the right guy, but how do you find that guy? Most men are pigs, and the ones that aren’t pigs are losers. How about James? Eh, he is alright, but is he the father of your children? That last thought requires an extra sip and dip. What if you continue to have fun like you always had? If the party doesn’t stop, then there is no way for it to end, right? Eh, even you can admit that the days of you drinking and going to work on 2 hours of sleep are over. Damn, since when has living become this hard? You lived your whole life up until this point without worrying about slowing down, but now that seems to be the only thing you are good for. Once you become a Mom, that is it for you. Then the kids take over your life, and everything will be about them. You will have to monitor them all the time. All the time. You don’t even monitor yourself that much. What if you are not that good of a mom? What if you become a mom that other moms talk badly about? Or what if your kid is a problem? Like he is really stupid and needs to study extra hard just to pass, Or worse… What if your kid is ugly? You are getting ahead of yourself, since there is no guy to even have those kids with, yet. Which is as frightening as it is sad. Life is passing you by as you sip away at your Diet Coke, and the sauce cup becomes empty. And let’s not even talk about the mess you made with the sauce that you had to clean up before turning on the radio. You always make the mess in the one place that it is inconvenient to make a mess. You can’t make a mess that is easy to clean up for some reason. No, you somehow make a mess that goes right in the middle of the seat, in the spot where you drop your phone sometimes. Now, there is a whole layer of sauce on the side of your passenger seat. When you decide to clean up your car in about half a year, you are going to find a fry or two. You are fine, though, right? Yeah, completely fine. You are uncertain of your place in the world, your hands are slightly trembling, a tear comes down your face, as you sink your head into your breasts, but you are fine, right? Is this what it is like for the world to catch up to you? For the world to tell you that you are no longer the girl you used to be? Your hairline is receding, although no one but your Mom has said anything about it. You are definitely going to have to get extensions by next year. Your girls aren’t doing that much better, either. They used to be able to hold up without any help. Now you need a bra just to have them where they used to be. Is this what it felt like for that teacher in South Park to get saggy tits? No, you are not her. Not yet. Is that the ultimate fate for you? Teach a classroom of pain the ass kids, as your boobs sag on the floor. It’s official: you are becoming the cat lady, and you haven’t even bought a cat yet. You want to scream, but you don’t know what for. Nobody is dead. Nothing is happening, as the parking lot is as empty as the Dunkin coffee cup you left on your dashboard. You chose to go with French vanilla instead of hazelnut, and that was really your downfall. The stupid bitch there gave you a medium instead of a large too, and by the time you noticed, you were already in the parking lot, the same one you always go to for lunch. How hard is it to know the difference between the two sizes? You are crying, but you can’t even say why. It is not like you failed. You did alright for yourself. You got your job. You got your family. You got your life. You should be happy. But as you hear that pop song play over as you bite another McNugget, you can’t help but bite with a tear-filled face. There are some women in the world who can’t even speak up for what they do. Like in Pakistan, or Iran, or some other country where there are a bunch of Muslims. Don’t those women get their vaginas ripped up for even thinking about driving a car? Plus, aren’t there African women who are starving and have to walk a million miles to get some water? That’s not you. You have your vag, and you have never needed to walk across the desert with a jug on your head for water. So it’s not all bad, right? Your mental collapse, your psychological breakdown, your neurosis, is not that bad compared to other women’s problems, right? Right? You feel down. You feel defeated. Like no matter what you do, there is nothing there. No happiness. No joy. Nothing. Damn, do you think your happiness left when you stopped texting that cute boy from college? Maybe it was when you chose this career instead of the other? I bet it was when you got your French vanilla coffee from that dumb bitch who doesn’t know large from medium. Where are you to go? Who can you talk to? All you have is a brown bag from McDonald’s, as a sign of your nervousness. What are you to do but finish the fries, take another sip of Cola, wipe away your tears, and act as if this never happened? You weren’t just sitting in your car during your lunch break having a nervous breakdown. If anyone asks, nothing happened, and you are fine, right? Right? They never tell you about those days.

An ironic poem can turn overwhelming anxiety into dark humor. In “Did I Miss Anything,” Greg Luti sarcastically lists every possible apocalyptic disaster — alien invasions, rogue AI, climate collapse, and more — while the speaker casually wonders if they really missed something important today. Let me get this straight, There are aliens trying to spy on us by hiding in plain sight, changing the very fabric of the reality we live in. AI is trying to manipulate mankind with its information-gathering speed until it becomes self-aware, and we must fight them for a war that will end all wars. Climate change is destroying the ecosystem and may very well destroy all life as we know it, causing catastrophes unseen since the Bible. And the Devil is just sitting on the sidelines, waiting for it all to happen, as his day of conquest looms nearer. Is there anything else that I am missing? Is there? Is there anything else that can possibly make this more dramatic and life-altering than it already is? So I am to destroy the aliens, who are using the moons to control not only our planet but life in the universe, Then, if I am not blown to smithereens by the advanced beings and by my own government, who, by the way, don't even tell me everything I need to know about this thing and will be chasing me the moment I am on this case, And if I do, for some miracle, beat these creatures, who are doing things that no human can even contemplate. Then, if the world is still turning and the axis of the North Pole hasn't moved so much that we all become dust, I am to defeat the AI, who is not only smarter than the advanced alien beings, but is not even a person at all, and because of the technological reliance we have today to function, I will have to go back into the stone age, just to stand a chance. And if I form a second miracle and beat the AI with the sticks and stones on my back, Then, and only then, if the world hasn't blown itself up, and we aren't in a second Ice Age, I am to somehow, in a way that modern scientists can't even explain, change the effects of hundreds of thousands of years of pollution caused by humanity to the greenhouse. Now, let's say I do all of that. I take out the aliens, the AI, and the climate; I still have one more thing left to do Because three things are not enough for someone, I have to destroy the incarnation of Evil, the Prince of Darkness himself, Satan, who, while all this shit is happening, is preparing to take over the world with his army of the undead and demons? Is that right? Please let me know if I am missing anything? Because what you are describing sounds like a great plan! Oh, and by the way, I also have to live with the day-to-day struggles of, you know, living in this goddamn hell hole that is a piss of shit place to live without the threat of extermination and massive galactic warfare! The type of place where the chair you order for your office is broken when you get it, and then the store gives you a problem when you want to return it. Or how about your neighbor blasting his goddamn music at 2 AM in the freaking morning as the rest of the neighbors are trying to sleep! Or the morons on the road who don't know how to drive and nearly kill you, even though they all have their driver's license and did take a driving test! That is the world I am fighting for! The world that produces more assholes than astronauts. More idiots than idols, more losers than leaders. So why would any of this be easy? Why? What part of this task is supposed to make me say, "You know what, that is a good idea?" Please tell me! Cause I would love to find that part! And God knows, oh, does he know! That saving the world will not be heroic but inconvenient! I will get the small ship on the broken runway when I fight the aliens. The one that is barely functional and no alien in his right mind would fly! Will it have light speed or ludicrous speed? No. No. Why would it? It may not even have rockets! My ship will be the one with so many engineering problems, I will have to get an advanced degree in aerial aviation of foreign spacecraft just to fly the damn thing. I will have no technology when fighting the AI, because what is easier than fighting technology, if you don't have any! Will I have any time to prepare against such an opponent who can literally calculate any possibility ahead of time? Of course not! I will have to use my wits to avoid barely escaping and defeating the AI. Because the only way to defeat the prepared is to not prepare, I suppose! When I correct climate change, I won't be given the nice device that can easily solve the whole situation. No! No! That is too obvious! I will be given the device that has a code, with another code, with a password, that I need another code to find just to complete the first step! The world is caving in, the oceans are rising, and the world is panicking, so what better time than to have a complicated system to save us all? That is assuming there even is a way to save us! And when I fight the Devil will I be given angels, like Michael and Gabriel, willing to fight for me, and my cause for goodness? Of course not! I will be given whatever scraps and pieces are left over from the mayhem I just witnessed, from the war against the aliens, the second war against the AI, and the possible extermination caused by climate change. In fact, I have so little confidence in this last part that I think it is safe to say I won't even have an army when I fight the Devil. That's right! When I fight the largest, most powerful army ever seen in the history of the world, that is led by a creature who isn't even human, I will have barely enough people to form a corps. And one little thing that I forgot to mention in all of this… One minor detail that I didn't include. I am a freaking human! I am going to age during this whole process, getting slower, fatter, weaker, dumber, and a less capable opponent as the seeds of life are taken away from me, and my youth leaves me, as the forces I fight only get stronger with each passing day. I not only have to complete this task, but do it in a time frame so that my skills are still applicable to the very case, and so the world doesn't go bye-bye, by then. My assignment, if I am hearing you correctly, is to win three wars requiring varying expertise in warfare and strategy, and to solve one of mankind's scientific anomalies that if goes unsolved, makes the victories of war null and void.

A poem can question long-held romantic ideas about creativity. In “The Creative Genius,” Greg Luti wonders whether society has killed the idealized image of the singular artist who spoke for all of us — or if that romantic notion was always just an illusion. Maybe we killed the creative genius. The one who is supposed to speak for all of us. The voice of the people. The author who walked among us. The singer who sounded like us. The smart person, who was somehow still for us. We did not kill this person through a coup of betrayal and power. Or in some elaborate assassination attempt with madness and violence. We grew. We got better and more complex. And as the industrial complex grew, so too did the need for material. We created a machine, and we needed a way to feed it. So we go rid of the individual, and made them become a part of this machine. Making the need for their broad knowledge unnecessary. If you are intelligent, you must understand that you are only in one field. Gone are the days for a scientist to be in multiple fields. An author must only write for that one genre. A singer must write that one song type. For if they don’t, they will die. The very machine we built to survive will destroy those that we love. Maybe we killed the creative genius. Maybe…. Or maybe it was all an illusion… Maybe the idea of one person being brilliant and speaking for the masses is a flat-out lie. No better than when you were told that friends go over each other’s houses in the morning to have breakfast before work. Nobody ever takes time out of their day, before breakfast, before changing, before everything, to have a full-blown conversation at 7:30 in the morning. Nobody does that. Maybe we didn’t kill the creative genius, because he never even existed at all. John and Paul got help from the other members of the band, and other musicians they worked with in studio. Shakespeare collaborated more with others than he would ever really admit. Even Homer was more of a collection of stories, more than one single person. They never spoke for the masses. They never did anything by themselves. They were a collection of talent that, somewhere along the line, we gave one person all the credit for the greatness we witnessed. One person… That is what we want. We want to believe that there is one person out there smart enough to be with us, and yet also somehow smart enough to be insightful in their take on life so that they can speak for all of us. For they are our soul. They walked the same path we have, and yet know more of it. They saw the same life we did, and yet saw more of it. They read the same books we read, and yet wrote more of them. We want that person to be here, walking among the crowd, for without them, we are not sure of the very soul we have. Sure, we can say that there are groups of people who are talented and give us great art…. But do we really want that? Or do we want the artist to represent who we are? They wrote of our struggles. They wrote of our pain. They are us. Through them, we are held a mirror, and we don’t always like what we see. But when they are done holding up the mirror, we thank them, for without that moment of clarity, what are we but liars? Not to anything but ourselves. We can’t know who we really are without someone daring us to see the wrong in us. “Go ahead and look at what we are. What you are. What we all are.” The artist says as they hold that mirror. And with that reflection, we appreciate the artist, for they have the same wounds. “Look at my face. Look at my skin. Look at me. I share the same cuts and bruises you do! My face is wrinkled and old. My skin bleeding. I am ugly and yet I am beautiful for knowing it. Look at me. Look at you. As we look at each other.” The artist gives us hope we can overcome the bad in us. They walked that road we did, and yet somehow made art none of us could. As the road took our spirit, our heart, and our mentality, it was the artist who somehow rose above it. The road crushed us, but it only inspired the artist. They are our soul, our direction. The one we go to for words on what to say, or thoughts to think. Without them…. What do we have? Maybe that is why we all feel so empty and lonely. Maybe that is why you hear so much about depression and despair in people. Maybe that is why we hate ourselves the way we do. We are listening to the words of many who should speak to the one. The group may be able to create the technically sound and refined art, but they can never create the pure emotion or feel that one does when they are alone in their creation. So what do we want? Do we want groups of people to speak for us, as they prop one of themselves up for all of us to know and adore, or do we want one individual to speak for us, transcribing their troubles for us all? We have already made the decision, it seems. Did we kill the creative genius, or did he never even exist at all?

A poem can explore the painful gap between real-life tragedy and the hopeful fiction a writer tries to create. In “Receipts in a Story,” Greg Luti examines the struggle of turning personal pain and difficult truths into stories that might inspire readers, while knowing the words on the page can never fully change the reality behind them. When I write stories, I write to solve problems. Give a character an issue, and then create a solution to it… Somehow. Whatever the issue may be, I can always count on the fact that the story will be fixed. I am a pretty positive guy with my view of the world, not allowing the constant negativity to make me see any less positive, As the world cries anarchy and chaos, I wish for peace and civility. As we all live in fear, I preach patience and love. As the world turned black, I am trying to find the light. So my characters, in all my stories, always win for the most part. They end their journey with a smile and a laugh, seeing that they outwitted their foe and won the day. They have done it and saved the kingdom. They got the girl. They passed the test. Even though, maybe they should not have, if you think about the practicality behind it all, a little too long…. After all, it is just a story, and no more. A figment of my imagination brought to life by the words I jotted down on the page… The essence of a moment in my life combined by the compression of words in my head. A piece of myself in a well-crafted fable form. There is always more to the story than a story, and sometimes I wish that were not the case. Words cannot just be. They move, they live, they be, just the same as you and me. This means that the words will lead me to a path whether I want them to or not. See, a story needs to come from somewhere, from a place. There must be a receipt to a story, in a sense. Like how you can see where that shirt you bought came from, so too can a writer with their words. Your shirt came from the store in the local mall, you got 15 percent off, and received five reward points for the transaction. You now have 35 reward points, by the way. If you get to 50, you get a free bag from that store. As for where that story came from, That is where the situation gets tricky for me. For you and others in the world are where the inspiration for the stories comes from. Are you following? The real I know, create the fake I make. Which is fine as far as I can tell. After all, stories must come from somewhere, as all things must. What gets me is when the story I create comes from a bad situation…. In my story, the girl meets someone who inspires her not to give up. In my story, there is no sadness at the end. In my story, she doesn’t die. But that is not what will happen in real life. In real life, the girl won’t make it to Christmas. She will be gone by then. And we will all be saddened by it, but not surprised. I hate that part of storytelling… When my words in the fake world are only that… They cannot help her in the hospital now. They cannot do anything. But what can I do? Ignore the inspiration behind my story. Throw it away like the trash, as it is no longer good. That would be doing a disservice to myself and my effort in the field. Surely, I would like to embrace inspiration when it comes my way, for it is not always the case. Does a runner not want to run with the wind, rather than against it? Should a sailor not want to go with the current? And should a pilot not wish for a smooth ride? So why then, as a writer, should I be anything but willing when I hear inspiration knock on my door? “Hello? Who goes there?” I ask. “It is me. Inspiration. I have a package for you. A nice new story idea. Something you may even finish this time.” “Eh…. I don’t like good story ideas. Go away!” “But sir, once I leave, I may not come back.” And so I accept the package and tell Inspiration to leave shortly after. I wish to reject inspiration not for the craft or my passion, for you all know those are high, but the awful knowledge I gain from it. We did nothing to help her. I did nothing to help her. The best I can do is write up a few prose. Regardless of the complexity of the prose and the ingenuity behind them, what difference does it make when the inspiration behind them is hurt by the real world? Great, I wrote up a nice story for you all to read, as the mom lies down in the cemetery, mourning the loss of her child, for the darkness and depression became too much, and she only found one way out of this world. Perhaps that is why I like to move on from my stories once they are done. I don’t want to be reminded of the tragedy behind some of them. I never tell the reader in the story they read. I don’t include a blurb about it or anything. In fact, the story serves as a source of hope for readers who wish to see through the bad times. If I told them what happened to the girl, then they would be heartbroken, too. So what am I to do? Give up the pen and paper and never utter any words the rest of my life? Or am I to live with the unusual burden of knowing the true result of the story? If I choose the latter, then I am forced to hear the argument that my work may someday outweigh the real-world sadness. Though it may never happen, I force myself to agree with this principle and move on with the stories. Perhaps my story was never really intended to save her anyway, I accept. Perhaps in my very own story, there is meaning that even I can learn about over time. I can only hope.