Author Archive for D Crary

Happy Easter

Hey folks,

A very happy Easter/Passover weekend to you and yours from us and ours.

Sorry I haven’t been around much lately, but some things are starting to come about that have taken me away from blogging for a bit. Some good, some bad, all different.

Now, I’m hoping you all have a great weekend, and I’ll catch you up next Friday.


The Sunny Side of the Street

I come to you, my blog viewership (hi mom) to tell you something. Something important, that I have been keeping to myself.

I’m happy.

Stop the presses, I know. But it needs saying. Not because this is a monumental moment, but because I have spent too much time feeling sorry for myself, when I am not in a “bad place.” I’m doing well with my job, with writing, and in my personal life.

This isn’t, to borrow from Austin, some “Pollyanna” optimism. This is hard fact. My life is coming together in some respects, and I am aware of my blind spots. I don’t have a perfect life, but I am beginning to see where I am more clearly. And that informs where I am going.

My acting class is amazing. I am learning more about myself and I am focusing on the craft of theatre in a way I never thought possible in school. I am so proud of the people I people I work with in class, and I love getting to share a stage with them. My teacher is master, and his guidance will shape the rest of my life.

My work as a writer is more motivated and focused. My acting class and blog work has me in a good place to write honestly and to explore the nature of things. I am drawn to the grandiose ideas I have always loved, and I am no longer intimidated to try and tackle them.

My time as a bartender is rewarding. As a skill, my bartending has come a very long way in a year. I am now sought after for it, and I am respected as a hard worker by multiple employers.

And through all this, my wife is a godsend. I mean that literally. Her presence elevates me as an artist and a person. I am kinder to strangers and strive to care about all those I encounter (even cabbies.) Having her in my life is the greatest joy and honor I have or will ever know.

Am I a professional “artist?” Not yet, but that dream seems less far fetched by the day. I have had projects fall through, and opportunities not work out. But the connections I am making and the work I am doing, are bringing me further along on the path I wish to walk.

I hope to keep you all informed as I become a better version of myself and a more fulfilled artist.


Back in Black

Well, I’m back.

I would be lying if I said I just “took time off.” I just quit writing. I got bummed out when a webcomic project didn’t launch, and the weather, and life in the city took that disappointment and made it full fledged depression.

The worst part of my failure to post for the last few weeks was that I brought my contributors down with me. Clark followed not too long after, and finally, even Austin stopped fighting the good fight.

I have been depressed. Hell, I still am some days. But I am writing something important to me. Not just this blog, but my other blog, and several other projects. And I have to keep reminding myself that in order to be a writer, you have to write.

You have to write every damn day.

The longer I stay at this, the more second nature it becomes. But with hard times, family trauma, and failed attempts at greatness, the comfort of writing is also a blight. Because no matter how much I write and no matter what the topic, I can’t shake the feeling that I suck at it.

Please, do not comment or message me any reassurances about my “talent.” I am not fishing for anything. I am simply voicing my very real fear that I am, in fact a terrible writer.

I think this feeling comes with the territory. The craft of writing requires a lot of critique and it doesn’t have a finished product like computer programming or architecture. Does the program work? Does the building stand? Job well done. But, do the words sound right?

Maybe. I can’t ever tell.

I’m trying. Not very hard, some days. But, I try. And as I keep growing as an artist and a person, my life is improved not my my progress in the craft, but simply by doing it. I am made more human by the act of  trying to achieve, and striving to be better. And most days, it is still a hard sell.

But, I keep going. I fall, and stumble, and screw up with surprising regularity. And when I look back on these past mistakes, I can become paralyzed with fear. But I have to keep going. And I still ask myself why and and tell myself I am kidding myself, but I keep moving forward.

Why? Because I must. Because that is my task in this life. To push to be a story teller and to try and build something. Not so it can stand the test of time or be the greatest story every told, but because in the act of trying, I am made whole.

So here’s to being back. I’m sorry I ever left,


Working for the weekend

I won’t bore you with my usual musing. Instead, here is a teaser image for a brand new web comic, coming from myself, Austin, and the incredible artist, Matthew Stefani!imageBe on the look out for more news coming soon!


Who says you can’t go home?

As you all know, Austin’s Grandma is very sick. What you may not know, is that I grew up down the street from her. In fact, I met Austin (almost 18 years ago) because he used to go to her house every day after school.

I have many memories at Nanna’s house. Swimming in her pool in the summer time was one of the best. I felt like the member of a special club, and my best friend and I were the presidents of the board. No one got in without Nanna’s say so. And for a few short summers, we played like mad geniuses let lose on the world.

I would walk my dog, Buster, by Nanna’s house. Even if Austin wasn’t there, she would always wave at me. And even though Nanna had choice words about my parents homeschooling me, she always welcomed me into her home.

Nanna isn’t doing well. And on Christmas Day, my dog Buster, died.

My childhood had been over in my mind, but it truly ended in my heart this Christmas. Family and friends have moved away or passed on. My home town has changed dramatically. And that which remains doesn’t mean the same.

I dug a grave with my dad. Austin had to say goodbye to Nanna. Clark is missing Christmas for the first time in his life.

Childhood is over, and I may go on morning it for a good long while.

I pray for bright New Year, as the old one goes out with much pain.


Paths of Victory

It’s happening. Like marrying the love of my life, an other dream is coming true. Like moving to New York, I’m following through on an other plan. And like going to Disney world, my inner child is rejoicing.

I’m writing a comic. And not just any comic. A comics that Austin and I conceived of almost ten years ago, but we never dreamed it would amount to anything.

This isn’t just exciting to me: I’ve been writing I produced scripts for years. But this time, I have a partners who are commuted to the cause.

Austin is co-writing with me. Which is a cool new experience for both of us. I’ve never written with other people before. It’s always been a solo adventure. But, one of my best friends is now at the helm with me.

As if that weren’t cool enough, I have the pleasure of working with Matthew Stefani. A brilliant up and coming artist and designer who I met on the roof of Courtney’s old apartment by sure luck.

I hope to share some initial art with you next week, but for now, I just wanted to announce that my dreams are coming true. Am I writing Batman or the x-men? No. But I want to make comics, and I’m actually dong that now. And for the first time since I moved to New York, I feel like in not spinning my wheels. I’m revving up.

Be on the look out, and prepare to be annoyed. Because I don’t plan on shutting up about this until February, at the earliest.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year

It’s been a hell of a week. Those of you who check with us regularly will know I didn’t post on Friday. I won’t make excuses, but I will tell you that in two weeks or so, you’ll know why.

For now, I’ll let you know this much. I feel like being in New York is finally paying off. Some major life dreams are happening. Not, “almost” happening. Or, “in a few years, with the right connections,” happening. Somethings I’ve been wanting to do for, literally, as long as I can remember.

It feels good to cash your dreams. And it feels great when struggle is rewarded. But the best feeling in the world, is knowing that if time travel was possible, you could go tell your dreaming childhood self, that yes, some day you’ll get there.

Soon, dear reader, I’ll be bombarding you with links to other projects. For now, I will be glad for my good fortune and keep my eye on the prize.


One more time

The last two weeks I’ve posted parts of a poem. Here is part one, and over here is part two.

And now the third and final part.


(Being part 3 in Walking)

I didn’t choose a path in life. A road, no matter its condition,

is a noose.  I can’t speak on the lonely highway,

nor can I tell the aim of its pursuits. I have yet to see

the grass on the shoulder on the road. The rocks there are

markers for the damned. The dead give a warning all acknowledge yet

it’s meaning is muted. No one hears the story of the highwaymen

who lie there, in their granite graves.

A traveler asked me about my journey

and only spoke of his own. He was ensnared by his God.

I laughed at his jokes and he became uneasy

as he tried to tell me, in high speech,

that I have chosen too many roads,

and thus walk none. He was kind and platonic.

He knows nothing.

I have a map. It has cities and villages

but not a single road or highway.

It is not a how, but a what. This map is the

guide to the those who never go.

It is meant for you


On the road again…again…

Last week, I posted part one of a three part poem.

This is part two.


(Being part 2 in Walking)

He has cast iron eyes.

The tears that fall onto the road

are smolders. This water dimples the paving stones.

He cries because he is trapped on the highway.

Made to shuffle between purgatories in a track laid down by

the ones who reached paradise and put up walls.

Lost on the shoulder, he is chipped. Tell him, where

is the heaven on the rise? He might have known were

the years not grass, his hands not cracked, and life not chalk on his tongue.

There is a pond at the left shoulder. No, it is a lake.

He would gaze upon it, but he lacks the company,

and the temple of the one true God  is in ruin on the right,

burning like a whicker idol. He does not feel the flame.

Trekking in ruts like canyons, his limbs will fail. And soon,

the only notion of his life will be gone from here. He passes many on

the road. He will not stop, and it will not end. There is nothing behind the

curtain, and his feet will rub away until his legs stop moving.


On the Road again!

An other poem. I have been in a very poetic mood. Enjoy!


(Being part 1 of Walking)

The man Jesus was found of the highway. The roads then were

fine Roman work that lasted none the less. His lot

fallowed the word and his feet, when they felt like it, and never  truly

in step with either. Still, the Christ child went from place to place, in

the cradle of life. The road under foot was the veins from his chest.

The first of the great walkers is gone from earth. He left, and others

have tried the highway of diamonds, but no it is deserted.

There are no travelers, only the four, the horsemen,

it is their turf now. Only the blind come near these places.

Still, the flood will come. No one will know

the horror of the fallen man. The record of our

failure in this course will be a permanent scene

in the sediment of the eastern Eden.  No one

will hear us, no one will see a shield barring our

face. The death of my people descends

and all we do is walk toward it.