I sometimes get asked how I come up with the stories I tell here at Roc’s Ramblings; what is my inspiration?

Let me give you an example:

I am the eldest son of my blue collar family. My father had always been a hard working tradesman, until a back injury forced him to change vocations. Since then, he’s barely made end’s meet financially, but always given his all to support his family. Unfortunately, his quick temper, and inability to control his excessive expressions while raging, have made him intolerable to his community, his own siblings, his wife, and if I’m to be completely honest, me.

Anyone can be a father. It takes someone special to be a dad.

My mother suffered a life threatening illness at the tender age of five. It nearly killed her, but she survived. She’s always been a survivor, bearing tremendous strength of spirit. She was told she would be in a wheelchair by age twenty. Even now in her sixties, she still walks under her own power. She was told she would never bear children. She has three beautiful children, two sons and one daughter. It was my mother that instilled in me my moral sense of right of wrong. It was my mother that helped me understand the spiritual natural of things, to believe in God, and accept the truth that we are more than flesh and blood.

I am my mother’s son.

Then there’s me, the eldest son, as I started off saying. I like to think I’m the good son. I’m the only married child, prosper in my career, do what I can for those around me, family and community, and while my own sense of accomplishment at the life I have carved for myself is seen as arrogance, I still suffer from my own insecurities.

I’m just like everyone else.

My brother went through a rough breakup when he was only sixteen. We’ve all had our hearts broken. His solution was to turn to the bottle. He’s been a drunk for the last twenty years. That’s not to say he’s a bad person. I like my brother as a person. Unfortunately, my brother has never been held accountable for any of his actions throughout his life; there has always been someone there to bail him out of the messes he creates, and always at their own expense, whether it’s financial, emotional, or both.

Recently I discovered my brother is a drug addict, hooked on crack cocaine, if the evidence provided by family is to be believed.

I am sad for my brother.

My sister and I are close now, though I was horrible to her when she was younger. She is the baby of the family. She is tall, beautiful, smart, possessing a strong work ethic and a zest for life I have seen in few people. Like the rest of us, she has had her heart broken, and it left its scars. She doubts herself too much; doesn’t always realize the rarity of the angel she is.

I love my sister dearly.

Like every family, we’ve had our ups and downs. Like every family, we’ve fumbled our way through it. My parents helped raise three children of a deceased friend, and while no parent is perfect, they did the best they could, and I respect them for that. They give everything they have, and more, to those they care about. It’s a sad irony really, as my parents can barely tolerate each other, but give all of their hearts to strangers.

That has been a tremendous strain on my family for the last twenty years.

It was less than five years ago that my brother hit what we thought was rock bottom, and with nowhere to go, returned to the home we were raised in. Despite my protests, they took him in. What was my mother to do? He is her son as well. Once again, my brother wasn’t held accountable. Once again, someone got him out of the bind he was in.

He has chipped in around the house financially, easing the burden on my parents. He holds onto my mother’s bank card, as he has no bank account of his own; under the pretense of depositing her government assistance cheques and helping out. I say pretense because what really has occurred is my brother spending bill money on booze and drugs.

I refuse to help out. I call it tough love.

It was under a year ago that my brother’s misdeeds, combined with my mother’s irrational fear of my father, led them to foreclosure on their home; my childhood home.

I had to step in and help as best I could. The family got through it.

It’s not even six months later, and my brother has sabotaged my family’s efforts again. The new mortgage, through a C rate lender, hasn’t been paid in three months. Combined with lawyer fees, my parents have two days to pay back more than they earn in six months to keep their house.

I cannot help.

As of today, my brother has up and left, moved on, leaving someone else to clean up his mess yet again. My father is leaving my mother, blaming her for the loss of the house and not communicating with him about what was really happening. One of the non-sibling children they raised has been arguing with me on the phone that she will get a place with her boyfriend, taking my mother in and providing care for her. She is eighteen.

I worry what is best for my mother.

So where do I find the ideas I write about? Where does my inspiration come from? It comes from the life around me I live; the lives I see others live. Mine is no different than yours. You can’t write fiction better than life.

We all have obstacles to overcome. None of us have a perfect life. Draw from that. Grow from that. For me, writing is an extension of my emotional growth. It stimulates my mind, helps me find solutions to the hurdles I face, clears my heart and soul of confusion, gaining me a more objective insight into the many decisions I must make.

So what inspires you?

My hope is that you find your own life to be full of inspiration.

Fly safe.