Shake the World

shake the world


’til its birds

come loose

from the trees:

a thunder

of tiny



By Jason Anderson


The Accidental Hero

Not everyone will become a hero, but they will come to respect a world that can be saved.


The Accidental Hero

When you are interviewed

on the subway platform


don’t say, I was in the wrong place

don’t say, I don’t know how

don’t say, I can’t take credit. Say,


I saw crime being perpetrated

strode up steel-chested

pushed down the purse-snatcher

set the old lady on her way, all

without a second thought

(metaphorically speaking).


Having accidentally given

the world a hero remember

mortal heroes are accidental

a hero isn’t what you are

your most heroic task becomes

to not deprive the world of one.


©2013 Jason Anderson

Leewater is now The Boy Hero

Call it a mid-life crisis. In May, when I turn forty and people ask “what have you accomplished?” I wanted to have an answer. So I changed the name of my blog from “Leewater” to “The Boy Hero.”

Rim shot. But seriously, folks.

The Boy Hero isn’t me. I haven’t suddenly sprouted super powers or aged thirty years  in reverse. I haven’t lost my mind or started wearing tights (probably redundant). I’m not a boy hero, but I was one once. Long story — maybe someday I’ll write about it.

When I started this blog I also started a company called Leewater Films. Leewater was meaningful to me, and it was distinctive. Films reflected the fact that at the time I was focused mainly on screenwriting projects.

Lately both words have started to chafe a little, like garments outgrown.

So I changed the name to Boy Hero Productions. It reflects a recurring theme in my writing and makes me smile a little every time I see it (I think that’s the important part). It’s also an homage to the main character of my first screenplay, a young superhero who you maybe-might meet someday, in some form.

And really, many of my protagonists, even those without super powers. Especially those without super powers. Girl heroes too, of course — and even heroes that aren’t so boyish for other reasons (like, they’re pushing forty so hard that forty’s getting mad).

The new name better reflects my evolving writing philosophy, involving role models, strong three-dimensional characters and platitudes lifted from a variety of places (anyone can be the Batman!). But philosophies are better done than said.

So, the blog now goes by “The Boy Hero.”

If you’ve been reading my posts, thank you. I’ve been as sporadic about posting as I am keeping up with the blogs I follow, but it’s a really rewarding experience. I think we have a good thing going here, so I’m recommitting myself to it, and just wanted to explain the change.

So long for now. Gotta fly.



PS. My old URL,, now maps to the new one, I think both will continue to work.

Writing myself anew

Chair in snow 2007

I write myself a new story

Along the original lines

Some words and phrases

Showing through


Old ideas I scratch out

Madly or editorially

Leaving a brief thought

If it reminds me


Alone in this room

Kids laughing and yelling

Beneath my window

In the snow


Thaw my resolve

I must keep writing

White snow and voices

Clear as bells.


Image: author (2007)
©2013 Jason Anderson

The Last Dance

I was shot through with the thread of a dance

My body propped and shaken, a marionette

Accompanied by a player piano

When I didn’t even know there was dancing.

You danced me and I learned the steps cold

I won competitions and gave lessons.

Over years I even mastered piano repair

Unaware there was not dancing.

The dancing didn’t want to stop!

But you should have seen me today

A marionette clumsy walking his own feet

Tugging an astonished thread free.


©2013 Jason Anderson


Not long ago I promised that things were going to get darker in here. Have they?

They have behind the scenes. I’ve been re-writing a script that was originally a pretty light-hearted romp across Long Island for two teenage boys, and suddenly, as I rewrote, they started discussing things that happened to them when they were much younger, before a family schism tore them apart. They were not good things. It’s darker.

I’ve been feeling out of sorts the past week while working on it, alternately dismal and nauseous. I don’t actually like those feelings, and I don’t actually like imagining darkness. I don’t enjoy torturing characters. Well, I have my moments.

Why, then?

Sometimes I ask myself that.

Someone else asked me that recently. Someone who pretty much sticks to action movies and comedies and reads Cosmo, and thinks that inducing via writing something that looks and walks like a depressive episode is a sign of insanity on my part. (Disclaimer: I have nothing against such movies, have never voluntarily read Cosmo and can’t find “sanity” in the DSM so it doesn’t exist).

The answer is simple: I have no idea.


It’s a feeling, a feeling of being in the right place and doing something that is required of me. Maybe I feel less restrained when “on a mission” and I “have no choice.” Maybe it’s my desire to try to write stories that might help someone, and this is what those look like to me. Maybe it’s seeing myself in characters in awful situations and being able to make them do amazing things. Maybe it’s just being able to make characters do amazing things.

What’s your passion and why do you write about it? Do you have an overarching philosophy that guides you? Or is each project a new universe unto itself?  When people ask you invest so much of yourself in what you do, what do you say?

These aren’t easy questions, and when I try to force answers they seem to change daily. There’s just that one core feeling that doesn’t change, and maybe it’s poetic justice that I can’t find the words to describe it.


It’s going to get darker in here

(a not-very-evil writing manifesto)

The truth is I play it safe when I write, especially if I expect someone might read it. Yeah, I admit it. I’m pretty new to this writing stuff, and not many people have read anything I’ve written (I’ve made sure of that). But I often think, what will you (the reader) think? And everything gets censored by the dictatorship of self-consciousness.

Lately I feel like an archaeologist brushing away topsoil, keeping himself busy enough to ignore the fact that he’s too afraid to uncover the stunning dragons that lie deeper. Or a photographer snapping furiously away but resisting going into the darkroom.

I’m hoping the act of writing this and putting it out there will help me remember to try to live up to it. How’s that for a firm commitment.

There is a darkness. (I actually swiped that from the dust jacket of Batman: The Black Mirror.) It is undeniable. The fabric of every life is shot through with it. It wears different masks – grief, sadness, depression, addiction, abuse, anger, hatred and too many more to name.  We like to categorize – I think it makes us feel like we’re doing something.

I’ve always been a student of darkness. Yeah, I’m one of the quiet ones, but I’ve never been a violent soul, thankfully. My strength has been observing.

I’m really good at it.

I’ve seen some things. Experienced some things, too.

Humanity has a truly terrifying streak, more so than any beast or monster or devil. Not an original observation, I realize.

People say you get desensitized to things like sex and violence and human suffering but I think, if you’re lucky or unlucky like me, you don’t. The opposite happens. You don’t become darkness, you don’t get angry, your heart doesn’t weep for the world. You accept the overarching, undeniable reality of darkness, and learn to love every scrap of light you can see. Seeing people shine reminds you it’s the shining that’s remarkable, and not the darkness. Seeing them stand on their own two feet makes gravity bearable. Seeing them give unconditionally to others makes you want to, too.

The fact that people look to the light, that fact that after all you’ve seen you still look to the light, makes you want to be light.

Back to my point. So far I’ve been brushing away topsoil and taking pictures with no intention of developing them. So far I haven’t been ready to tell you about the things I’ve seen, or what I think they mean.

But it’s extremely important.

Important to me, and to one other person. I don’t know who that is, and I might never meet them. But, in this digital age, I have a fantasy that they’ll send me an email (or a text) someday, and say:

“I read something you wrote. Thank you for telling the truth as you saw it. Thank you for finally taking the risk and doing it. You didn’t save me. You provided a rung in the ladder I built to get myself out of that fucking darkness. And that was enough. Really, that was all I needed.”

More likely they’ll say “Tx, ur story was ok”. Whatever.

Thanks, by the way, for all the rungs. See, I made a ladder. I promise from here forward the stories I write will reveal the darkness in which the base of it is planted, and the magnificent view from however far up it I’ve climbed. Maybe some will also be ok.


©2012 Jason Anderson