Approaching Utopia

Welcome to the Future

2012-02-01T16:41:00.000-05:00

I take writing about the futureseriously. I try to see trends in political events and image where it willlead. I pay attention to history because it’s a record of what we’ve done. Predictingthe future is easy when you consider that humans don’t change all that much.For example, seven hundred and fifty years from now, our advances in medicinewill have conquered all deceases. Our geneticists will be repairing imperfectgenes before birth. Stealing will be pointless because possessions will be createdfrom recycled matter such as common garbage. However, we will always commitcrimes of passion – assuming we can still feel betrayal.

I’m concerned predictions in mybook will come true before it’s published. I wrote a scene where a homeless manassisted my protagonist, Cathryn. Shenoticed his voice had a smooth quality to it like he could’ve been a voiceoverannouncer if his luck was any better. A year later, a homeless man in New Yorkfound a job because his voice had that same quality. A decade ago, most of the turmoilcentered around Afghanistan and Iraq, so I went 1000 miles to the east and choseSyria as the hotspot in the near future. Now the Syrian government is killingits citizens. I may have to rewrite and reset the story another decade into the future.

I began writing my book in the fall of 2003. I made the mistake of being specific with my dates. I figured it was farenough in the future to remain fiction, yet still plausible for a few years. I nowunderstand I have to set my story in the generic near future. If a cruise ship explodes on the way to Baltimore in afew years, say August 11, 2017, then get the hell out of New York City. October17^th will be a bad day.

[Disclaimer: There are lots of keywords in this post. As the recent story of the tourist that foolishly tweeted "Destroy America" when he meant "party" showed us, I'd like to put on record that I LOVE America. Love. Love. Love. Love. Love. Whereas the Secret Service or Homeland Security visiting me may make for an interesting afternoon, I think I prefer my boring, uneventful freedom. Thank you.]

Photo Friday

2012-01-27T04:00:00.000-05:00

Earth. It’s a stunning vision. NASA released a high-resolutionphotograph this week of our home.

Funny, I can’t see the borders betweencountries.

The Creator's Dilemma

2012-01-25T22:00:00.002-05:00

I gave my manuscript to L, anon-writer friend a few months back for her to enjoy. I didn’t expect any kindof review or critique, it was simply me showing her my book. She loved it buttook issue with only one aspect. She is a romantic at heart and wanted thehappily-ever-after storybook ending. For the record, my story, The Shores ofUtopia, is a romantic science-fiction thriller. The book does not end tragically,but optimistic of the future. There’s a sense of wonder at the story’sconclusion, the way I wanted it. The loose ends were tied up nicely, just nostorybook ending.

I told L that her expectationswould be met in the second book. I didn’t plan on having my protagonist Cathrynhave everything she wanted, but I wanted her to grow. In my opinion, peoplewith setbacks learn, people with problems solve them or they don’t move on. Mycharacters are the same way. Every one of them jump through painful hoops. Somedon’t make it. As I wrote the second book semi-pantster style, I found itdifficult to grant Cathryn, my MC, her desires. I tried outlining her path but itcame off as phony. It didn’t work.

Being the creator of all thingsUtopia, I couldn’t make it work, not really. Cathryn has her path. I love herdearly, but she must make real decisions and end up where she belongs. Ascreator of this universe, I need this to be real in every way.

Now, removing my writer’s hat andlooking at this book as a product that readers must enjoy, I came to the sameconclusion. Reality is key for a convincing story. Even my science-fictionelements ring true. I invented the science behind time travel andfaster-than-light speed. I hope my book comes out before the science isactually invented and people claim my Spatial Sciences theories were copied.

Have you altered your stories to accommodatea reader?

Crucial Chapter One

2012-01-24T03:00:00.000-05:00

I've been doing a word by word revision of my manuscript. I'm pretty confident about my story and my characters. I have a complex plot that someone once called it epic, and my characters are so real to me, they almost write themselves. But they don't, I do. My concern was with flat writing. For a long while, I didn't feel like my long-form work was ready for review, but I've come to a point where I need writers, expects in the craft, to pick it apart. Can that be you?

On my other blog, I have posted my first chapter. If any of you fine people have some time to spare, and a desire to critique my chapter, I would love to hear from you. At the moment, the other blog is invite-only to keep this experiment manageable. If you're interested, please email me at the address on my Blogger profile and I'll send you the invite. Thank you.

If You Really Knew Me

2012-01-22T16:10:00.000-05:00

In the spirit of Tess and Michelle, I’d like to continue the ‘If you knew me’ thread with a post of myown. It’s hard to come up with original content when everyone is nice and all.After all, we’re all very similar when you get right down to it.

I am aware that mostly, we areresponsible for our own problems and issues. Although some people suck andreally are out to get you, most aren’t. Honestly, most don’t really care at all.I cope through jokes. Sometimes humor doesn’t translate well to the page, post,comment or tweet. If you knew me, you’d know that there was no malice in myheart, and hurting someone is that last thing I would ever want to do. Joke =Good. Mean = Bad. You would probably categorize me as the type of guy that doescare, even for strangers. I must admit, I do so, and to a fault.

If you knew me, you’d dismisshalf of what I say as silliness. I was always the class clown at school, and alot of times, at work. Some people who thinkthey know me may perceive my introverted demeanor, or my desire to keep my problemsto myself as antisocial. They would be wrong. I’m in pain, but I’m a survivor.I move on. If you really knew me, you’d know that I’m stronger than I was. I’mfar from perfect. There is rage in my heart, but the logical side of me knowsto shrug it off. I’m trying.

If you knew me, you would neverput mushrooms on my pizza. Ew.

Finally, if you knew me, you’dsay that I’m overly emotional, especially for a dude. If that means I’m secureenough to cry when Rose blows into the whistle at the end of Titanic, I’mguilty. But I’m not overly sensitive when it comes to me. I’m thick-skinned. Idemand honesty when friends spend their valuable time to critique my work, forexample. Bring out them tiger-mama claws baby. Bring it, but hold themushrooms.

Need Music For A Book Trailer?

2012-01-19T13:28:00.002-05:00

I’d like to share with you a sampling of my musical activities. These are rough mixes of some of my songs. Itturns out Tumblr is an excellent side for uploading audio files. Hooray Tumblr.Most other sites and players only allow for existing material for linking formarketing purposes. I’ll eventually have a single link directing you to my Tumblr blog that I’ll dedicate solely formusic, until then, the individual links on the left are begging for a click.

Rhapsody, a temporary title,sounds like a film score to me. Is anyone seeking a composer for a booktrailer?

An Ordinary Waltz is, well, I’llgive you one guess.

My Place is a typical song,nothing special. I’m waiting for my lyricist to get busy.

It Could Be Today is mycurrent favorite. Marcus Simeone wrote most of the lyrics. He has yet to addvocals.

Hustle, another workingtitle is my attempt at the R&B/Pop market. I used to live in Glen Cove a fewblocks from Ashanti. Her father loved this jam and promised to pass it onto his daughter. I’m assuming the five years of silence since meant she passedon it. WAAAA. (See crying baby.)

The tech side: I digitally recorded everything at home withoutsequencers, aside from the drum machine on MyPlace and Hustle. Don’t get too excited, I don’t play the oboe.My keyboards make virtually any sound I can imagine. Also, unlike the literaryworld where copyright notices are frowned upon, the music world requires it forprotection. All music is copyrighted. Extra points if you can tell me who that famous handwriting up top belongs to.

Only Love Can Drive Out Hate

2012-01-16T08:25:00.000-05:00

The Angel

2012-01-11T13:59:00.002-05:00

“That was a poor choice,” the skinny girl said.

This child did her best to convince me that she was an angel. Therewere no wings, no halo, and no special powers to speak of. There was nothing tosuggest any otherworldly influence, aside from showing me my own dead body withvomit that had spewed onto my chest in my body’s last-ditch effort to expel theoverdose.

“Isn’t it kinda late to lecture me on not giving up? Where were youwhen I asked for help?”

The girl said nothing. I didn’t ask rhetorical questions, I wanted toknow why I felt so alone.

“What is the point of going through decades of painand suffering? Was I supposed to learn?”I asked a little too snottily.

She remained silent, although a smile formed on her round face. Shetook hold of my hand and pulled me into the next room. She showed me as I sat at my desk five years earlier. I remembering wishing for the exact situation Ieventually dreaded. I wondered what was next for me.

She smiled. “Now you go back and get it right.”

The View From The Moon

2012-01-09T03:00:00.000-05:00

The anticipation was unbearable.The twelve-hour shuttle ride with my fellow condemned inmates was worse thanthe actual cells that awaited us. When they condemned me to the Lunar PenalColony for the rest of my life, I knew there was no escape and there would beno pardon.

Although the domed ceiling in themain hall boasted a nice view of Earth, All I could see from the small windowin my cell was the courtyard wall. Always dark and seldom occupied, it wasstill far better than the windowless cells reserved for the problem inmates inD block. Personally, I saw no reason to upset the guards; they were pissed-offto begin with just stationed there. All they expected of me was to keep my cellclean, not complain, and most importantly, keep quiet. For my good behavior,they rewarded me with as many books as I wanted.

I don’t know if I got used to prison,or I just became numb, but after a while, I began to enjoy my solitude. Occasionally, I would hear the guards beating someonesomewhere on the block, and it would only remind me of where I was. Other thanthat, things were fine. When they sentenced me to life in prison, they wantedthe likes of me out of their corrupt little world. They couldn’t face a loudvoice that spewed offensive topics like, say, the truth. That’s okay. Sure,this place is full of murderers, thieves, dissidents and the homeless, but alsofull of writers, artists, scientists, and a man like me with opinions thatfoolishly questioned authority. Incarceration in my twelve-by-fifteen cell succeededin shutting me up, but it’s also keeping them away. It’s all a matter ofperspective. This is my sanctuary away from that miserable society. I prefer tolook at it like we are the elitelocked in the mountain riding out the apocalypse.

I had no idea how long I was herewhen strange things started to happen, my guess is the better part of a decade.There was no way to know for sure. I became friendly with one guard. He was alsoan avid reader and we would recommend and discuss books to each other. Anyway, he told me to expect a cellmate because hundreds of new guests were arriving and they were shorton space. After we laughed at the new politically correct euphemism for inmate,he assured that he would look out for me. He promised to bunk me with anotheravid reader. He kept his promise. It turned out my new cellmate was indeed areader, an astronomer, and a woman!

Whatever the reason, the shuttlesarrived like locusts and the spacecraft’s shadows dotted the sky. The well-behavedinmates like me unloaded the cargo and minded our business. Out of fear of losing my new cellmate, I didwhat I was told and kept my mouth shut.

After months of speculation, myfriend the guard revealed the real reason for the new arrivals. A comet had bumped a big rock somewhere in the asteroid belt and sent it hurtling directlyinto Earth’s orbit. The rock will be big enough to cause mass extinctions, buthumanity would probably continue. There was only so much room in the mountainsto hold the elite, and apparently, the value of my home had increased a millionfold overnight.

The President ordered our warden tohave the inmates transferred to prisons on Earth but he refused. The wardeneven negotiated pardons for all non-violent inmates. After the upcoming event,I had a choice to make.

III

Except for D block, where they house the murderers andrapists, the cell doors were generally kept unlocked and we all moved freelyabout the premises. The guards didn’t even carry their clubs anymore. I must have readevery book in the library and have since started over. Since our pardons, we havebecome Equal Status Citizen’s, which is a rank I never achieved back home. OnEarth, one needed lots of currency to become ESC’s. I didn’t have much moneyand couldn’t buy my way out of the Toilers. Even the Thinkers, such as mycellmate and new wife, couldn’t vote.

We all watched the meteor pass overhead and towards Earth. Tothe layperson, it didn’t seem all that threatening. From our perspective, itlooked like a tiny spec moving slowly in front of the sea of stars. In reality,it was a massive iron rock twelve miles across headed toward the coast off Greenland.The scientists were right about the two hundred meter wave that circled theglobe four times. Half the population perished. They were lucky meteorite didn’thit landfall, or maybe we were lucky. We still had years of food stored but we eventuallysent two-thirds of the newer guests back to Earth so we could remainself-sustaining.

My cellmate and I live in a single room with one bed, onetable and one bookcase filled with our favorite volumes. She added some fabric to the walls to cover the stoneand the grey steel and it feels homey now. She turned out to be quite creativeand managed to partition the bathroom off with plants and fabric. There's nothing else I need. I volunteer inthe galley and she is useful studying the stars in the observatory. My friendand former guard runs the library and lets me have first crack at any newarrivals from Earth. He seems to have an endless supply of funny anecdotes andjokes. Who knew?

“Just when I thought I was out…”

2012-01-07T11:06:00.001-05:00

One of my friendstold me a week ago that I was the strongest person she knew. I didn’t want tocorrect someone who didn’t need to be so kind to me. That statement would havebeen true a few years ago, but not so much nowadays. I will not put any (more)drama out there for all to read. My previous post was a mistake, think of it as the equivalentof drunk-dialing. Drunk blogging! Itwasn’t a cry for help, so relax guys. Please accept my apologies for worryingyou and allowing that kind of nonsense into my now deleted post. No one likes adowner, myself included. Although, I can still highly recommend Sambuca. (I think theSambvca spelling is much cooler.)

So what’s new… With the divorce looming and me beatingmyself up over being so stupid and easily fooled occupying my thoughts, I’vebeen taking a break from writing. For some reason, musical ideas are comingforth. I’ve composed a rhapsody (which basically means a piece of music which Icannot properly label in any other form), and I’m working on an aria. Ifinished a waltz a couple of months ago. Obviously, these works will never acceptedinto the machine that uses pitch-correction to improve singers that look great,but I don’t care – never did. Everything I create, I do for me. Marcus Simeone,an amazing Cabaret singer I’ve been writing with for a decade, is planning onstopping by with some fresh ideas for new songs. He has a few CD’s for sale onAmazon I think. (I get ‘em for free heh!)

The future… Well, that’s the big question bouncing aroundmy skull. One day at a time, we’ll seewhat happens, I’ll know when I know, I’ll cross that bridge when I build it,pick your cliché. No more drunk posting – I promise. But, as messed up as Iwas, my grammar, spelling and sentence structure were pretty darn good. Your collectivetalents must be rubbing off on me.

Interesting Content

2012-01-03T23:50:00.000-05:00

I missed last month’s insecurepost because I lost my internet access for a few weeks. Sorry about that. The cable company hasthe nerve to expect money every month. Also, I find it difficult to think of things I’minsecure about, especially when it comes to writing. Let’s be clear; I don’t claimto know squat about writing, at least any more than anyone reading this. I donot pretend to offer you any tips on getting your manuscript published, andunless you’re a bestselling author, neither should you. My guess is that if you are a bestselling author, the best adviceyou can offer is to keep writing and learn from your mistakes. (And maybe to avoidPublish America.) You’re here reading this because I’m half-retarded andsometimes, I make you laugh. Admit it. The writing blogs I read, your blogs, are crucial to me because I learn from you. I love reading new ways of doing this, and discovering an alternative todoing that, and most importantly, I enjoy connecting with like-minded individuals all making the same journey together. The bottom line is that I’m not insecure aboutlearning about the craft of writing. I'm having fun experimenting.

However, I am insecure about providing content on this blog that interests you. Hell,my life is boring, and because most of us are in the same pre-pub boat, I havelittle to offer new writers. Keeping you clicking back here is a miracle. What's interesting is that my posts on writing get very few hits. When I get political, a lot more people visit. When I post something revealing, I get the same amount of hits, but a lot less and different people comment. That infers that the same people read this but comment on what moves them. One time I posted about the weather and received a lot of comments. Go figure. The point is I decided long ago to be myself on this stupid blog. I canonly offer my personal experiences, an occasional story, and hopefully, sharesome successes with you. 2012 is my year folks, but with my luck, the Mayans will be right and the world will end in December. (By the way, my theory as to why the Mayan calendar suddenly stopped on 12-21-12 is fairly straightforward. The guy creating it probably died. Mystery solved.) If our planet doesn't collide with Niribu, like our crazy friend with the alien implant predicts, and if I become the success I intend to be, then I can pontificate on how toget you pee-ons published. - haha

Partly cloudy with a chance of rain. Tonight, a long period of darkness is expected.

Paranoia and Divorce

2011-12-31T01:00:00.000-05:00

If a paranoid person’s suspicions turn out to be true, is it stillparanoia? Distrust, or mistrust, implies an unreasonablesuspicion. “I think my neighbor is a Martian” is a paranoid thought, until he beginseating my car tires and flees in his portable spaceship. I guess I’d need tocapture that on film to prove my suspicions justified and free me from my mislabeled paranoia. It would simply prove my heightened state of awareness.

Earlier this past week, my wife finally confessed that she has never loved me, even whenwe first got married. She freely admitted to “doing whatever it took” to win acourt case to get her son back. Evidentially, giving the appearance of a stablehome-life was important, regardless of any collateral damage. I’m not sad. Ifeel like an asshole for being played so easily – again, but I’m not sad. What is sad is that this kid is anamazing person saddled with a schemer for a mom, and sadly, he gets the shortend of the stick. This year was my worst ever, but it will end tonight and Iwill begin anew once more.

We have all had bad years, and some of you are going through your own personalhell. I’m sorry about that. I wish I could magically fix everyone problems. I’d like to offer you a suggestion. Tonight, (orlate tomorrow afternoon when the party ends,) take a shower, wash the past off ofyou, go to bed and wake up fresh. Pretend tomorrow is your first day ever, exceptyou have the experience of knowing who and what to avoid. Knowledge is on yourside. Choosing your own path is a gift. If you don't like your life, change it. Really, you're the only one that can. I wish everyone the best for 2012.

“The beginning is one place I’ve been before.” - JonAnderson

A Brief List

2011-12-26T17:56:00.003-05:00

Another year comes to an end. Cancer kills Steve Jobs and a bulletkills Osama Bin Laden - and some dude inNorth Korea kicked the bucket too. Japan endures an earthquake, a tsunami, anda nuclear disaster. (I’m sure they were expecting Godzilla at any moment.) Occupy New York spreads throughout the countryand Michael Moore reinvents the Human Megaphone. Two-and-a-half-Men lost crazyCharlie Sheen and I lost my sanity. MichelleDavidson Arygle somehow uncovered the first meeting between my ex-wife and I.It’s uncanny how she did that. Instead of listing my accomplishments of the past year, or making someup, I prefer to look forward. This year, my New Year’s Resolutions creative list if verybrief.

* Publish my book (or get agented).

* Have one of my songs recorded by a legitimate artist.

* Finish two current WIPs.

That’s it. Simple. Three realistic goals that are easily attainable.That’s my plan.

Fiesta!

2011-12-20T04:30:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I’m hesitant to wishpeople a Merry Christmas in fear of offending those who don’t celebrateChristmas. It seems silly wishing everyone a Happy this, or a Blessed that whenI have no idea what their religious affiliations are. And I absolutely refuseto reduce my good intentions, to what is basically a nod, by submitting myself,and subjecting you, to the offensive, impersonal, and politically-correct Season’sGreetings. Hell no. Naturally, I have a solution.

Jesus of Nazareth was born on,well, I don’t know his birth date; no one does. Searching the internet gave methe following dates: January 7, March 28, September 11, November 18, late summer/early fall, with theoverwhelming majority consenting to “sometime in the fall.” No one claims hisbirth date as December 25^th, including the Catholic Church. Theyjust agree to celebrate Christ’s mass on the 25^th. Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights, is observed for eight days beginning on the twenty-fifth day of Kislev, which may be anytime from late November to late December.

The Islamic calendar isvery different than ours, and someone like me with little knowledge of Islamwon’t know what’s what. This year, the only major Islamic celebration in December(5^th) is the Day of Ashura, which marks the “climax of theRemembrance of Muharram,” grandson of the prophet Mohammad. The Hindu’scelebrate the Winter Solstice for five days beginning on December 21^st,asdo our Wiccan friends, but they only celebratethe one day. Japanobserves the enlightenment of Buddha on December 8- Bodhi Day, (and I observehow lucky I am on December 8, our anniversary). Spiritism, a fascinating offshootof Catholicism about souls don’t really celebrate any day exclusive to them. (Ever hearpeople claim to be an “old soul?” Well, that’s them.) Kwanzaa begins on the 26^th,and last, but not least (well actually, it is least), is Boxing Day, December26^th. One of my friends from across the pond needs to explain thatone to me.

The only religious happening Icould find scheduled for the 25^th (this year) was the birth date ofthe Iranian mystery God Mithra, the Sun of Righteousness. He’s a judge, everawake, ever present, keeper of secrets and the protector of truth. Merry Mithraeveryone.

Okay, it’s easy to get confusedwith all these differences and inconsistencies, probably because we think toomuch. And I'm the type of guy that not only respects our differences, I embrace them. If I preach anything, it's tolerance.

This brings us to the real reason for the season: Marketing. Santa Claus, SaintNick, my jolly round man with the long white beard. He rides a sleigh propelledby thirteen flying reindeer, or the subway. No, that’s not it. Actually, I find the holidayspainful when I’ve had a bad year. It only serves as a reminder of how things could,or should be. Getting through this final week is like easing past hotels on Boardwalkand Park Place when you’re alone and broke.

Honestly, I try to focus on the positive,the silver lining. I love the season itself. I love the lights, the excitement,and most importantly, the camaraderie among perfect strangers. And in thatspirit, that is, the spirit of good will and the most heartfelt wish for peaceand joy in your lives, I’d like to wish you, along with your possible religiouscelebrations, a Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and a Happy Festivus (for the rest of us.)

Bling This

2011-12-16T14:43:00.002-05:00

In the summer of 1963, I was lessthan a year old. I was still in my crib, unable to stand without holding on tothe bars, and I bounced up and down to Beethoven, Harry Belafonte, BennyGoodman, The Clancy Brothers, or any other record my mother chose to put on theturntable. I was a happy baby.

As a pre-teen, I would cry when Van Cliburnplayed a Chopin Nocturne. (I have heard the same pieces played by otherswithout Mr. Cliburn’s emotion and felt nothing.) His ability to evoke painfulfeelings by simply performing a musical phrase is what artistry is about. I used the word evoke because I already hadfeelings of sadness and depression as a kid.

When I was about twelve, mybrother brought home the record Brain Salad Surgery by Emerson, Lake & Palmer, and it forever changed my musical tastes.Some would argue that skewed would bea better word, I would insist broadened wouldsuit my point best. My emotions at that time ran the gamut from isolation tonothing. At fifteen, I had already acquiesced myself to a life where joy wouldbe rare. I turned forty-nine last month and I was right. As far as music isconcerned, every possible mood I can conjure is represented in my extensive andeclectic collection. As much as I know about musical theory, and I know a lot,my compositions don’t quite seal the deal. Maybe some do, but mostly, they do not.

This post is not about mydepression, or how I’m a survivor, or any other bullshit excuse I tend to givefolks when need to hide it; I can fake happiness better than anyone. No, today,I’m trying to connect emotion together with art. And if I’m putting it out there a little too much, whatever- you all know me pretty well by now anyway.

A writer, a real writer, can tapinto their inner demons, or elation, and make the reader, or listener, feel it.For the past decade, or since I’ve developed a crush on storytelling, I’ve beenpaying close attention to our beautiful and complex language. Choosing theright words is a skill I admire. I find it difficult to make a reader feelexactly what I want them to. I can certainly tell a reader how horrible it is forsomeone to throw you out of a helicopter, but to make them feel what it’s likefalling toward a mountain blanketed with evergreen trees, knowing thatscreaming for help is futile, is the real trick. A good writer will convey asense of hopelessness during that passage. I’m not there yet. I canconvincingly write characters like me, that is, a pathetic dude with regrets, butthat isn’t what writing is. A real writer can construct a beautiful paragraphon something mundane, say eels, and keep a reader interested. I admire that talent. Iaspire to possess a fraction of that kind of gift. Some folks are naturals,others need work.

I’ve been consciously expandingmy vocabulary in hope of doing just that. I have absolutely no desire toimpress anyone with fancy expressions; I want my word choice to be invisible. Irritatingwords such as bling instantly suck me out of a story. I love Dan Brown becausehis books take me on a journey like no other writer. I totally escape in hisnovels, (although he uses the word expansivetoo much.) I’ve read many writers, more knowledgeable than I, dismiss him asfluff. Really? Being a newbie writer, I would consider that a snobbishattitude. Storytelling is the whole point, to me anyway. As much as Rachmaninoff induces a yearning forlove, so does Madonna.

Is there something specific thatcan ruin a mood for you? Is there an author who does it right?

Bond, James Bond

2011-11-13T11:46:00.001-05:00

Things get tough for everyone at times. For me, I try to find something to laugh at. If you can't quite appreciate this guy's talent, his sense of humor will be enough.

Update: I have replaced the video with the link to the same video because my page was running too slow.

James Bond / Nose Flute

Anticipation

2011-11-08T10:54:00.000-05:00

Too often, we long for things, people and lifestyles and are disillusioned when the reality doesn't quite measure up. We dream of the best-seller list and film adaptations but settle for mid-list status, if we're lucky. The payment, monetary and otherwise, is pitiful considering the work put into crafting a novel. We all know that already. The journey is everything. We cannot rely on being published to justify our writing. We must love the struggle itself.

My thoughts today concern anticipation more than the actual journey. I'm not referring to the dreadful moments awaiting the dentist, but the positive feeling we all have before something we've been looking forward to. I love that! It's part of the experience. Preparing for a hot date is as much a part of the wonderful memory as the date itself, and sadly, it's often the best part. I enjoy the previews in the movie theaters, I enjoy my time in the bookstores, and I enjoy shopping for, and wrapping gifts as much as watching my loved ones open them.

This past Sunday, my wife surprised me with two tickets to see Jon Anderson and Rick Wakeman from the band Yes. (Of course they were spectacular.) We arrived early and simply enjoyed the theater fill up. Perhaps this photograph can illustrate my point a little better.

We counted 80 fake candles, and they, along with the blue light, created the perfect atmosphere.

"And the word is, Love."

Update: Clips from the show are already on YouTube! I love technology.

Insecure Writers: The Dead Zone

2011-11-02T14:31:00.000-04:00

Most times, ideas flow freely. I'm lucky in that respect. I can come up with a story just looking at a person. I can easily imagine the guy who bought his new jacket in the X store, only because there was a cute girl working the register. Maybe he was too shy to ask the girl out because she's ten years older and six inches taller. Or the bus driver; he just lost his wife and his daughters don't know yet. He can't locate them because they moved on bad terms and didn't leave a forwarding address. They're going to get around to it. Whatever. Another method I use frequently is to devise a situation and go from there. Imagine a man waking up to discover he's the only one alive. Okay, it's been done a zillion times but you get the point. Being a writer justifies me for having a retarded mind that is always drifting, always wondering, and usually searching. But there are times when I stare at the screen clueless.

What do you do when faced with a void?

This past week has been rough. I've been doped up with the aforementioned Hydrocodone because of oral issues. When you couple a toothache with an earache, finding a will to write is next to impossible. Oh yeah, the headaches are back as well. Maybe health issues give me a pass. I'm easy. But sometimes, the creativity simply isn't there. I don't want to label it as Writers' Block, because it isn't. A block is easy to fix. Go for a walk, people watch, invent a scenario and go. It's that easy. You may write crap, but you'll write and sooner than you think, gems show up. The same goes for composing. What bothers me is having the right frame of mind to write. The mood has to be just so. For me anyway.

The Bottom Line

2011-10-27T17:24:00.000-04:00

So...

The Bad News: Root canal, 3 cracked teeth, and a cavity.
The Good News: Hydrocodone! Yeeaahhhh!

The Bad News: It hurts to even look at a computer screen or television.
The Good News: Hydrocodone! Oh Baby!

See ya's next week. It's time to dream.

POV Question

2011-10-21T14:25:00.000-04:00

When you open a book for the first time that you know nothing about, are you hoping for a certain POV?
Does it matter? Which POV do you prefer? Is there a POV that you don't particularly care for?

Also, do you prefer past or present tense?

A Scenario

2011-10-13T16:39:00.000-04:00

One of my stories makes use of a time machine. My protagonistcompletes her assignment but unintentionally alters the past, which tends tohappen when you visit the past. Withthat in mind, I’ve always fantasized of going back and changing some things inmy life, paradoxical problems be damned. Some of you younger peeps may still befull of dreams and not have a list of regrets that I have accumulated, but at48, I find I’m lamenting more than I dream. There’s a lot of things I wouldchange. Although it would be riskier, I’d like to see the future as well. Withno way of returning, or even knowing if any society was waiting for me, I thinkI’d chance it and take a peek. This brings me to a scenario I’d like to propose.

If a time machine wasavailable to you, and there was no returning, where would you go?

Gwen

2011-10-10T12:57:00.000-04:00

Iknew I was going to live through it. Even as my car rolled for what seemed likemiles, I knew I was going to make it. Strapped into the car seat behind me, mydaughter had screamed in horror. She already lost her mom and I was all she hadleft. When the car finally stopped rolling, I was confident that God would notallow Gwen to grow up an orphan.

WhenI awoke, the light was too bright and I couldn’t open my eyes. All sorts ofpossibilities went through my mind. Was I dead? Were they oncoming headlights?Emergency room lights maybe? I ruled out the light being Heaven or angelsbecause I didn’t have that warm fuzzy feeling of acceptance one is supposedto experience upon passing, or so I read. My speculation ended when Ifinally opened my eyes to find myself lying in bed in a strange room.

Thesunlight filled the bedroom from somewhere behind me. A wooden dresser faced meat the foot of the bed. The mirror atop the dresser provided me with a clearview of artwork hanging over my head. If I was able to move my neck a littlemore, I could’ve confirmed the painting’s location. To my left, the door was onlyslightly ajar, as if someone meant to close the door but it didn’t quite latch,and a slight breeze had moved it from its jamb. I felt warm and comfortable.

Themuffled voices were unfamiliar and distant, but the unmistakable sound ofchildren running somewhere inside was clear. I remember smiling. Judging by theauthoritative maternal voice commanding them to stop, I deduced my position tobe in someone’s upstairs bedroom. Just about to doze off again, I felt acat jump on the bed to investigate. She wasn’t mine but her purring comfortedme just the same and I dozed off feeling contented.

Thefirst thing I noticed when I opened my eyes again was the chill in the air. Thebedding was heavier and warmer, and the artwork visible through the mirror wasnow partially obscured by a silver balloon that read Happy Birthday. I couldn’timagine whose bed I was lying in, I know it wasn’t mine. This time I was morealert. This time I felt strong enough to get out of bed.

Isat up and saw someone unfamiliar in the mirror, and someone sporting a graybeard and balding looked back at me. I rubbed my face to confirm that the oldman was me. How long has it been?

Achild stood in the doorway, apparently surprised to see me sitting up. A womanin her mid-thirties, her mother perhaps, walked up behind her to investigatewhat the child was staring at.

“Dad?”

Thewoman was obviously astounded. She knelt on the floor and held me tightly. Icould feel her tears drop on my neck like warm rain. I knew it was Gwen. Iknew I had been in and out of a coma for three decades.

“I’msorry Gwen.” I began a feeble apology for my poor driving. I realized thatthirty years after the fact, she would think my guilt silly, but to me, it feltlike only an hour had passed.

“Don’tyou dare,” she responded. “I’m happy you’re finally with me.”

Gwenproceeded to introduce me to my son-in-law and grandchildren. The kids seemedscared that I was finally awake – I was back from the dead after all. I couldonly imagine. I had a hard time comprehending what pain I must have causedGwen. I put her through hell. Whatever money I had in my savings must’ve beenexhausted within weeks of the accident. My care must’ve been astronomical. Whathave I done?

I’vealways prided myself on handling any situation thrown at me, but I couldn’tbear the guilt. Gwen forgave me. All I wanted to do was fall back asleep like acoward. She deserved better.

Iwas grateful lying in bed that night. I was able to walk downstairs for a hotmeal, which was in itself a miracle; my muscles should have atrophied afterthree decades. My daughter was blessed with a beautiful family, and I wasblessed to have at least spent some time with them. As I dozed off, I hada sense of enlightenment. I knew nothing of the mysteries of life, or death. Ihad no answers, but I felt at peace. More than anything else, I had a will tolive greater than ever before.

WhenI awoke, I was strapped to a gurney in an ambulance. Was it later that night ordid I really fall back into a coma? I was in pain and confused. If it was timefor me to pass on, I was ready. I found comfort knowing my daughter was fine,and that’s all that mattered. I passed out.

WhenI awoke, or when I opened my eyes for the first time – I still can’t decidewhich, my sister was smiling at me. She was young and beautiful as I rememberher from years ago. I smiled back. She asked me if I was ready to see Gwen. Apain shot through my chest thinking she was already in Heaven, but the thrillof seeing her again won. My sister stepped to the doorway and reached out herhand. I began to cry in anticipation, but a four-year-old toddlerentered.

Love and Language

2011-10-07T15:05:00.000-04:00

The more I read, the more I fall in love. Does that make sense? I'm new at expressing myself through a language I've spoken my entire life, but I haven't appreciated how beautiful and rewarding serious reading, and writing, can be. If I read a story or an essay with a perfect balance of pace, poetry and truth, I'm moved. If I can feel the author's pain, awe, depression, glee or disgust, then I'll probably become a lifelong fan. This is all new to me. Music has moved me this way since before I could walk or talk, but the appreciation of language used well has only been awakened in me. If my point seems superficial or obvious, it's not your fault, it's mine for not choosing the right words. They are right there, waiting for me to use them.

I have always believed my stories were as good as most, but I've always doubted my talent when it came to writing them down because, well, I'm new. I have a long way to go before strangers can pick up something I write and be mesmerized. A good writer should be able to hold a reader's attention regardless of the subject. We all have our favorite authors and they're our favorites for a reason, so you know what I mean.

If I have to say "you know what I mean," to help me express myself, then I'm not there yet. That's okay. I've always stated that I love the journey, and I've always meant it. I still do. Instead of returning to my "old" work and making it better, I'm starting fresh. Why can't I take a situation that we all experience and write about it? Why must my books have these unusual and original hooks? They don't have to. All I have to do is write honestly and write well. Simple.

Voice

2011-10-06T19:10:00.001-04:00

I think that we can all agree that nailing your voice iscrucial in effective storytelling. But what if your voice doesn’t quite fityour genre? My first book is a romantic science-fiction story written in thirdperson (and past tense). My voice, when I’m writing honestly, is occasionallylaced with sarcasm and humor. No, really. Now, the bits of comedy work fine inthe story because it’s used judiciously and keeps the thriller aspect of theopening chapters in balance. I tend to write lightly, for lack of a better word. Aside from some descriptive passages, which I prefer to keep brief, I write pretty much the way I talk, minus the mumbling. Imagine me at a campfire telling you a story. Bingo.

My current work-in-progress, a political thriller, doesn’tleave much room for comedy. It simply wouldn’t fit. My female protagonist isuncovering a diabolical government cover up, and she’s avenging her sister’sdeath simultaneously. (And yes, I will say dopey things like "uncovering the cover up" intentionally.) An escape from the bad guys is not the best place for a drunken Bozo to take the controls of the helicopter and scare everyone. On the other hand, a political thriller is totally new direction for me. I love reading them, and I started this project with that in mind, so I'll pretend to be serious and see if it comes out as honest. If not, I may have to make some tough guys afraid of heights, or bugs. Something.

However, I do believe in balance. Just like there are othersides of me besides a wise-ass, I have plenty of opportunity to introduce otheremotions into my story without slowing down the pace. The beginning, my set-up, has that balance and it came out (I think) perfectly. My writing, as a whole, is a work-in-progress.

Okay, fine. There are no other sides to me besides a wise-ass. Ya got me.

Mica

2011-10-05T15:37:00.000-04:00

There is no unauthorized printing in my house. This plump and lovable purring creature is only two years old.

She occasionally allows me write for minutes on end without forcing me to give her affection.

At night, she sleeps inches from my face.

And I don't mind one bit!

Chapter One; Take Two

2011-10-04T17:02:00.000-04:00

My half-completed political thriller had this great twist that I thought was original and ingenious. I speak in past tense because I just recently saw the same subplot in a movie. That's just my luck that a script coming out of that town could come up with the same device I created. My only consolation is that my resolution was, well, much better.

Now I have a roomful of quirky characters goofing off looking for something to do. They're drinking all my booze and carrying on without me.

Charlie's Excellent Adventure - Part Two

2011-10-02T16:24:00.000-04:00

Heaven and Hell:

The smile on my faceleaving Meteor Crater disappeared when my car started acting up. Just great!I'm in the middle of nowhere and I'm fearing being stranded on this exact road.The 'sputtering' seemed to subside as I turned my radio up, so I continued west.

I wish my most excellentadventure included the Grand Canyon, but because of a wrong turn and darknessthreatening me to find a motel, I headed North from Flagstaff through Arizonafor a nice town with decent eats. I figured there’d be dozens of placesto rest along the East side of the Canyon, take my time the following morningto and really explore. Why rush it, right? I found there was no vacancies atevery stop. Before I realized it, I was passing through the Navajo Reservationand didn’t find a room until Blanding, Utah. (Waves to Michelle andMichael.) Dead tired, I ignored the Jacuzzi reserved for the locallovers and crashed into bed.

The next morning startedbadly with three near-flat tires, but I rectified it by visiting the localservice station and borrowing their air-compressor. I decided to avoid thehighways and explore the Rocky Mountains, my number one destination of alltime, (so far).

Happening by the Blue Mesa Reservoir surprisedme; I had no idea it was there waiting for me to discover it. Stunning.

Eventually I tookadvantage of a rest stop near the peak of Monarch Mountain. It's altitude isalmost 12,000 ft. If you really try, you can see Sasquatch scurrying away throughthe evergreens.

It was soonafter descending from this beautiful peak that a cop startingfollowing me. For 22 miles, the sneaky one paced me before finally giving up.(Yeah, that's right pal. I was doing 85 when I saw you hiding by the side ofthe road. Haha. Maybe next time.)

I can’t say for surethat Colorado Springs in Heaven on Earth, but it’s damn close. I decided togive my poor car a break from driving and spent two nights at a hotel on astreet called Garden of the Gods. Even the street names are heavenly. I knewfellow blogger Anita lived here and considered contacting her that I was intown, but being that I was unannounced, I couldn't find a way to word thee-mail without sounding like a creepy-stalker-dude, so I explored the town solo.I’m thinking a suburb of Colorado Springs will work.

Leaving Colorado and thelisteria outbreak behind, I returned eastbound along route 70 through a numberof flat states with nothing to offer except gas stations and cornfields thatseem to stretch for hundreds of miles. Kansas, Missouri, Illinois and Indianawere uneventful except for the numerous construction projects taking place, andafter the beauty of Colorado, they left me as boring places. About halfwaythrough Pennsylvania, the drivers became rude again and I was reminded why Idislike New York tremendously.

Throughout the week, Inoticed radio stations all took odd names such as the Mountain, Eagle 95,Froggy Country, Rose 101, and many others I can’t remember offhand. My favoritestuck in my mind: “Screw you 92, we play what we want!”

It’s only been aweek and the “high” from my trip, as John Denver so aptly put it, has prettymuch worn off. There’s nothing like reality to screw a nice dream up. I’m alreadyplanning a spring trip along the Northern part of the country. Should be fun.If I’m really adventurous, I’ll plan it for the winter and dare the snow tostop me.

Charlie's Excellent Adventure - Part One

2011-09-28T14:40:00.000-04:00

Bed Bugs and BigHoles:

The first day ofdriving was nothing new to me. The scenery from the New Jersey Turnpike iseither swamp or perpetual construction. Heading West into Pennsylvania is also familiar- a lot of green, nothing more. The NY/NJ/Penn drivers during the Fridayevening rush suck and I was glad to leave them behind. I was restless the firstnight in the motel. After an infomercial of a hairbrush that spins on its ownwith an internal heating element, I was thankful to find Poker on the tube. The first ‘ahhh’ moment was soon to come. (Youcan’t wait, right?)

Heading Southinto Maryland was nice because at 3:00 on a Saturday morning, the road was allmine, which is always a good feeling. Oddly enough, the radio station that camein clearest originated from Boston. Go figure. When the sun finally rose, I wasin West Virginia. The sunlight revealed that I had been on a mountain ledgeoverlooking the mist blanketing the Shenandoah Valley. Stunning. West Virginiaenters the top five destinations at number three. Although every state Ientered proudly displayed a sign at the border, Maryland was the only statethat hoped I enjoyed my stay in their beautiful state as I left.

With its interestingterrain of endless hills, Kentucky was just as fun to drive through as WestVirginia. After spending the night in a semi-fancy hotel just outsideLouisville, Sunday morning meant navigating a 25-mile detour taking me intoIndiana. Illinois was okay I guess, but Missouri hosted a rainstorm like noother I’ve ever experienced. As some of you know, I love extreme weather. Icould not see ten foot in front of me. Scary and fun. It ended as suddenly asit struck. The sun was out ahead of me and the storm clouds made it look likenight behind me. I’m not used to that in New York. I also saw my first oil-rigin Missouri. It was a cute little thing, maybe six-foot high – tops.

The best thingabout Oklahoma was the 75 mph speed limit, which really means 80. I was so skeevedout by the motel I stayed in, I slept fully clothed, with my shoes on, and leftafter only three hours. The Will Rogers Turnpike (I’m serious) in Oklahoma is atoll road without any humans to collect the money. Most folks use the PikePassunique to that state, and us dumb visitors are forced to exit into toll lanes.I sat in my car trying to pay an 85 cent toll, and there was no one there. Byno one, I mean no other human within several miles, no passing cars, nothing.Finally, I spotted a quarter on the ground to add to the three I had and paidthe toll. I was not about test the video camera daring fare-beaters. At the next toll stop, I spotted a machinethat dispenses change, if you have bills. Duh.

Texas is big andflat. Marsha and Meg, did you see me waving?

Oddly enough, I found the wide-open spacecomforting. I loved passing through. I even ventured off the main road toexplore, then fears of flat tires crept into my head and I turned around! lol

New Mexico wasjust as open, but with the added benefit of mountains to break up the vast deserthorizon. I stayed the night in the upscale Hilton in Albuquerque, my number twodestination. The hooker in thethigh-high boots made check-in memorable. No, I didn’t indulge, you pervs.

50,000 years ago, a big rock slammed into theEarth and created Meteor Crater in Arizona. I’m glad I missed the actual eventbut seeing this in front of you puts all of life’s silly tribulations in perspective.I had a smile on my face that day. I’ve learned there is beauty to be found almosteverywhere if one only opens his/her eyes. I’ve learned that there are as manyadult novelty store billboards as there are Jesus billboards. In fact, thousandsupon thousands of billboards littered it the gorgeous scenery. I’ve learnedthat I cannot type the word blanket and not think of Michael Jackson. And most importantly, I’ve learned that peopleare friendly out there. Maybe in NewYork, everyone has their guard on, but it’s a pleasure meeting people in otherparts of the country.

Don’t miss theexciting conclusion of Charlie’s Excellent Adventure where I divulge the numberone destination, my all-time favorite place, and most likely, my next home.

A Man Can Dream

2011-09-28T01:56:00.000-04:00

The Demon

The warm and pleasing effect fromtwo bottles of wine had surreptitiously transformed itself into a nasty mixtureof old recollections and fresh accusations. The pool of blood that formedaround me was not just mine. Lying on my back on the kitchen floor, I turned tosee the lifeless eyes of my attacker. Atleast I lived long enough to know that I emerged victorious. Unable to take myeyes off her, off the hideous woman that gave me my sons, I realized that thepain emanating from my ribcage had thankfully subsided.

The direction in which the room wasnow spinning was undecipherable. It was simply a whirlwind of bad choicesculminating at this final moment. My laments seemed to transfer to the shadows fromthe leaves whipping past the window – or were those demons. Like a crushingwave returning into my consciousness, I remembered.

The moment I noticed him, I knew hehad been watching me the entire time. His laugh was slow and guttural. Thesickly thin demon looked down expectantly with red and yellow eyes like abuzzard waiting for its meal.

Iwant another chance.

Then it was time. The demon reacheddown with his long arms with just enough blue flesh on it to conceal his bones,reached somewhere within my chest and lifted. With his other hand, he ripped myskin from my body in one quick graceful motion, as if he had done it a milliontimes before. My flesh splattered on the floor beneath me where my last breathhad been. He dragged me so quickly my feet never touched the floor.

You’vealready been given three.

The Adventure Begins...

2011-09-16T09:17:00.002-04:00

I'm starting my little road trip today. I need to find something in this country that can inspire me, and I'm not referring to writing. I'm doing it alone without a planned route; I'm just driving. I'm heading west into Jersey, Pennsylvania, probably turn south towards West Virginia, maybe into Kentucky - I have no idea. I know I want to see the Grand Canyon, maybe Great Salt Lake - I don't know. I tend to lean toward natural phenomena. I'll stop when I drive into an ocean or when I run out of money.

Feel free to comment but please don't think I'm rude if I don't respond. I will not have a computer with me. I may post things on Twitter if you're really interested, although I cannot view responses there either from my "dumb" phone.

The New World

2011-09-14T20:49:00.003-04:00

I love changes. I loved moving into a new neighborhood, furnishing a new home and making new friends at a new school. I'm in the right business because jobs are constantly changing. I've always found the newness exciting. As much as I love change, I'm lamenting the way the world used to be. I'm only 48, but things have changed and I miss them. Ordering from Amazon is quick and easy, and I suspect the brick-and-mortar bookstores will follow the path of the record stores. In my town, the only type of stores on the rise are restaurants. Bad ones.

To me, the new world lacks character. I find it boring. The new music sucks and the new films are run-of-the-mill formulaic messes made for the brain dead. Okay, not all the new stuff blows, and yes, tastes differ. I don't want to start a debate on some new musical genius I may have overlooked. Perhaps I need a drastic change myself. I'm considering something scary, but necessary. Oooh, a dramatic close, but that's all I can say for now.

Selective Memory

2011-09-12T15:39:00.000-04:00

I had written a lengthy piece on my experiences during the World Trade Center attack. I was there. I saw people jumping to their deaths to avoid the searing heat, I saw the second plane coming from the South and felt helpless to stop it, and I witnessed the absolute worst in human behavior during the clean-up process - from so-called heroes. (I'm an ironworker.)

But I deleted it. There's even a section in my book devoted to this very event that I'm considering generalizing for the sake of good will and not simply to stir it up. It's ten years later. Maybe it's time to forget the bad and remember the good. I can easily bury my disgust and remember the positive aspects of the situation. As a person still fighting that dark place, I don't need reality to sober me up. I need to escape. (Which reminds me Amazon, when is Monarch getting delivered?)

As for my personal life, once again I'm forced to find humor in an impossible situation. I'm tiring of revisiting the same feelings of despair repeatedly, then forcing myself to feel grateful that life could be much worse. That's bullshit. Okay fine, I have my health, decent finances, amazing kids, but I still don't understand the point of it all.

I'm having trouble finding a hook for this week's post. I cannot nail down my point. I'm just rambling, but my new policy of openness helps me in my own way. Thanks for reading.

Ludwig Speaks

2011-09-04T10:25:00.000-04:00

To keep out the background noise of everyday life, I writelistening to music through headphones. Maybe it’s me, but I’m more relaxedlistening to instrumental piano music that say, ice-cream trucks and teenagers playingvideo games. I was doing some revisions on Utopia last night at 2:00 am whenBeethoven’s 5^th Symphony came on. That’s a piece of music that mustbe played loud - and loud it was. I stopped working just to enjoy it.

Evidently, my headphones were only half-way in and I wokeup the neighborhood!

Ten Points

2011-09-01T07:03:00.001-04:00

One: I'm grateful to have been spared Irene's wrath. Finding things to be grateful for seems to be common for me when I'm seeking out silver linings.
Two: No one cared for my little piranha tale. Well too bad, I thought it was funny!
Three: I officially have four WIPS, and whenever I work on one, I'm distracted by the other three.
Four: I've decided that I must drive to the Grand Canyon before I die. I just may up and do it this week. I'm open to other suggestions if you have any.
Five: Why don't horoscopes ever offer dire warnings such as; "Dude, some idiot is going to kill you today. Stay in bed."
Six: I read that agents dislike any mention of weather in the opening moments of a novel.
Seven: I've discovered creative people to be the kindest, most caring bunch. (I thank you.)
Eight: I need less dreaming and more action in my life.
Nine: As a lover of extreme weather, and in defiance of the "rules," every single one of my books opens with a mention of the weather.
Ten: Feeling nothing frees you from everything.

Piranhas in the Floodwaters at Long Beach!

2011-08-28T10:38:00.000-04:00

She felt safe reporting on the hurricane, even in knee-deep water just a mere football field away from the boardwalk. With dozens of other reporters and cameramen clamoring for the money-shot in the deepest part of the advancing shoreline, she was far from alone. Of course, feeling safe and actually being safe are two very different concepts.

There was no warning when a piranha jumped out of the water and bit the young reporter in the face. Several more toothy fishies attacked her calves leaving the floodwaters red. The cameraman followed the producer’s orders and kept his lens free of raindrops and focused on the dying reporter.

I only left the TV for a moment to get some popcorn when I saw sharks ripping the rest of the reporters to shreds. The picture finally went dark when the last cameraman finally fell into the drink.

; Þ

Bracing For Irene

2011-08-27T19:34:00.002-04:00

In a few hours, Irene should show us, hopefully, that the media is hyping the spit out of this hurricane business. I understand, and agree, on erring on the side of caution, but on television, I'm hearing about mandatory evacuations and yet I'm watching the reporters on the beaches and boardwalks. Interesting. There are parts of the area that are in flood zones and sadly, they will suffer this coming week. Fortunately, I'm usually high and dry.

The winds however...

I'll check in Sunday night. Maybe.

UPDATE: Irene gave the media something to crow about for most of the week. Just as I suspected, it was all hype. Coincidentally, the chapter I'm currently working on takes place during a thunderstorm.

Wisdom From A Writer

2011-08-21T11:14:00.000-04:00

It was a typical Hampton’s party. The wealthy and the elite congratulated themselves on whatever conquest applied, a famous film director tried to entice an A-list actor about an upcoming project, and a young girl serving hors d’oeuvres overheard real wisdom from a writer.

“Except for my first blockbuster, my novels didn’t do well commercially,” the writer confessed. “I write to feed my soul.”

The boastful hedge-fund billionaire scoffed at the starving-artist mentality. He felt right at home rubbing elbows with the aging rock-star and a young woman famous for simply attending parties. It was a world of plastic people and shallow views. Apparently, cocaine was legal at these affairs.

The billionaire sported his greed proudly. “I’ve made more money this month than you have your entire career.”

“That is true, but I have something you don’t,” the writer shot back. “I have enough.”

And So I Write

2011-08-03T17:04:00.000-04:00

The who, what and where is unimportant. The assault on me continues, and almost all of my legal options are exhausted. Almost. All I can do is write. I have feelings of rage I cannot shake. I have clear evidence of my innocence, which, because of some absurd legal nonsense, is inadmissible. My attorney stunned me with his incompetence. I put my faith into the legal system, against my initial knee-jerk reaction to “get street” on the immoral lowlife, and was rewarded with injustice from a broken system. Unless my strength to keep cool dissolves and I go on a murderous rampage, I have little recourse than to allow myself to become a victim. - Not in this lifetime.

The how and why matters here. I know I’m far too trusting. I give everyone the benefit of a doubt even when the little voice in me tells me to be wary. I have a habit of ignoring red-flags when there’s hope of something better. It’s naïve and childish to think the majority of people are nice on this miserable planet. It’s a huge fault I’ve only just begun to correct. For the first time in my life, I actually hate. Nice Charlie died. There’s only the shell of him left, with perhaps a vengeful animal waiting to strike buried somewhere within. And I assure you, I will.

So I write. I play the piano. For those that have come to know me, my creative outlets have permitted me to express my rage, joy, depression, sadness, laments and happy surprises. I thank God for that. I mean that in the figurative sense; I have never prayed before. I dunno, perhaps I should start.

Purely For Fun

2011-07-28T16:50:00.000-04:00

On a whim, I’ve been working on a political thriller this past month. I’m not a political person and I have very middle of the road views, but I’m inspired to forge ahead so what the hell. (I think this country is spiraling downward toward a drastic two-class system, and if you’re not wealthy, you’re not in the club. Guess which class you’re going to belong to.) Anyway, my plot begins in the near future in such a two-class system. The power brokers push around the wrong person, an ex-navy seal, and he takes matters into his own hands.

It’s not very original and I doubt I’ll attempt to publish it, but it’s fun to write. (At least there are no vampires in it.) I’m writing it as an exercise. It’s also a new genre for me. The pacing has to move much quicker than I’m used to writing. Who knows where the plot will wind up. This is one of those blind pantster moves of mine. It’s certainly not the best way to make use of my time, but there are no deadlines and no pressure. It’s an experiment. It’s purely for fun. That’s allowed, isn’t it?

Lucky Man

2011-07-22T19:03:00.001-04:00

As most of you have heard, a good portion of the country is experiencing a heat wave. In New York City, it reached 104. Some of you may know I’m an ironworker - the people that erect the steel. What you probably do not know is that the iron itself is scorching hot. Every time my arm touched the steel, I got a nice burn/welt to prove it. Today was a tough day. I can honestly say after 31 years doing what I do, this day was one of the toughest. Now, I’m not complaining, I’m just making a point.

When I got home this afternoon, an ice-cold house awaited me. I am very thankful for the air-conditioning. I’m extremely lucky compared to some that don’t have such luxuries. Some may not have a bed to sleep in tonight. It’s the hard days that I’m most thankful for. They remind me that things can always be worse. I’m way too exhausted to write anything, much like I've been this past month, but I will sleep well tonight.
Nice and comfortable.

Amazing

2011-06-11T18:28:00.000-04:00

No Time Traveling

2011-06-09T17:04:00.000-04:00

Standing operating procedure with my business is all or nothing. Now I'm working 6 days a week, 10 hours a day, in this wonderful 100ish heat. Wonderful.

This post is simply to refute any rumors that I went to the future in my time machine. Still here. Forgive my poor blogging manners and deal with it. The world won't end. (...unless the updated apocalypse on October 21 actually happens.)

Pick A Genre Already!

2011-06-04T16:54:00.000-04:00

I consider my first manuscript 95% completed. I just need to do a sentence by sentence inspection to correct poor construction, grammar, irritating word choices, time-line oddities(especially when you factor in a time machine), and what-have-you. I consider my book a romantic thriller with a science-fiction edge. Or more likely a science-fiction romance book constructed like a thriller. Or hell, maybe it's 86,000 words of crap. It's certainly not a romance novel, and I fear attaching that label would sway some readers away. Whatever it is, the story evolves with a few major surprises. If I quickened the pace and made it clearly a thriller, it would lose some of its charm. What to do...

After reading several posts recently on beginning pages and chapters, I've decided to rewrite the first chapter - again. I was told my opening was a bit misleading from a writer I trust and whose opinion I value - and agree with. I love the way my story begins, but my first page is admittedly a little lackluster. There are references to a bomb by page three and the plot thickens, but why not start with the explosion from the terrorists' point of view, if they even have a point of view. (Aside from 'Kill the haves' and blame it on God.)

Am I selling out by upping the wow-factor? Is is simply a smarter choice business-wise? I discovered a really cool way to include the scene, but I won't know if it detracts from the story until after it's done. I think it'll work nicely.

I'm looking forward to constructing a couple of queries, a 4 line pitch, a 2 page synopsis, and chapter by chapter synopsis on my Science-Fiction Romantic Thriller.
Any advice would most welcome.

Sweating the Amazing Glacier

2011-05-31T16:36:00.000-04:00

It's a balmy 82 degrees at the moment in New York City. Clear and beautiful. It feels much warmer because we recently came out of winter. In the fall, that same temperature will feel like a pleasant reprieve from the brutal summer months. It's all a matter of perspective - obviously, but comparative relationships are not my point.

Ya see, my current WIP's setting is a frozen tundra. I find it hard to get in the mood for a bloody massacre during a Maine winter when my air-conditioning isn't working and I'm sweating like Syrian protester. So, I tried writing a new story and set it on a tropical island. Hey, I'm willing to try a nice heartwarming tale of a native girl killing tourists with a bow and arrow, but I'm in the mood for snow and snipers. Putting an awesome picture up of a glacier isn't doing it for me today. It's putting me in the mood for ice-cream.

Oh, I've mentioned my music in past posts. The picture of the organ on the left is a link to examples of some of my early demos if you're curious. They're instrumental versions.

Choices and Oprah

2011-05-26T07:34:00.000-04:00

My manuscript really needs my attention. If this is the decade for me to get published, I must perfect it now. I know I'm 98% there but that's not good enough. I need to get it done and craft my query. But I'm too busy writing the sequel. Ya see, I have these stories that need to be written down before I lose them. I'd rather take advantage of idea's when I have them before they get lost. It all comes down to what's more important. Honestly, I'd rather complete my second book than publish the first.

I watched my first Oprah show yesterday. Her words rang true on so many levels. I think I love her. She made several wonderful points but one in particular moved me. I don't remember her exact quote, but basically to take responsibility for your own life. Some of you may remember, but I had that epiphany a couple of years ago. My many mistakes are my doing, no one else's. If I eventually succeed, it'll be because of me. This concept applies to everyone. It seems obvious now, but I only just learned it. I'm still learning.

For some reason, I'm reminded of an old joke from Drew Carey:
A man is sitting at home when he hears a knock at the door. He opens the door and sees a snail. He picks up the snail and throws it across the street. The following year the man hears another knock at the door. He opens the door and sees the same snail. The snail says "Hey, what the hell was that all about?"

Oceans

2011-05-23T08:49:00.000-04:00

I caught a documentary over the weekend called Oceans. Pierce Bronson narrated it. If the Almighty decided to cancel the apocalypse, it might just be because there is way too much beauty in this world to destroy it. However, he may eventually choose to eradicate the one species that is threatening it. Just sayin'...

Embrace the Unknown

2011-05-20T16:25:00.000-04:00

Since I was a kid, I've understood that people were different and I've accepted it. My parents were far from perfect, but they did teach me to respect everyone, regardless of race, religious beliefs, sexual orientation, political affiliation, or any other trait that may be different or appear foreign. When I read about intolerance, say, same-sex marriages, just to pick an example, I'm puzzled why some straight folk even care. Why is there a debate at all? Aside from the ignorant and the less intelligent part of our population that fear the unknown, why is there racism in the world? Perhaps I'm naive and I'm missing the part of my brain that recognizes the benefits of putting others down. Please, fill me in.

Someone once said that all men are created equal. I don't believe that for a second. I do think that we're all the same in some respects, but not equal. We're all cousins under the same sun. We all sharing the same delicate world. But we're certainly different. I LOVE those differences. I love hearing new music coming out of Africa, or reading a book about Tibet, or a sub-titled film about hot Japanese assassins - whatever. I love learning. I love exploring the differences in all of us. It sure beats closing your mind or being afraid of the unknown.

PS. If an enormous alien spacecraft hovers above your home town, don't shoot at it.

This post was inspired by a post on Jodi Meadow's Blog titled Be Kind. http://jmeadows.livejournal.com/862545.html

Links? We Don't Need No Stinking Links

2011-05-16T11:27:00.000-04:00

Michelle Davidson Argyle’s The Innocent Flower had a recent discussion concerning epic works. My comment, which fell victim to the Blogger bug, wondered if my own work could be classified as such. The Shores of Utopia, my first novel, is not epic at all. It is a self-contained story that ends naturally. However, I wrote it with two, if not three, sequels in mind. The overall story encompasses centuries and generations. (Those descriptions are different because there is time travel involved.) The overall story is certainly epic. I never gave that word any thought until Michelle’s post. Now I wonder...

My other novels, most of which are unfinished, will have no sequels. The stories will end with The End. (Only an idiot could write that previous sentence – and keep it!) My Utopia Trilogy seems more important to me. I feel I owe Cathryn Delaney, my protagonist, more life, more of an existence. Am I going insane?

While I’m discussing fellow bloggers...
I have found the perfect voice for my audiobook when the time comes to release such an item. I’ve known for quite a while that fellow blogger Rebecca Woodhead has an amazing speaking voice. Her intelligence shines through, and to be frank, it’s that Brit accent that seals the deal. The Shores of Utopia has several strong female characters, including the M.C. and they need her voice. I should really get her under contract before her price goes up! She’s all over the net with several blogs and writing mags so that she’s hard to follow daily, but yet easy to find. Her new video supporting her debut novel is currently on YouTube so you can hear, and see, for yourself.

In other news...
My intelligence is clearly absent on my pathetic attempt at a website. Click on the link at your own risk. Also, at one point I'll learn how to link properly and navigation will become much easier. Sorry 'bout that.

Crucial Data

2011-05-05T13:34:00.000-04:00

My Peruvian/Incan wife informs me that today is some sort of holiday. To celebrate, pour a few pitchers of margarita’s and read on.

Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia is the fear of long words. Someone somewhere has a sense of humor.

Dr. Ruth Westheimer was a trained sniper and seriously wounded in action by an exploding shell during the Israeli War of Independence in 1948. True.

There are over 100 million active landmines scattered throughout the world. It seems logical that whatever sick government thought it was a good idea to place them there should now be forced to remove them.

Cold water does not boil faster than hot water, but hot water can actually freeze faster than cold water.

A jiffy is an actual measurement of time; 1/100 of a second. Therefore, at 1,860 miles, the distance between Seattle, Washington and Houston, Texas, is a Light-Jiffy!

The U.S. Navy Seals has finally removed Osama bin Laden from the face of the earth. Thanks guys. If he was captured alive, and then dropped in the sea, it would have been a more fitting end for him – as shark food.

A headache should never last three weeks. Just sayin’.

Don't Forget the Food Court

2011-04-12T15:18:00.000-04:00

It’s a new world in many ways. The writing was on the walls years ago when the doomsayers predicted the fall of CD’s and DVD’s. My local mall, admittedly located in the center of Brain-Dead Island, used to have several stores available to purchase all sorts of recorded media, and now there is none. The final hold-out was a nice sized store that carried every movie imaginable. In it’s place is a new business that sells nothing but candy and nuts – gourmet, I’m sure. As I wandered this cultural black hole of a mall, I noticed there were three stores that sold nothing but overpriced sunglasses. That’s Staten Italy for ya. At least we still have a bookstore.

Author vs. Reviewer - The Video

2011-03-31T13:25:00.001-04:00

Pretty much the same... :)

This Way Looks Interesting... Let's Go!

2011-03-29T09:35:00.001-04:00

Usually, whatever I am inspired to write, I write. I have only a loosely constructed outline in my head and I go. I’ve heard that type of writer described as a pantster. I suppose it’s as good a label as any. For a guy like me without a deadline, or without pressure to pay bills, that’s fine. If it’s fun, it’s fine.

I gave myself a challenge recently. (I wanted to act like a real writer!) I wrote a detailed, chapter-by-chapter outline for an entire book. I have three groups of characters in three different locales that come together in the third act. (With this particular book, I needed to keep track of everyone for my own sake.) I wrote quarter-page bio’s on every character (23 so far) just to keep them straight. I came up with nice believable obstacles for each group to overcome that builds up to a satisfying ending with a cool twist. With my cheat notes handy, I began.

In the middle of chapter six, I realized I’ve wandered off the trail a bit. As I wrote down the prearranged plot, my inspiration struck – again. Now I’m wandering around the woods – beautiful woods mind you, but far from the preplanned path. I must confess…

I like wandering around the woods more. Sure, the path is worn from use because it’s probably the quickest way through the woods, but I don’t have a deadline, and I prefer to wander. I like sitting by the stream for a while. I’ll watch the birds, sit on a rock, and maybe, toss a stone in the water and try to describe the kaplunk sound. I’ll make my way through the woods eventually, and finish, but the journey is mine. My preference for travelling the woods is not for the reader, it’s for me.

To wrap my point up, I like having a map/outline. This way I can go off and explore any path I like, and still have the key to keep from getting too lost. It’s more fun.

Goodnight

2011-03-02T11:55:00.001-05:00

Sleep tight.

The Murdered Genius

2011-03-01T15:23:00.000-05:00

Imagine yourself in writing mode. The ideas are flowing like the mighty Niagara and they're all good. (Really) Say, you decide to check something on Google, something trivial, you know, just to get your facts right. Let's add a brilliant mind somewhere with nothing to do but create an annoying virus designed to sucker you into giving away your credit card information. This individual is probably some kid who could do some good in the world if he/she wanted to.
Of course, I could never fall for such an obvious ruse, but I wasted two hours getting rid of the darn thing. Ya see where I'm going?

Now, imagine some evil computer genius tied to my front bumper as I drive 95 miles-per-hour into a tree; a big tree with beehives. Perhaps this particular variety are pissed off writer-bees with attitude. These are things I think about to release frustration.

I just thought I'd share.

Border's Goes Under

2011-02-16T09:37:00.000-05:00

Border's files for bankruptcy. Evidently, They owe publishers a billion dollars.

There's something I don't understand. For a billion dollars in fees to be owed, shouldn't there have been five times that in sales? The math seems wrong to me. Clearly, I'm not an economist, nor do I understand the finer points of business. I just pick things up and put them down. But I'll wager that the top dogs are living quite comfortably in mansions with fat bank accounts. Does that mean the authors get the pleasure of bending over and taking it? Thankfully, I write to feed my soul, not to feed my children. (Not that my ex would allow me to keep any earnings anyway - think Alan Harper)

Name that Monster

2011-02-14T11:18:00.001-05:00

I have accidentally created a monster, and I need help naming it.

I have a few weeks off which means a few weeks to write. (You can always tell when I’m home. I post and comment a lot more.) I usually start my day off with a pot of coffee and let my creativeness fly. Sometimes, Wifey doesn’t have any coffee which leaves a half-pot left over. The next day, I just pour it in a saucepan, place it on the stove, and heat.

Last Saturday, I reheated the day-old coffee. (I like to do that because the water boils down a bit and makes the coffee that much stronger) Then, while it was boiling away, I checked this blog and discovered a comment on my ‘Meaning of Life’ post that I really wanted to address. I got so wrapped up in responding, I forgot about the coffee. When I finally remembered, it had boiled down to 25% of what it was. Then, because I’m half-retarded, I added chocolate syrup. (U-bet, the only kind there is.) Then, I added my hazelnut flavoring right in the pot, figuring I would need a lot of the fake creamy stuff to make it, well, creamy. While I was at it, I added a few spoons of sugar!

Anyway, to make a long story short (I know, too late), I have created a super-strong coffee/chocolate/fake hazelnut/sweety drink. If the Literary Lab can have a specific drink, so can I. After coming down from my hypoglycemic high, I felt this creation needed a name. What shall I call this monster? Expresso Mocha Nut Sugar-Rush Attack? Approaching Caffeine Coma? I’ll leave it to you fine folks.

...and Happy Valentine's Day

True Story... Really.

2011-02-12T12:44:00.000-05:00

Last fall, I was driving with my 18 year-old son in West Virginia when something small passed me on the side of the road. We decided to follow it. After a few miles, whatever it was, made a sharp turn into a driveway. We stopped short, turned around and followed it in. A man I guessed to be around sixty or so asked me if I was lost. I stammered for a bit, but the man nodded when he realized what I was trying to explain.

“That’s a three legged chicken.”

Naturally, I thought he was crazy. He explained that his three grown sons would all fight over the legs, so he had the chicken’s DNA altered so it would grow three legs. I had to ask him how it tasted.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t caught one yet.”

The Meaning of Life

2011-02-09T07:47:00.000-05:00

Sarita knows the answer but refuses to utter a single word. In her world, a sun basked windowsill for a nap after a tuna lunch is perfect. Sarita is a cat. My personal meaning is being comfortable and worry free. Simple. My goals may be diverse, but the point of it all, for me, is basic. What started me thinking of the big picture was my lack of understanding of other cultures, religions, rampant immoral behavior, or just plain differences.

I was born with a romantic heart and a creative soul. However, I’m deficient because I lack drive and foresight. I have common sense and a good work ethic, but I still find myself putting things off knowing there are consequences. I’m intelligent and half-retarded at the same time. If you smash those traits into one average-looking, middle class male, you wind up with the likes of me. My point, if I ever get to it, is our differences are what make us all beautiful, but our differences can also be confusing. Imagine if everyone preferred the exact same music, or every writer just wrote in your favorite genre. You have just imagined a boring world.

I’m trying hard to understand a recent story of a teenage girl in India flogged to death. The alleged rapist, after she pointed him out, accused the child of adultery. Really. Are people that retarded? Can anyone reading this care to explain Islamic law to me? I am baffled.

So what the hell is the meaning of life? 42? What is our purpose? Would you be happier not knowing, or are you a person of action? My life is half over and the more my eyes are opened, the deeper my disgust runs. I’m sorry. My lack of drive is inspiring me to make a sandwich and take a nap.

Paving Paradise

2011-02-08T11:10:00.000-05:00

Having a few hours to kill waiting for car repairs, my wife and I decided to walk the neighborhood. Being familiar with the area I grew up in, I suggested the nearby Forest Avenue Shopping Center as a good place to browse. As a kid, J.C.Penney was the anchor store in the busy center. I remember two five-and-dime stores doing brisk business next door to each other; Kresge and Sav-On. A couple of shoe stores, a few fashion outlets, take out eats, a hardware/paint store and a supermarket. It was the usual offering at any outside mall – nothing spectacular. Best of all, the piles of snow provided some awesome mountains to play on.

Yesterday, passing by the deserted stores, I recollected some stories and memories to my wife. “This is where I sold candy for my Scout Troop,” or “My mother used to work here.” One of the businesses we found open was a discount-clothing store, coincidentally encompassing both the Kresge and Sav-On stores of the past. After thirty seconds inside, we realized it was more of an inside flea market. (I’m sure there was no extra charge for the fleas.) Three staffers laughing in another language ignored us as we scanned the area and did an about face. Sad. There were perhaps five operating stores out of twenty. Even the pizzeria that I worked in during my teenage years is now an empty lot awaiting construction, and has been for two years. What the hell happened? Glad you asked.

Well, Kresge was slowly replaced by its sister chain, K-Mart - both subsidiaries of Sears Holding Corporation, and moved their stores to the South Shore and the Staten Island Mall. Sav-On was gobbled up by CVS, which in turn opened up thirty-four million stores in New York City alone, including just outside the shopping center (which used to be part of the parking lot) and the aforementioned mall. J.C. Penney moved to the Mall. I think the picture is getting clear. Oh, the hardware store became a victim of the Home Depot Onslaught, but that’s another post (that I’m not going to write.)

I’m not lamenting progress. I understand the need to replace a beautiful home with twenty-four townhouses with no added parking spaces. Staten Island is notorious for cramming every bit of empty space with poorly constructed firetraps. (It’s only a matter of time until the construction and political alliances erase our greenbelt entirely with the long-proposed highway. The irony of the situation is that now, with all the shoddy building, we need the stupid highway. ) Development is crucial to an expanding population, but what about all those empty stores? What’s wrong with a nice little park to replace an empty shopping center? Oh yeah, there’s no money in that.

In the meantime, eight snowstorms in as many weeks mad the snow mountains spectacular!

Eva Ayllon

2011-01-23T13:38:00.000-05:00

A few years back when my then wife-to-be was playing me samples of music from her native Peru, only one artist stood out for me. Eva Ayllon is described in Wikipedia as one of Peru's foremost Afro-Peruvian musicians. To celebrate our engagement, I took her to Carnegie Hall and was blown away. Every song had that feel; perfect rhythm, great sound and I didn't understand a word!

Our resolution this year includes a weekly date night. Tonight we're trying a new Peruvian restaurant and seeing Eva in New Jersey.

Good Morning World

2011-01-18T04:57:00.000-05:00

I've been writing all night and I felt the urge to briefly share something with you guys. I recently received a critique of my full manuscript from a writer whose opinion I value and respect. It was the best possible present I could have received at the perfect time. I’ve already started rewrites based on her feedback with enthusiasm. I’m amazed how an idea forms from something unrelated. Wherever the source of my creative breakthroughs, I try to roll with them when I can. Today, I have a snow day, peace and quiet, and a pot of coffee ready to assist me. The only problem I’m having is deciding which book to work on. The idea’s are flowing baby!

Thank you Michelle. Any writer to have you as a reader is very fortunate.

A Heartwarming Christmas Story

2010-12-18T14:48:00.000-05:00

He surpassed the warm and fuzzy effect of a nice drunk hours ago. His attempt of drowning the guilt with an enormous amount of alcohol made him sick. The direction in which the room was spinning was undecipherable. He positioned himself on the kitchen floor trying to get a better view through the sliding glass doors of something imaginable. The fear was crushing and making it difficult to breathe. The storm caused the overgrown branches to smack the doors in a furious attempt for his attention. He could not tell the shadows of the trees outside from the demons circling the house waiting for him to pass on.

When he saw it, it startled him. It was simply standing there with its forehead resting on the glass. His watery eyes prevented its full form to register. All he could make out was a tall, blue and spindly figure with yellowish eyes. He could not determine if his conscience fueled the vision, or if Hell truly awaited him.

Then it was time. The demon passed through the glass without breaking it. It grabbed somewhere within his chest and lifted. With its other hand, it ripped his skin from his body in one swift motion leaving it to splatter on the kitchen floor next to the dried pool of blood that had spilled from his ex-wife. It dragged him so fast that his mutilated body never touched the ground.

I trust your holiday season will be better.

My Thanksgiving Mini-Rant

2010-11-22T03:47:00.001-05:00

My Things-to-be-thankful-for List: I have two healthy and wonderful kids that are turning out to be honest, drug-free - and they love their Dad. My wife is as loving and supportive as any man could ask for - and she looks great in a mini-skirt. I’m employed. I have some cool friends, both virtual and real life. (I love that reference, ‘real-life’)I have an inexpensive and creative outlet to keep my worried mind busy… And, well, that’s about it.

As tempting as it is to list the situations that are sucking the life-force out of me, I will not. I would love to expose the dishonest heartless bastards that are attacking me, that are causing me many sleepless nights (hence, my 3:30am post) and turning my insides out (quite literally – sorry for the visual), I will not. No one wants to read that crap anyway. The only light in my life is that one day; I will have satisfaction of knowing that I was stronger than any of my callous attackers. (If there weren’t ladies reading, this post would be worded entirely different.)

Here is a wish for all who are reading this to have a magnificent Thanksgiving week, regardless of which country you call home.

The Journey

2010-11-19T12:17:00.000-05:00

Often, I find myself commenting about my devotion to mastering the craft of writing that I now love. I figured I’d turn my thoughts into a post.

I recently asked a young songwriter I know if he would still pursue music if he knew that a record contract would never come. He said no. His only goal was fortune and girls. I suppose that’s okay (for him)but I must disagree.

For me, it is the journey I love. It’s the actual discovery that inspires me. Transferring my emotions successfully into a somewhat entertaining story does it for me. Your tips and tricks may be second nature to seasoned writers, but they serve as magic door-openers for me. Can you remember being excited when you first put a dual narrative into use? A recent example: I read a suggestion on structure technique from Scott at The Literary Lab (One of these days, I’ll learn how to do a link properly – a thousand apologies) that solved a problem I had – and he called it Friday Filler! Am I making sense? Maybe I’m just in one of my super-appreciative moods again.

Being published appears to be paramount to all of the writing bloggers I’ve read. That makes sense. I would certainly include myself among that group. I would’ve liked for my mother, who was an avid reader, to stroll into B&N and see my novel peeking out from the new releases, but for me, I will have to do a lot more work before that dream materializes. But that’s fine; I know where I stand. As I read your books and blogs, I realize my pursuit will be lifelong. I’m discovering new ways of doing things all the time, from you guys. Awesome! I’m aware that the brass ring to aspiring writers is out of my reach for now. I will be published, or maybe not. But I hope the ride never ends.

Proper Research

2010-11-06T12:15:00.000-04:00

I’ve only been to Maine once. It was an overnight stay in Portland en route to wherever the road led us. When we arrived late in the evening, the city was pretty much asleep. Early next morning, we headed for the White Mountains of New Hampshire. For some unexplainable reason, the state of Maine has always fascinated me, even though I didn’t see much of it except through car windows and a lunch stop. After looking for a setting for my next story that required deep snow with an isolated cabin, I chose northern Maine.

I had imagined deep snow and evergreens carpeting the mountains. I Googled images to be certain I was getting it right. I needed a military installation nearby and as luck would have it, there is one. (Google confirmed, naturally.) I researched the geological properties, confirmed the existence of caverns (and discovered the word spelunking), examined the average snow-depth (and hoped my imagination didn’t exceed reality too much), which forms of wildlife are common, and numerous other factoids, all achieved with the internet.

In fiction, where the imagination rules, (and assuming the writer wants their facts correct,) Is Google and Wiki (and the like) enough? Encyclopedias of the past were trusted to present pure truth with little, if any, commentary. How accurate can today’s internet sites be if they are so easily corruptible? I read in a science magazine that the definition of “Evolution” is changed often, as much as several times a day, as the believers and non-believers contribute their interpretations. If the religious battle is tainting Wiki, why couldn’t political ones seep in? Should an artistic opinion define a piece of art? Where does it end? Am I just being paranoid? Must I really isolate myself for the winter in the tundra of Northern Maine for an honest portrayal of the area? Possibly, if I want to do it justice.

Absolute Power

2010-10-30T23:41:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I see my family, friends, co-workers and assorted strangers as possible models for characters. I mostly come across average working-class folks. There are no evil genetic scientists, private investigators, master criminals (that I’m aware of), time-travelers or even cops in my circle of acquaintances. My current WIP has government baddies, a television reporter trying to make a name for herself, computer geeks and a career marine that faked his own death to hide from the aforementioned government baddies. I have no one in my life to base my creations on. (Although, sometimes my cats look at me and I swear they are planning things together. Clearly, if I ever pass out, they’ll start eating me.)

A character that out lived his usefulness had me stumped. For several weeks, I was contemplating how to exit him in a believable way. He was a minor love interest to another major character and I considered having him return late in the story, but my eventual solution was more satisfying. I had him thrown from a helicopter. I had one army-type decapitated, one was poisoned, one was shot through the neck by a sniper and a bear ate one. They’re mine to do with as I please. -- Am I an evil God?

One of the reasons I have been blog-absent was due to my musical endeavors. A song-writing partner of mine has decided to record SIX of our songs for his next two CD’s. Another amazing singer from my past reconnected and asked for some songs for her next CD. When it rains, it pours. I’ll keep you posted.

Happy Halloween!

Stupid Cancer

2010-04-18T15:06:00.001-04:00

Margaret Anna Harrigan was born in Manhattan on January 4, 1931. She was a city girl through and through. There's little to share about her formative years, mainly because my memory is shot. I do recall her telling me that she worked at a record company, and her memories of seeing Harry Belafonte performing in a small bar before he was famous. In 1958, she married an ironworker from Brooklyn named George Rice. I popped out four years later. She took her last breath on Saturday morning, April 10, 2010 with my wife holding her hand.
She was strong during her entire sickness except for the last month or so. Between my two brothers and I, she was rarely alone. She lived to see five adorable grandchildren. A few weeks ago, I asked her if she wanted anything. She smiled and said no. She told me her life was a long and good one. Her three boys all turned out well. (I guess that meant that none of us were ever arrested!) She wanted nothing. Even after doctors neglected to diagnosis her until after it was too late, she never complained.
It reminded me of a lesson I had learned long ago. Don't sweat the small stuff – and it's all small stuff. BS is just that, BS.

Feast or Famine

2010-03-30T10:57:00.001-04:00

The pattern in my little corner of the world has always been excessive bounty followed by drought. Whether it's pertaining to my writing, my finances or my mood, it's usually at one extreme or the other. Either it is an overflowing glass or it's bone dry - they'll be no half-empty/full choices here.

Fifteen months of intermittent unemployment came to an abrupt and joyous halt last month. Cool. I'm tossing my entire second WIP after an epiphany that it sucked. Actually, my (still) awesome idea has taken on a new direction. Cool again, realizing that emptying perfectly good ink cartridges on early drafts of drivel is a waste of precious funds.

Although I've had no time to contribute anything worthwhile, I have been reading your blogs. The nor'easter that is slamming NYC has given me a relaxing day off to dive into stuff I have been meaning to start. I'll keep ya posted.

And thanks to all who have given their opinions and comments on my first attempts at short stories. They are greatly appreciated!

Story: The Letter

2010-01-13T10:59:00.001-05:00

This story was actually my first one. It's a little sappy, but hey, love is sappy sometimes. There are a few things wrong with it but, like the mysterious Amazing Serene has advised, I'm just putting it out there. I can see the incomplete sentences and the passive voice glaring at me now that there is no pressure. I left it uncorrected. The word count is just above 1000.

The Letter

I remember sitting in the car for twenty minutes contemplating whether or not to pay my respects. I was angry at her for hurting me and felt hypocritical pretending to be sad, but I eventually gave in. I knew I had to see her one last time.
Entering the funeral home gave me a new perspective on what kind of person she was. She was a popular girl and well liked in the office, even if I wasn't included in her circle of friends. I spent an hour hiding in the back mixing with the other mourners not knowing exactly what to say. I had no idea what a mother that just lost her daughter of twenty-five would want to hear. I eventually found my way on line.
Embracing her mother and saying a few commiserating words was the easy part. Just being there was of some comfort to her. What surprised me was how difficult it was to see Alicia. She looked beautiful in her casket. There was no indication of the illness that claimed her. I didn't even know she was sick until someone at work told us that she died. We were all shocked.
The montage of photographs adjacent to her coffin told many stories of happier days. There was one in particular taken of us while we were on a weekend away together. The memories instantly transported me back and it awakened the pain I hoped I'd left behind.
It was a year earlier when Alicia put the announcement up for a white water rafting trip to West Virginia. She was only in the office a week and was already arranging social gatherings. It was the first of many such weekends. She was always living in the moment.
Ten of us braved the class-VI rapids of New River that weekend. As it worked out, we were all coupled up. On the first evening we lit a fire on the riverbank. After a few beers, we all took turns relaying our dreams and confessing our secrets. When it was my turn, I admitted that I couldn't swim. After a round of laughter and the inevitable jokes, Alicia led me to the river and held my hand until the water was neck deep. She sensed my nervousness and didn't push me to go further until I was ready. I thought it was a very kind gesture. Being accepted by one of the cool girls wasn't something I was used to.
We spent several wonderful minutes discussing whatever came to mind until I forgot that I was actually in the middle of the river. It was as if she read my mind when she surprised me with a gentle and passionate kiss. She whispered that I should follow her to the other side and I impulsively swam after her. She was with me the entire way. An hour later, we returned to the camp fire and dried off. I came home from that weekend exhilarated and in love.
Alicia and I did all sorts of wild things on our dates. Sure, we had plenty of quiet and romantic evenings, but she wanted to experience too many things to limit ourselves to basic activities like going to the movies or the occasional amusement park. We drove to New Jersey for a hot-air balloon ride, spent weekends in Niagara Falls and Las Vegas, and climbed the knife-edge trail up Mount Katahdin in Maine. We were terrified balancing ourselves on the cliff with a thousand foot vertical drop. She even convinced me that jumping out of an airplane would be fun. To this day I still laugh at the photos of us falling. The blood-curdling screams had slowly transformed into euphoria - and the camera caught it all! There seemed to be no limits to her wish list. We were planning two weeks of scuba diving at the Great Barrier Reef in Australia when she abruptly ended the relationship.

Friday nights was when we would all meet after work. It was another weekly get-together that Alicia organized. We played pool, ate a few burgers and usually got a little intoxicated before we'd see each other safely to the train. After the break-up, it wasn't as fun. I felt like an outcast again pretending to laugh with everyone else. Alicia and I played it cool because of our work relationship, but our friendship suffered. She organized another long weekend to the Grand Canyon but I skipped it. I avoided going out with the office altogether and kept to myself.
It was during the Christmas party when she finally spoke to me. She was friendly and we spoke politely most of the night. We both did a good job at avoiding the obvious: I pretended to be over her, and she pretended not to catch on. I still couldn't understand why she pushed me away. I was too wrapped up in self-pity to realize that she was trying to say goodbye.
Entering the funeral parlor that night changed the way I approach life. Seeing the photographs of some of Alicia's experiences reminded me how I should live. She taught me the most important lesson a man could ever learn. I plan to attack life and not be afraid. I know too many bitter middle-aged people with regrets and I will not become one of them. I intend to look back on my life with a sense of pride knowing I've lived it to the fullest. I'm thankful to have simply known her. I'm finally going to the Great Barrier Reef like we had originally planned and her spirit will be with me. I will always love Alicia for teaching me how to swim and how to live. I miss her.
Just before she died, I received a letter from Alicia. At the time, I was still angry with her and tossed it aside unopened. I discovered it again while I was packing for Australia and it gave me pause. I assume it said something along the lines of how much she loved me and didn't want to hurt me further knowing that she was dying, but I'm still afraid to open it. It would crush me if it said anything else.

Story: Infestation

2010-01-11T09:12:00.002-05:00

Being that the demand for me to post my stories was intense (okay, there were two of you), I hereby offer up the first of two. These are my first attempts at a short story. Admittedly, this one reminds me a little of Rod Serling. Perhaps the morality was laid on a little too thick. It's about 1500 words.

Infestation

With her eyes still closed, it took a moment for Jennifer to identify the low-frequency hum normally associated with the engines of a spacecraft. The soothing vibration was the only sound interrupting the absolute silence of deep space. She gradually opened them to reveal a dimly lit room she vaguely recognized as the medical chamber on the shuttle. She sat up slowly and rubbed her neck. She surveyed the area and saw dozens of tiny green and amber lights displaying a variety of miscellaneous readings. They were strikingly beautiful dotting the near darkness. She sat on the edge of her padded bench for several minutes stretching before finally removing the apparatus from her wrist that had maintained her safely in hibernation. She placed her feet on the floor, triggering the sensors, and the illumination gradually increased.

She ignored the soreness in her leg muscles and stepped over to check on her fellow travelers. Her basic understanding of how the hibernation units operated was just enough to deem them safely asleep. The readings appeared calm enough; with their body temperatures far below consciousness levels and the occasional heartbeat registering, it made her wonder why she was the first to wake up. Colette, the ship's doctor, had everyone learn the procedures for waking everyone up in an emergency, but no such emergency existed. It was nice and quiet.

Jennifer put her robe on and walked up the half flight of stairs to the cockpit and sat at the console with a forward view and raised the temperature a few degrees. The sea of stars before her was breathtaking. It was too early to observe the planet that would eventually be their new home but she was pleasantly surprised to see a recent supernova just to her left. The pink and blue luminosity filled the tiny cabin. She sipped modified juice from a straw and spent an hour listening to Mozart.

When the World Commission considered candidates for the shuttle crew, they chose scientists who were leaders in their field. With room for only a handful of astronauts, this first envoy of humans would need to be the best and the brightest. As ambassadors to the new planet, it was crucial to make a favorable impact on the peaceful hosts. Dr. Jennifer Brown's expertise as a marine biologist would prove indispensable considering their destination is a planet known to harbor intelligent marine life. The remainder of the crew each had their specialty.

Dr. Brown spent five months in close quarters with her fellow astronauts during training and never had much time for herself. Once everyone was awake, there would not be any privacy for the better part of a year. Taking advantage of the solitude, she decided to treat herself to some pampering. Jennifer discovered that showering in the partial gravity provided by the shuttle was about as relaxing as anything she's ever done, and the continual recycling of water allowed for a lengthy experience. The dozen high-powered jets shot hot water and mist all over her neck and back. The pulsating massage was exactly what was needed after such a long hibernation. She allowed the view from outside the craft to enter, fully confidant that no one could possibly see her nakedness.

She sat on the bench in the shower and admired the supernova she spotted earlier. Judging by the distance and size, she guessed it was only a few years old. She realized that everyone back on Earth would now be eighty-five years older. Her brother had just gotten married when they launched; now their grand children probably have children. Her cheating ex-husband was rotting in the ground somewhere. She felt no sadness as she stood and rinsed off the remaining soap, putting all of it behind her.

Jennifer dressed in the standard blue and gray uniform and fixed a sandwich. The food choices were limited on the shuttle so sliced chicken and lettuce sufficed. Thankfully, the choices of teas were extensive. She returned to the main cabin with her snack, pausing only to check on her crew. The only sound from the craft was the gentle vibration of the engines, which Jennifer found comforting. She was alone but she was at peace.

She considered the mission ahead of her. They'll be in orbit within the week. They'll spend another month observing and choosing a locale away from the native inhabitants. Two months of digging and insulating the caverns, another month constructing the domed enclosure and the habitat will be ready. Once their bodies go through a period of gradual bio-adjustment, the native plant like will be safe for consumption. Shuttles were scheduled to arrive every two months as the facilities expand. Eventually, they'll be thousands of humans populating the planet.

With the nuclear devastation and the waste-filled oceans she left behind, Jennifer considered this second chance at life a blessing. The World Commission sought a suitable planet for decades. The writing was on the wall. The religious and criminal gangs that were running the cities were executing people at whim. Earth was quickly becoming a brutal and complete anarchy. Even the farms that managed to survive the fallout were controlled by the privileged. Jennifer knew she won the lottery by becoming part of this mission.

She searched the stars and wondered how close she was to her destination. She surveyed the holographic representation of the area but the charts weren't right. The stars were in different positions. She checked the date and heading to confirm the shuttle was exactly when and where it was supposed to be and discovered that she was on course but the date was way off. She calmly recalculated and confirmed her position. She woke up four years too early! She repeated the procedure several times and got the same result. She closed her eyes and searched her mind for possible explanations. She tried to remember the formula from her astrophysics training assuming that the pulse from the supernova contributed unforeseen variables into the mix. She determined the distance to the supernova to be seventy two light years away. Although relatively close, the solar waves from the supernova were seventy two years old and dissipating enough that they weren't much of a factor. It was becoming clear that the supernova's interference was negligible at best to a craft exceeding light-speed. Something else caused her to wake too soon.

She remained calm and carefully weighed her options. Her first thought was to wake Colette. As ship's doctor, she could safely put them back into hibernation. Collette knew the nuances of formatting the units. Jennifer didn't. The question of why her unit malfunctioned still wasn't addressed. It was pure luck that she woke up instead of someone else.

She also considered staying awake to see if anyone else woke up. Four years is an eternity to be alone in a cramped shuttle, but it was still possible. She allowed a little paranoia to enter her thoughts and wondered what Dr. Logic would do. Robert Finn was a horticulturist and essential because the new planet had massive forests, but he had no useful purpose until they disembarked. He was too serious for Jennifer's taste. She nicknamed him Dr. Logic. He hated it, so the nickname stuck.

She scrutinized the timetable of the mission and estimated the food supply. If she ate judiciously, she could stretch the supply to four years, if she put her mind to it - If she was alone. There were seven other mouths to feed. If no one else woke up then the food problem would be solved.

Although she wasn't hungry, she grabbed another chicken sandwich and continued her internal deliberation. Jennifer considered it a blessing that it was her faced with the dilemma and not one of her selfish colleagues. Justifying her survival over the others was easy enough. She was the biologist. She was the only one who understood the theory of bio-adjustment and could implement the procedure properly. She was the only crew member that had a real chance of survival once the planet was reached. It was imperative that humankind continued.

She relaxed in the Captain's chair and stretched, putting her feet on the console. She chose another Mozart symphony to interrupt the deafening silence and reached for her tea. She was comfortable and alone. Gazing out into the vastness of space made her feel insignificant and humbled. She was a mere microbe in an infinite ocean. On the other hand, she felt extreme pride knowing that her shuttle was travelling many times faster than anything that even God himself could create.

Dr. Jennifer Brown entered the medical chamber and studied her sleeping crew mates. She fondly remembered her experiences with each of them. The ship's doctor, Colette Broussard, had recommended Jennifer to the World Commission. Cruz, the botanist, had such a serious demeanor that no one suspected that he was the mastermind behind all the pranks back on base. She never got to know the young mathematician Kalali very well. The Hawaiian beauty had the silliest laugh when she heard a joke – any joke, good or bad. Placing a hand on the glass, she terminated her. Jennifer terminated all of them, one by one. The last one to succumb was the horticulturist, Dr. Finn. She felt a tinge of sadness because he, as much as anyone, was relieved to leave the barbarism of Earth behind. As she turned off his hibernation unit, she was comforted knowing that he would surely agree that this was the most logical choice to make.

Ideas as Property

2010-01-09T21:16:00.001-05:00

If I suddenly found the inspiration to write about hidden codes and messages in DaVinci paintings and postulated a connection to a church cover up, would it be legal? I'd be an idiot to attempt it, but would I be within my rights? For the sake of argument, let's say The Magdalene Connection sold 2,500,000 copies. Would Dan Brown be entitled to a fee? How about something not as obvious, say a futuristic space-opera type of thing with various species of aliens that's reminiscent of Star Trek? I could also jump on the vampire train and include killer kittens. (Clearly, if I fell asleep deeply enough, Sarita and Myca would start nibbling.) Why am I asking all these stupid questions?

I saw Avatar recently. I liked it, a lot, but I couldn't help but wonder how much James Cameron borrowed from Roger Dean. (Mr. Dean did all those amazing Yes covers, including the floating islands.) The movie is all visual. The story is good too but the wow factor is the unique landscape and, well, the Avatars. I'm sure almost every story (and musical phrase) can be found elsewhere, at least to some extent, but to me, Mr. Cameron's encroachment was blatant.

My current WIP is a Man vs. Man/Nature thriller. Naturally, there are tens of thousands of those but my ideas, especially the hook, is unique (I hope). Does anyone ever wonder if their "amazing idea" has been done to death already?

In other news, as promised, I'll be posting my two short stories that I had submitted to the Genre Wars contest this weekend. Opinions are greatly appreciated. Be honest, brutal and don't forget to point out if you think that my ideas were borrowed!

Enter the Light

2010-01-04T11:37:00.001-05:00

For me and for many others, a new year presents an opportunity to set goals, make changes or fix what's broken. I skipped The Vile month of December post because no one wants to deal with whiners. Holidays only amplify what's wrong with a life. So, as I put the previous year to rest, I'm also cleansing the dust (re: bullshit) from my life. At first I thought I needed a little light or better luck, now I've decided that I will illuminate my own life with change and better fortune. It wasn't an epiphany or any major breakthrough, it was just me taking responsibility. Who needs luck when one is in control?

I'm also hard at work on my second book. The cold weather brings out the creative best in me. It helps that my story unfolds during a brutal Maine Winter.

Vile Month of November

2009-11-30T18:49:00.001-05:00

I have little to report other than I have returned from my exile of all things internet. I would have loved to share that I had written while I was unplugged, but I didn't. An entire month yielded maybe 2000 words. I even failed in my endeavor to cross the River Sanzu. Yep, you read it right.

Unplugged + Storm Clouds

2009-10-27T15:26:00.001-04:00

I have a deadline and I don't know exactly when it is. My cable company has the audacity to expect payment for the wonderful service they provide. They suggest I try a period of being unplugged. Can you just imagine? If I suddenly disappear from your respective radar's for a while, you'll know why.

Naturally, being without an internet connection means there's more time to write (You guys know how I look for silver linings), but it also means there's a deadline looming to submit to the short story contest (among other pressing matters).

During my period of economic devastation, I've imagined how it must be for authors (and others) who really are starving. I was never the type to take things for granted and I've never lived beyond my means. Not really. Life just happens. Feeling the sting of poverty will make my future successes that much sweeter. One adores the sunshine more so after a long period of rain.

If this is of any help, banks holding mortgages will temporarily reduce your payment by 50% during periods of hardships. (IMPORTANT: There is a formula they use. I think your income must cover all your other expenses. In my situation, it did.) You'll need to make a balloon payment when the time's up, but it beats foreclosure.

In other exciting earth shattering news… That's about it. TTFN

Your new Commander-in-Chief

2009-10-15T14:16:00.001-04:00

Spending the last ninety days in the slammer for overturning an ice-cream truck has allowed me plenty of time to think about my future. Whilst tossing salad, the hole before me triggered another brilliant idea – an epiphany if you will. Realizing that anyone with even modest leadership skills could run just about any corporation, and understand that any ruling committee, or government, would benefit from a creative ruler, and suspecting that a dose of insanity is required to accept such a position, I have some great news for you. I would like your collective support when I announce my candidacy for the Presidency of the United States.

Actually, I had little to blog about and I know you all missed me.

The unemployment I'm experience means more time to write. (Rejoice) When the cool folks at The Literary Lab announced their short story contest, I wanted to submit something, but longer form stories are more my thing. Condensing an idea to fewer than 2000 words is a discipline I've never had before. I started with an idea about an insane man that becomes President and does a great job, but it came in at 3500 words, and instead of the comic/horror/social commentary feel I was trying for, it wound up boring as hell. (To those experiencing the burning fires of the netherworld, I'm not implying that you're bored in any way – no offence meant.) I still wanted to try so I kept at it and came up with two awesome ideas.

Yes, the execution of the idea is what being a good writer is all about, I get that, but the idea itself (for me) is crucial. A talented writer could enthrall you describing his or her morning routine (or a description of a house), but I cannot. I need to feel passion for something to write effectively. Do you agree? I wish I could describe, say, the colorful leaves reflecting on a still lake and sustain it for 5000 words, but I'm not at that level yet. I should be able to entertain you no matter what the premise, but for now, I need the good idea to propel me.

So I managed to come up with a couple of ideas and lifelike characters which is making writing easy again. (And fun - J). The premise about the crazy Commander-in-Chief is admittedly lame. (I think it's been done before anyway. I'm sure there's a biography or two you could pick up. – ha ha) One story is done and the other is outlined. (Yes, outlined) I don't expect to win or even be seriously compared to the accomplished short-story writers that'll be submitting, but I'm having a blast doing them! I'll post them after the contest.

Oh, it's raining today in New York City. I absolutely love the rain.

The Mighty Atlantic

2009-08-28T21:45:00.001-04:00

The first thing I noticed was that the ocean turned a beautiful shade of dark blue a few miles out. The Captain called the seas moderate. I called it exciting. My cabin was in the front of the ship (aft) so I was far from the pivot point of the middle. What that means is the six to twelve swells created a nice crest which brought the ship up, then crashed down when it hit the low point between the waves. I'm too lazy to Google what it's called. I loved it.

Entering the bay at St. Georges, Bermuda is a tight squeeze. There's only twenty feet on either side of the cruise ship. The Norwegian Majesty is considered only mid-size but the larger ships cannot navigate the entrance of the bay so I guess that made us lucky, or so the propaganda said.

A ninety minute stroll through St. Georges left me with an impression or two. First, it's hot. It was stupid of me to think August would be comfortable. Second, it's really a boring place. The waters are bright green and the topography of the area is equally gorgeous (the homes are painted white or a pastel version of whatever color you decide; someone said it was by law), but there's zip to do. Yeah, it's true, the sand on the beaches are actually a pale shade of pink like they advertise, but that was something I'm testifying to from a visit fifteen years earlier. There was no time for such excursions this week. Prices are triple what you would pay for the basic groceries. I forgot to check the gas prices. (Some reporter I turned out to be.) And the people are friendly.

The best part of the week was the cruise itself. It might sound a bit mundane, but gazing out over the horizon humbles a person. (Now there's a whole bunch of water!) I found a quiet corner in one of the lounges, hummed the theme to Titanic, and edited my manuscript - again. I made a lot of progress. …and to think I almost didn't go.

Bottom Line Time: I love cruises. We are already planning TWO for next year. Wouldn't it be wonderful if a group of us went together?

Action

2009-08-21T12:13:00.001-04:00

I'm 46 years old. I'd like to think I'm not yet half-way through 'the big test' as I've learned to call it. If I were to list all the major decisions I've made throughout my life, 90% of them have been wrong. That statement is not meant to be dramatic, nor is it an exaggeration to make a point. It's the sad truth. A few years back I realized that no one was to blame for my poor judgment except me. My fault.
If your life is exactly where you want it to be, or you know what you want and you're on track, especially if you're young, then God bless you. There's little I can offer you here, except maybe to caution you not to base your decisions on pleasing others.
It appears we all share a dream of writing for a living. A few are succeeding and most are striving. Do what you gotta do. We're all intelligent enough to figure out what it is about us that is preventing the dream from happening. Fix it and get it done. If you choose to pretend that you're happy (if you're not), then someday you'll be posting something dark like I have today.
In spite of what I've admitted here, I'm actually a happy person making due with the cards I've been dealt. It's the occasional moments of reflection (putting it nicely) that remind me of who I am and where I'm headed. As the fog lifts, as it always does, I refocus my energy into achieving what I want. Well, I try my best anyway. The major advantage is that I am aware. I'm optimistic.
Have a good weekend. J

Are You Comfortable?

2009-08-14T12:32:00.001-04:00

For the third day in a row, I have this migraine that won't stop. These headaches started about six years ago. I've been to two different doctors and they concur; there's nothing wrong, I simply have a headache. (I keep hearing the Governator in my head "It is not a toomah") If that isn't the problem, I notice my twenty-year-old chair is very uncomfortable and it makes my back hurt. Sometimes my kittens crawl up my leg by digging their nails into my leg like a mountaineer ascending a glacier. I now wear long pants.

Keep in mind that I hate complaining and complainers especially. I'm not doing that. I realize I need to be comfortable to create. I want to take advantage of my time off to write. I have the house to myself most of the day so it's peaceful; I have a pot of coffee all ready; I feed the animals so they don't bother me; and I turn off my house phone. Naturally there's an idiot outside beeping her horn because she's too damn lazy to get her fat butt out of the car to ring the bell, but I say nothing. I wait. I write a scene where a character shoots out the tires of the offending horn blower even though it has nothing to do with my book. I smile.

So obviously being comfortable is important. The air-conditioner is on. The coffee came out perfect today. I have two sleeping kittens purring away on the chair next to me, and my ancient dog is dreaming under the end table. -- I realize that my headache is gone! I rejoice. It's time to write a short story about an overturned ice-cream truck.

If You Dare

2009-07-22T13:59:00.002-04:00

How many times can you read your own story before you get burned out on it?

Is critiquing a problem for you?

I know my characters and the incidents that shape them to the extent that I could tell you everything about them and their story from memory. The main premise and all the subplots are as fixed in its own universe and is as real to me as, well, reality. As I've posted before, I know everything they're thinking although sometimes I neglect to tell you, the reader. Obviously, fresh eyes can spot things mine can't.

I tried joining a critique group during the winter but time constraints, and frankly, being out of my league, prevented equal participation. Critiquing is also very difficult for me, and I'm aware it is something I need to grow out of if I'm ever going to get anywhere. Not wanting to hurt someone's feelings is a childish excuse for not pointing out flaws, if any, in an author's work. But more importantly, I don't know enough about the craft of writing to be of any use yet. Let's be honest. At this point, I really don't understand why I may not like something or how to express it. I should, especially if I intend to write stories. (Sincere apologies to Michelle.) I'm not selfish, I'm ignorant dammit!

I've created another blog where I'm posting chapters from my book for your consideration. I'm very curious what you all think of it. I understand that no one really has time to spare, but if you're in a teaching / critiquing mood, or you're just plain curious about what kind of crap I write, It can be found here - http://curiousstory.blogspot.com - I'm going to set it as a private blog soon for obvious reasons, but I'm keeping it public for a week or two so you can check it out privately without any pressure to comment. Thanks.

Please note - The other blog is now private. Drop me an e-mail for an invite. Understand that this is a process and the process continues... (how dramatic) I woke up at 3:00 am and discovered a better begining for the book. Kiss the Prologue good-bye! lol

Peace and Quiet

2009-07-19T11:42:00.001-04:00

It's Sunday morning and the weather is beautiful. My kittens are purring away in the corner inside this little kitty condo with stapled on carpet. My ancient dog is sleeping in the corner. He's probably dreaming of days long gone. (or Fee-Fee) My wife is working on her Real Estate deals and the coffee pot is half full.

It's the perfect moment to write.

Oh yeah, I have to put a fence up in the yard that's been waiting for me for two days. <sigh>

It is alive!

2009-07-12T09:25:00.001-04:00

I'm sure you've read the news. The shocking headlines plastered over the internet were hard to avoid. Everyone seemed to be yammering about it on the radio, but I'd like to set the record straight. Contrary to the rumors that I've been detained in the Peruvian jungle by a wild pack of Incan-Amazonian women, it is simply not true. However, my life this month has been busy and exciting. (It'll be quite boring for you.)

Julia and I decided to go for a walk early one morning to pick up a dozen eggs and came home with two itty-bitty kittens. She named them Sarita and Mica. Mica is, at this very moment, sitting on my foot, purring away.

My thirteen year-old stepson is visiting from Massachusetts for a couple of weeks. I've been forced to watch fifty or so episodes of South Park. I now know what a Curic measures.

I've read 200+ blog posts but only commented on maybe 5. (Sorry) I voted for Rebecca on that Twitter thing about 75 times.

I won 125,000 chips on a single hand of Texas Hold 'em. (Aces full) I won 5^th prize in the New York Mega-Millions Lottery. ($7.oo)

I went from working 80 hours a week to zero (which is common in my business) allowing me to write about 40,000 words on my WIP.

Exciting stuff, isn't it? But every thing that happens, no matter how mundane, seems to have a silver lining if you look for it. I'm loving life. (…and the kitty drool between my toes)

Good News and Bad Puns

2009-06-05T15:57:00.001-04:00

Just a couple of tidbits to offer…

I've seen a few lists of genre classifications in fiction before but the recent post over at the Literary Lab is clear and comprehensive. I saved it for future use. Thanks guys. I'd include a link but I haven't figured out basic computer skills yet. Embarrassing. Besides, most of you already follow them.

The 'V' key on my computer is starting to stick. It's really annoying.

My mother started chemo a couple months ago. The news was original dire but her recovery has been "remarkable." (Doc's word) There was something that measured 10 centimeters in her liver (I'm not sure how big that is - docs think the metric system makes 'em sound intelligent. For you non-Brits, if you hold your fingers apart about this much, that's ten centimeters.) which has been turned into dust. That's good news.

I met author Lisa Unger yesterday. Nice lady, cool chick and great writer. Her new novel Die for You is on bookstands now.

I'm the newly proud owner of an 18 year old dog. Her name is Cindy and she pisses everywhere. For some strange reason I don't mind that; probably because of her extreme age. She now has geezer rights. I love her.

My humblest apologies for my Carrot Terrace pun. (say it aloud) I'm surprised no one picked up on it. I expected at least a couple of moans. I will try my best not to subject you guys to those anymore! lol

Have a great weekend everyone!

Carrot Terrace

2009-05-30T15:49:00.001-04:00

In her blog yesterday, Anita asked if your main character's personality was close to your own. My response was just as straightforward: Most of my characters are similar to me in any number of ways. They're all variants of me in some form. I write what I know. Anita's question reminded me of something that I've been asking myself for some time. What if your main character is totally different than you or anyone you know?

All characters require realism and depth if you want your readers to care, that much is obvious. You add layers to their personality and give them authentic reasons to react a certain way. If you're writing about an average, every-day person given extraordinary circumstances to deal with, you can easily imagine how they might respond. But what if your main character if a cannibal?

How do you get into the mind of a killer? If you're not a cop, how do you write about a detective hot on her trail? Or if you're a psychopathic murderer, how do you write convincingly about a passive history teacher considering an encounter with a provocative student? Research can answer many of the technical questions (I interviewed a detective friend I know about security procedures surrounding 9-11, for instance) but understanding the reasoning of why a hateful homophobe might bully someone escapes me.

In the movie As Good as it Gets, when asked how he wrote women so well, Jack Nicholson character, a writer, responded: "I think of a man, and I take away reason and accountability."

How do you do it?

Anita's blog: http://anitalaydonmiller.blogspot.com/2009/05/you-and-your-characters.html

Creativity and Structure

2009-05-20T17:27:00.001-04:00

Recently I got a dressing down of sorts from a blogger defending his method of writing. To be fair, his reply wasn't directed at me personally, as he did indeed state, but it turned into a rant about those that imply that outlining a story kills creativity - which is something I did not suggest.

Well, I wasn't about to be drawn into a debate with a writer who I respect, and who I might add, raised some valid points. (In a war or words, I'd likely lose anyway. I have learned to avoid knee-jerk reactions and get my thoughts straight so I could address things properly. )

I think it's fair to assume that creativity is a fickle creature and something you can seldom control, but not impossible. As long as I have a few ideas rattling around my head, my personal muse is easily summoned by peace and quiet, and a pot of coffee. That's me. In my limited experience as a writer, I've found structuring a story inspired my creative side, not replaced it. I also think writing without knowing where your story is eventually headed can be just as rewarding. It also takes talent to keep it from meandering away from your original idea. Those that imply differently may just be speaking the truth, for them. They're not wrong unless they make a general claim that applies to all writers.

I'm an artist. (Nose firmly in air) I've been creating for over forty years, or about the time I first picked up a crayon and was first brought to tears by Rachmaninoff. I know exactly how to tap into my creativeness and create a compelling world for my characters. My love for writing is new but honest. I have found what makes me happy.

For the record: The Shores of Utopia started out as a dream which wound up as a brief scene in chapter ten. I outlined the story and finished my first draft in three months. Admittedly, it was utter garbage. I then did a chapter by chapter outline and completed a second draft of about 65,000 words. I composed a test query and realized the story needed more. What started out as a structured method of writing turned into a passionate and unknown path. My characters were perfected in my head and heart but I wasn't translating it to the page very well. Enter the craft of writing. I know I have a long way to go before my readers eyes tear with emotion rather than boredom. I'll get there.

I'll finish with this thought. My preferring a hazelnut flavoring in my coffee does not mean I'm not a real coffee drinker.

Cliques and Balances

2009-05-19T15:48:00.002-04:00

As I muddle through the big test, I repeatedly discover new ways of learning and facilitating situations that find their way to my plate. I recognize the patterns that we all fall into. Before I explain, I'd like to remind you that no human is perfect and none of us are more entitled than any other. (I guess that would be my opinion. There are those that will claim supremacy and I have no right to deny their delusion, or possibly their rightful place.)

It is human nature to make ourselves feel better. We all do it to some extent. There's nothing wrong with pursuing an activity if it doesn't hurt another, or splurging at the bookstore or beauty salon when finances are tight, or even shrugging responsibilities to escape to the movies or go for a long walk. Someone else may have a problem with it, but it's your life. Enjoy it. Be an opinionated and colorful teacher if you want to. Be a goofball.

But what if you enjoy putting down others because their skin color differs? Are you tall and find it amusing to goof on short people, especially when others encourage you by laughing? Maybe you feel your literary or musical preferences are superior that what is currently popular. Life is seldom black and white but where do we draw the line?

Before you think that this post is getting a bit preachy, understand that this blog deals with my personal, spiritual and creative journey, and in particular, my writing adventures. I am learning every day. I'm learning sense perception from one amazing blogger and I'm discovering the nuances of exposition from another. I am also learning to incorporate some personal issues that crop up in my life into my characters. At the end of the day, you may or may not like my imperfect characters, but you'll believe in them.

Aspire

2009-05-02T13:41:00.001-04:00

I usually complete my daily round of blog reading before I write because it relaxes me and I find most bloggers are positive. I like to keep in-tune with the world I've discovered. I try to avoid negative people and their dark energy. (Okay, that was a bit dramatic.) I've noticed how helpful you guys are and, as writers, are constantly striving to improve. You are not willing to settle for mediocrity in your craft.

I've always been a creative person and have been fortunate to have an outlet for some form of artistic expression or another. In music, the majority of musicians are mediocre. Very few players will put the time to improve their craft because they think they're great. They can already play the stuff (being nice here) on the radio with ease and its good enough. Indeed, many of the artists on the professional level are barely competent, so I understand the lack of commitment.

Writers are different. It's true that we're all on different levels of experience and, let's face it, talent, but we're all aspiring to be better. All of us. We're like little sponges, swaying in the literary ocean trying to absorb every drop of knowledge that another writer has to spill. (NO, you may not quote the previous sentence unless you clarify that it was intentionally bad and I was going for the laugh!)

My point is that my newly discovered love of writing will improve because I have made friends like insert your name here that will not allow me to write crap, and also that, even if I achieve an enviable level of excellence, I will not stop learning from you and other generous writers. I suppose another thank-you is required.

Thank You

2009-05-01T16:13:00.001-04:00

My biological clock is off. I've started working nights three weeks ago and I'm just now starting to adjust. As I sit here with my morning (3:00pm) coffee trying to wake up, I realize that I can't write with distractions – at all.

During this time my kids were with me (ah, another progressive American family) which made private time impossible. (I'll gladly give up writing to play softball with the kiddies any day.) I've read a few chapters from Lisa Unger's Black Out and started Michelle Davidson Argyle's Monarch and read about 300 posts from my favorite bloggers, tried to share my wisdom (bwahaha) through comments when the mood struck (some of those were admittedly wise-ass remarks), and wrote 3500 words on my second novel. (-or third, depending on which unfinished story gets completed.) That number is way down for a three week span. I realized I haven't posted in this time so this is it. Was it good for you?

Things are looking good though. This work shift pays much better and will allow me to catch up on bills, and I love driving against traffic so it's less time in the car. I have jet-lag without the vacation!

Also, something really cool developed.

In January, against most agents' advice, I sent out a thank you note after a nice query rejection. The rejection wasn't very specific, but I felt she was sweet and encouraging. (Hell, it may have even been a well-written form letter – what do I know?) In any event, I sent it along. I received a note of appreciation from my thank-you note. I just thought that was cool and left it at that. Last week, I happened on her blog and eventually looked for her post immediately after my dated rejection/thank-you note. She mentioned how she appreciates thank-you notes and saves every one of them (something she also told me in her you're-welcome note). How cool is that?

So, naturally, I made a comment and she e-mailed back saying "I completely understand about querying too early. I'm guilty of the same! It's hard to resist that excitement of a fresh story. Looking forward to seeing your next query!"

Looking forward to seeing your next query!

Okay, It's not like I have her phone number and we're exchanging apple pie recipes, but it's something. The fact that this agent is being so nice means nothing if my query and novel isn't the riveting and salable product it should be, but it's really cool.

Are You Ready Eddie?

2009-04-11T21:03:00.001-04:00

Like a lot of new writers I've read about on blogs and such, I queried way too early. It was a freshman mistake and I fully admit it. The good news is that I care much less about publication than I do about perfecting my story.

I read "The Bee Sting" on Scott G F Bailey's blog (one of these days I'm going to learn to insert a proper link like a pro – sorry) and I thought it was awesome. Even his comments have such clarity that I should be striving for - and this guy isn't published yet? When I take an honest look at my writing, I realize I have a long way to go – but that's okay. What's strange is that the pressure of representation is off and I'm simply enjoying the process – like a writer should!

I have a question for the more experienced (all of you) writers that might happen to visit here. Let's just assume for a moment that my manuscript is perfect six months from now. (You may continue reading now that your laughing fit has subsided.) I already queried most of the agents that rep my kind of story. Can I resubmit hoping they won't remember my previous, amateur attempt? Should I just change the title?

And not to bring up the Sauce vs. Gravy debate again, but I really want the prologue to stay! Thanks.

PS. I have a goofy sense of humor – paying homage to Lady Glamis, I dashed away! J

Dialogue

2009-04-09T16:17:00.002-04:00

A difficult aspect of writing a convincing scene for a novice like me is realism. I've become good at dreaming a particular scene and articulating it to paper. I know my characters deeply (over time) and know exactly what they want and what their motives are. (Sometimes I forget to show the reader and that leaves them confused, but that will improve as I do.) If I'm successful then you'll know exactly what my characters are feeling.

I'm a people watcher. I'm also a listener. There are countless "um's, uh's, yo's and hmmph's" throughout spoken, true-life dialogue. (Staten Island in particular has a strange and inexplicable urge to end a thought with "but."- i.e. "That was a funny movie but.")

Writing dialogue has become an entertaining endeavor. I have to choose words with care and precision if I'm going to be effective at conveying the right emotion. Unless I'm trying to be specific about a character's region and their dialect is part of his charm, I need to avoid realism. ("G'day mate")

Just for fun, I transcribed a voicemail someone left for my wife. I substituted Joe for another name and < > for something unintelligible.

"Yea um Julia, this is Joe. Um, um, me and my wife decided that we, we no longer want to, um , um, deal with the uh, < > because you, you know, you can't go in and use the fantasies, and to to avoid < > situations um we < > in our best interests I think is that, that we, we must, we're not gonna to just go ahead. Okay?"

For the record, Joe does not stutter. His stammering was because he was nervous. I also understand not being prepared to leave a message when you intended to speak with someone directly. Regardless, did his emotion come through? Maybe. Could anyone possible enjoy reading a novel with dialogue that real in it? Um, no.

Extreme Weather

2009-04-06T13:32:00.001-04:00

Today it's raining in New York. There's something about rain that is therapeutic and it gets my creative juices flowing. My day gig as an ironworker usually means I'm off in inclement weather so this gives me extra time to write. How lucky am I?

Mother Nature is an endless source of wonder for me. I've seen every science show possible concerning floods, significant snowfall amounts, tsunami's and ice ages and it still fascinates me to no end. I have always loved extreme weather. (My heart goes out to people that are adversely affected by it, but that's not what I'm referring to.) When I was a kid and I knew a snowstorm was coming, I wanted to see ten feet of it pile up. I wanted snow drifts up to my second floor window. Even though it means lost wages and such, I still haven't outgrown that.

I find a lot of those extreme scenes working its way to my writing. The first chapter of my first book begins with my protagonist barely making her appointment before a massive downpour. There are a few rainy scenes in my book as well as a snowstorm or two. (There is also nice weather in Utopia!) Maybe the visual is so striking to me that it's easy to describe, I dunno.

Oooh, a lightening strike! This is really exciting stuff. I hope the power doesn't go out. I better save after every sentence.

PS. I'm not wishing any such storms on you. I hope you are having a nice sunny day!

The Good Daughter – part 1

2009-04-01T16:07:00.002-04:00

Meg is making me think again. She made an excellent point on her blog. (If I wasn't an internet idiot [a netiot?] then I'd have a link here like a professional blogger) Anyway, she got me thinking about writing in different genres. Recently, I've been inspired to write a thriller. It's hard to be objective sometimes. I'm not sure if it's forced or it just plain sucks. I'd like to know what you think. I've included the opening pages to see if it could hook you.

A Good daughter…

Vanessa sat on the bed in near total darkness wearing her maid's uniform. The curtains of the hotel room were ever so slightly open to allow her a nice view. The eighth floor room was specifically chosen for its perfect vantage point. It was just above the tree line and allowed an unobstructed view into the second floor window of the brownstone across the park. The window was opened just enough to feel the dampness enter. With her scope in front of her, she took video of every movement coming from inside the building and everyone walking past it. Her shift was just beginning.
The man lying next to her on the bed was thrilled when she first entered the room with her beautiful muscular legs and nice chest. It was a surprise and a thrill to watch a thirty something beauty like Vanessa bring him his late night snack. A medical equipment salesman was boring on the road most of the time, but it had its perks. He was doing his part now by being quiet so she could work without distraction. It was an easy task for him considering he had a bullet hole in his forehead.
Vanessa's assignment now was Roman Hill. It had been confirmed by other agents that he was in the brownstone across the park and for now, it has become a waiting game. She opened her bag and assembled her seven millimeter rifle and patiently waited.
She's been with the Organization for three years now with fourteen confirmed kills. She was glad to get this particular assignment because it required a long range shot. Having a gorgeous face and a to-die-for body usually meant posing as a hooker or picking up her prey in a bar or such place, and completing her assignment close up with whatever was lying around as a weapon. Maybe now she could be taken seriously as a sniper, and she considered herself the best. She never missed. She had no military background whatsoever and could work undetected by the Intelligence Agencies of the various governments she'd be dealing with. This girl had no fear or remorse, and that made her dangerous - and valuable.
The curtains in the second floor balcony opened and someone stepped out. Vanessa checked to make sure her video was on and took aim through her scope. A pretty dark haired girl wearing a tailored shirt, mostly unbuttoned, stepped out. Vanessa noticed that her hair was wet as if she had just taken a shower. She seemed too short to be a professional but different people liked different things so she ignored it. A man followed her out. He seemed to be angry. She glanced over at the photo on her laptop of Roman Hill and compared it to the face in her crosshairs. She deemed them the same person. She sent a message to her section chief for a confirmation of orders and waited for a reply. She watched the woman roll her eyes while Roman yelled at her. She seemed to ignore whatever he was telling her. Vanessa saw the reply confirming her orders flash on the screen and took aim.
Roman grabbed the woman's arm making the glass fall on the balcony floor. She seemed to cut her foot and stormed inside leaving Vanessa's target alone on the balcony. She adjusted her focus to see the leaves of the trees barely moving. A still night made for an easier shot. She never formally learned the precise calculations for moisture content in the atmosphere but she always had a feel for it. She was a natural. It was like someone with arthritis that could always tell exactly when the rain was coming.
Vanessa again focused on her target. He seemed to look right at her, as if he knew his days were over. Maybe he saw something. Vanessa didn't panic because she knew she had him cold. She fired two shots quickly. The first one hit him in the throat and the second hit him center mass. She watched him fall to the floor and saw him move his arm slightly. She took aim again and put another round in his head. The resulting torrent of brain and blood on the white curtains behind him confirmed that he was dead. She packed up her rifle and video equipment and left the salesman to wonder . . . why?

Chapter 17 ½

2009-03-31T08:00:00.001-04:00

I received my manuscript back from an avid reader I had forgotten that I sent it to. I insisted that she be tough on it. I expected her to make a list of typos and she did not disappoint. What surprised me and what was most useful was a note she made wondering what this character did after that scene. It started me thinking about what all the characters are doing/thinking after every scene they're involved in or witness to.

This universe my characters are in is very real to me. I know them and everything they're feeling. I care deeply for my protagonist and I actually grieve for another when she kicks the bucket. Sometimes I forget to write down what they're doing/thinking and how important that is for a reader to understand. If I have to explain why someone does this, then I didn't write it properly, right?

So I'm revisiting my first novel and carefully rereading it to look for those little instances where I didn't actually write what I already know. I have to say that this is the easiest thing to do. It's already written in my head. --'tis fun to be God.

As you may have already guessed, this aforementioned character's reaction to the event takes place at the end of chapter 17. I see some reformatting in my future!

The Architect – Part 1

2009-03-05T07:05:00.001-05:00

Everything can be found in Brooklyn. You need not venture anywhere else in the world if an obscure item is required or viewing an unusual occurrence. It's always happening here. It is the most populated borough in New York City and easily the most colorful. It is the City of Churches and home of the Creekers. It's a place where the word fuhgeddaboudit is both a term of agreement and disagreement. It is also the home of a kind seventeen year-old who's life is about to change forever.

The morning for Nicole had a typical start. The energetic teenager rose before her sisters to assure plenty of hot water for her shower. She was just beginning her final month of high school, which meant her workload was minimal. The half mile walk to school should have been uneventful.

She strode briskly underneath the elevated Gowanus Expressway to escape the gentle spring rain. The center parking lots were just far enough from the roadway to avoid the drivers that seemed to aim for the puddles when you walked by. Her body reacted before her brain registered the awful screech from above. The scream was terrifying as the motorcyclist flew from the upper roadway to the street below, bouncing off the side of the warehouse and finally settling thirty yards away.

The line of curious onlookers parted as Nicole approached to reveal a man groaning and in obvious pain. There was blood steadily being pushed out of his mouth and nose like a rising tide soaking his beard and the surrounding sidewalk. The man was shaking furiously as if he was in the final throes of life, waiting for the peace of darkness to finally claim him. She watched the man in torment and felt as helpless as everyone else.

When the man looked her way and locked glares, a tingling sensation traveled down her spine. It was a strange and curious moment that would be burned into Nicole's memory for the rest of her life. His expression slowly morphed into a serene gaze and he began to cry. His shaking stopped as his nervous system numbed and he tried to express how sorry he was. She stepped closer to make certain she heard him correctly but he passed on before he could repeat his apology.

It was only a few moments before there were more emergency personnel than she could count. Two cops stood guard protecting the body from other cops who were cursing and spitting. This was surprising and upsetting to Nicole. She guessed he may not have been a nice man after all.

Integrity

2009-02-27T12:07:00.001-05:00

It is my intention to avoid personal opinions and pet gripes here. No one wants to read someone else's rant, right? However, this has to do with creativity, so here goes.

My wife is way too trusting. She helps everyone without reservation and wants nothing in return. Time after time she gets screwed over, both emotionally and legally. These past few months alone has seen its share of back-stabbing. In one case, her former colleagues lied to and about her, which ironically, only resulted in her finding a better and longer established company. Honestly, their only crime is a glaring lack of integrity. Most of us are suffering in this recession but that's where the test is. To put it bluntly; if you're the type of person that would steal to feed your family, you are of no use in a civilized society.

Applying these feelings of rage, sadness, or even self-pity to my writing is becoming second nature to me. I have several projects I'm working on at the moment. Usually I'm in a great mood and adding to my heroine Cathryn's adventures is easy. I make use of my rage by adding to another novel that I'm working on. Why not? If I'm having a certain feeling, I write everything down, even if I have no current use for it. Why waste an honest emotion by complaining and ranting in blogs?

Well, that's it for now.

Charlie

And so it begins

2009-02-26T13:47:00.001-05:00

Approaching Utopia: What does it mean?

My first novel is The Shores of Utopia. Late in the story, my heroine Cathryn has a major breakthrough. She's living in a futuristic, supposedly perfect world and still has problems we all face. After a series of setbacks and painful but necessary decisions, she realizes… "We're approaching Utopia, maybe even landed on its shores, but that's where we are now. Hopefully in the future, we'll venture inland."

My life has been paralleling Cathryn's in a sense. We all have similar problems and times of doubt, but it's how we handle them that matters. My major realization is that it's the journey itself that I love. I love being here and I love writing. If I'm published, that's great. If not, then I will still enjoy getting up at 2:00am and writing a few pages, or disappearing into my studio and write a song when the mood strikes. I have always had a creative side and I love that I'm able to create. In that respect, I have already landed on Utopia's shores.

What to expect:

This blog will deal with my creative endeavors, including my musical journey. Hopefully I'll have some successes to share. If you love to read and my drivel entertains you somewhat, that's great. I appreciate any comments, constructive complaints or advice you have.

Charlie