MMWUC: The Long Cold Winter

I, for one, am enjoying the long winter of 2012-2013. It's the winter without end despite Punxatawny Phil's prognostication. At least Sir Walter Raleigh, Raleigh's own large rat, predicted the long winter correctly. I was sick with the adult croup, a bad cold, and then the neurovirus from the Tuesday after Thanksgiving until about January 20th. That was tree cutting time, garden rehabilitation time, and landscaping project time. Now it is all squeezed between now and whenever winter ends, because when it ends, the ticks will burst from hiding, the green pine tree pollen will be as thick as volcanic ash, day time highs will go from the 50s to the upper 80s immediately, and plants will grow while you watch them. I've been splitting time outside and inside. I'm a hot weather writer because I can't handle the heat and sun, so when this winter breaks, writing will begin in earnest. So, the production of the poetry book, POEMS FOR A PLATYPUS, continues heading for a deadline a week away, the short story that I'm writing has exceeded the 5,000 work maximum by 6,000 words, so now it is something else, and the pull of the next Detective Stark novel is getting too strong to resist. I'll get to it, I tell my subconscious, the moment winter ends.

MMWUC: Responsibility to Dream

I took off last week from blogging. I was told, "Don't do that again?" I didn't know that my simple little reminder for everyone to start writing was influencing anyone. So, let's get back to basics. The worst words written are better than the best words stuck in your head. So write. Open the file now. Just write.

There was a man from Nantucket. No. The man from Nantucket wore his windbreaker like a shield against the latest Nor'easter. Ineffective. Wind pelted him like small stones; daggers of cold sliced threw the smallest opening; rain oozed through the same openings like evil creeping out of a cemetery towards unsuspecting young lovers. He sidled up to the oak tree, broad from two hundred years growth and stubby from long winters, short summers, and a constant on-shore breeze. The barren branches hung heavy to one side like a bad Trump over comb, but at least the near hurricane-force wind gusts didn't slap debris against him. The rain still came; the cold still bit. Soon,  however, the electricity went out and the small houses disappeared into the dark forming ill-defined shadows. King smiled. Another story blossomed in his head.

MMWUC: Need an A$$hole

Do you need a real a$$hole in your novel? How about a dumb crook? Do you ever wonder if you think like the rest of America or are out of touch because you've been working on your novel inside your home, having your food delivered, family delivered, books delivered, and garbage trucked away? There are solutions. There are educational tools right at your fingertips. I'm too old (or unwilling) to put myself in the position for some activities, but that doesn't stop me from finding the answers to these and other probing questions.

Want to see some real a$$holes? Turn on Jerry Springer and to a lesser extent, Murray Povich. "Yeah, he slept with my cousin and her mom while I was pregnant and holding down two jobs, but I love him. Ain't he adorable?" Camera pans to some six-foot toothpick who smiles so all the world can see the halitosis seep out of this half toothless mouth like a light mist. Then, he becomes sharp-witted. "Yeah, well, duh! That twernt even my kid. You slept with my Dad." "Only once," she screams. "So when is the baby due," Jerry asks the rotund, four-foot, six-inch butterball. "What'cha all taking about? I ain't pregnant now." Inspired yet? Ready for the next class.

Switch over to Judy Judy or COPS. JJ can be mean, but then again she has to deal with some real dumb crooks AND a$$holes. "Yeah, I smashed my sons piggy bank in the middle of the night to get money for some beers. Hell I'd put money in it before." His right eye twitches. "You’re an idiot," Judge Judy yells, "Tell him Officer Byrd." Barely audible Byrd says, "No bulb on there." Judge Judy stares down at the guy in jeans and tee-shirt. "You were divorced three years already. You lived in another town. What gives you the right to even go into your ex-wife's house?" He meets her stare. "The door was unlocked, it was after midnight, and I had visitation rights that day." JJ's hair tips explode on fire, "You're an idiot and a thief." Byrd shakes his head and mumbles, "A$$hole." (Favorite COPS episode is when the guy swore he didn't have any dope, yet the cop got the camera guy to move and focus on the ear, where a joint was rolled up and stuck there. The cop pulled it out eventually. The guy looked surprised, "Guess you got me.")

This girl came up when
searching for Officer Byrd.

Family Feud. No, stop laughing. Some of these people are really unintentionally funny, especially when Steve Harvey is on a roll. I usually eat my breakfast during FAST MONEY. That's the lightening round where two people have to answer questions that were asked of 100 people to see how well they match their answers. Takes all of five minutes. Just enough time to eat a bowl of oatmeal, or two eggs with ham and toast, or a cup of cereal. Try to guess along with these people. You'll find out whether you're inside the lines of what others are thinking or that you really should stay in that house and right that book: SQUIRREL INVASION: Why You Should Never Fall Asleep in Your Backyard Wearing a Peanut Butter Make-up Mask.

Writing school is all around us. Just need some imagination.

MMWUC: Simplicity

Some days you just have to be reminded to focus on what is most important to you in the long run, short run, this week, today, or in the next hour. Whether it is a novel or a word, as long as you move it forward, that's what counts. And yes, losing 10,000 words through a great edit is moving forward.

I've been hammering on a short story that was nothing more than a spit of a memory, a lost night that meant nothing over forty years ago, that wasn't even an important night for me, but for someone else. I've been dragging characters around on the page like Linus with his blanket, sloshing them through the ink, so they could leave their mark on my MC. I've pulled other thoughts, feelings, emotions, and stories absolutely unrelated to this story and made them related like an unknown sibling found, embraced, and folded into the family. I've tapped into locations I've never been to and let Google Earth make them come alive. And I've watched on music video over a hundred times in the past week, making it speak to me in the haunting tone I want to bring to the story. I want slosh Samuel Addams beer on the reader; sniff the salty air of Asbury Park in the 1970s; touch a dead body that rises again; hear the voices in my head--my MC's head; and see the loves of my MC's life as clear as the person in the mirror in the morning.

The story wants to run out of bounds, but I keep reining it in, focusing it on the laser sharp original intent. After 3,100 additional words on Sunday, it is now 5,973 words. 973 beyond what is required, mandated, allowed. Tomorrow and the next day and the next, I will focus on editing it to make it sharper. Always focusing. Tightening. And if it should remain beyond this goal after the good editing fight is over, perhaps it will whisper that it was intended for another goal, and I am only a tool used to give it birth. Focus on that! And write.

MMWUC: Pope Rick?

The writing job isn't going to well at the moment. Sales are very slow. Is it me or the market? My next promotional push is two months away. The poetry book is two months away. I got offered $15 for fifteen two-hundred word articles about the tensile strength of spider webs (that's a half-a-penny per word). I passed. There has to be something better.

Then this morning I see that there is an opening in Vatican City. I'm going to submit my resume to the College of Cardinals to see if I can't get the plum position of Pope. Hey, I'm Catholic. I've read the Bible, beginning to end, including all the begotting. I belonged to the Newman Club in college. My wife was the church organist at the Milwaukee Basilica. I know where my church is, and I visit it a few times a year. Heck, A MATTER OF FAITH deals with a lot of catholic dogma, a principle or set of principles laid down by an authority as incontrovertibly true. I can declare things with authority. I've seen the movie, Dogma, about thirty times, and The Ten Commandments a dozen times. I figure I can make some much needed changes and still have time to write on the side.

For one thing, the popemobile is lame. I'd convert the latest batmobile for my use. You'd scare the crap out of sinners and get to more people faster, people who need to see you. God's representative would once again be seen as all powerful and cool. Buddy Christ in Dogma might have been over the top, but it proposed moving the relationship in the right direction. I'd push that. The hat has to go. Hats lost their luster after JFK went without one at his inauguration, and it would get rid of the high-paid Cardinal whose soul (sic) job seems to be making sure the hat doesn't tip over. I'd keep the cape. In my papacy, I'm a superhero, as a Pope should be. I'd get rid of the forty pounds of vestments for one blinding-white, light-weight, bullet-proof vest with a cross in front, fish on each bicep, and the question, "Got God?" emblazoned on the back.

Also, too many Cardinals, Bishops, and other hanger-oners shuffling around Vatican City. You want to do the Lord's work, get out of the finery and visit a slum or at least a suburban enclave where heathenism seems to exist with impunity on television. Women priests? Yeah, I'm for that. We had a woman Pope once! Priests marry? Sure, why not? The only reason it was stopped was because of bad inheritance laws for Papal families. Fix that. Don't castrate the priests. Fish on Friday...I might actually bring that back. I'm a fisherman, and I need every excuse possible to put out a line, put up my feet, and pop a cold one. And these changes are only for starters. Yes, this might be the beginning of a beautiful story. Next, Pope Rick Versus the Alien Invasion.

MMWUC: No excuses

It's your Monday Morning Wake-Up Call, especially if you're a writer. Groundhog's Day is over. SuperBowl has been played. (I lost my bet with Sydney.) Christmas decorations have better been taken down by now. Yeah, sure, Valentine's Day is coming up, but most writers are probably looking for a new angle rather than another Hallmark sweet story.

- - - Turtle Love - - -

Johnny loves Debbie, but Debbie is an alien incapable of love, so Johnny tries to find a brain to transplant into Debbie. He finds Doreen, whose brain he believes has hardly been used. She's addicted to shoes she can't afford, pungent nail polish that is changed every eight hours, and turtles, and not even Ninja turtles, real-life boxer turtles. She's perfect for the swap. Unfortunately, Johnny finds out that he has a soft-spot for reptiles, loves the smell of fresh nail polish, and realizes that Doreen has some measure of fiduciary responsibility because she never buys the shoes she can't afford. She just plasters the walls in her rent-controlled two bedroom flat with pictures of them. When Johnny starts hanging out with Doreen more than Debbie, Debbie's dormant emotional synapses snap to life when the smell of Silver Streakiness nail polish follows Johnny home one night. Debbie's passion is ignited. Johnny, exhausted by attending an all night rave with Doreen, doesn't notice and falls asleep.

Debbie stalks the pair with pure hatred--not a hard thing to do because if they aren't home they're at the pet store where Doreen works. When Debbie confronts the pair, she says, "I hate you." Johnny pees in his pants in fear; Doreen screams so shrill dogs cry; the turtles slip into their shells. Debbie's eyes glow with laser intensity as she stares at the two of them.

"I never knew you could do that," Doreen says.

"Love must have been the next to the hatred synapse," Debbie responds.

They step over Johnny's melted corpse. The turtles follow.

- - - Or, Something Like That - - -

Now, get out there and make a day of it!

MMWUC: Controversial Poetry

I'm working on a poetry book for April 1st, the beginning of International Poetry Month. I consider myself a novelist not a poet, but I've been scribbling poetry since high school, mostly while hiding in dark corners of the Shop-Rite supermarket where I worked or other such venues. Occasionally  I'd write something nice, but most of the early stuff was like a Hallmakesque bad trip, mahn.

Later it got better. Recently, it's more like haiku format, but without the strict defining form of haiku as originally penned--though sometimes I get it right. I've also written a fair number of Twitter-related poems bound by the 140-character limit. Writing using twitter is actually a neat exercise in minimizing your style, that is, distilling down your words to get the maximum meaning from your rambling nonsense. Later, you can add back in the nonsense if you desire. I've found it quite useful. You should give it a try. It's like what the NASA scientists must do to anything sent in space: How much can we put in this tiny space to get the maximum results? Even if you're writing a flowing literary fiction piece about the affect a sneeze had on the love life of a rich woman's downfall from grace to poverty and ultimate rise at the cost of the downfall of her lover who dies of syphilis from an angry short-lived affair with his aunt after she was raped by aforementioned woman's father who had relapsed from his opium addiction and was out of his mind, (breath) tightening is the number one rule of good writing. (You would have thought that I would have tightened that sentence for you. Where would the irony have gone?)

Back to the main point: uncomfortable poetry lies at both ends of the spectrum. gushy love poetry from day's of yore:

Love
-----
Love comes in different ways,
and to most of God's creatures
on unexpected days.

Or, to the really weird stuff that enters the head and needs to be purged least you go insane thinking, where did that come from?:

Jeffrey Dahmer's Cat
-----
I found myself up on a hill
where I caught a little chill
I went hunting for a thrill.
Shot a cat. Kill, kill, kill, kill.

Both extremes will be in the poetry book, POEMS FOR PLATYPUS. Readers will have to decide whether to befriend or run away from me. But in either case, do so efficiently.

MMWUC: The answer is blowing in the wind

Involuntarily, I got dragged into an argument over self-publishing vs. traditional publishing. Some days I get tired of this discussion. Bottom line: every writer needs to go the best path for him or her.

"Chatting with the same friends over
& over is great, because I forget after
about ten seconds what they say."

Yes, we all know that the traditional publication business favors massive block busters and celebrity one-shot wonders. The business is in disarray and the big houses are collapsing into each other. Soon they will be a BLOB with only smaller presses hovering around it like small moons around a giant gaseous planet. However, like in all walks of life, there are still honest and reputable persons in this industry (agents and editors and publishers) sniffing around for that writer who has that something else, the zing to their words, that style to their prose, that story that rises above all the other barely retreaded tales with a fresh perspective on humankind. If you have that, you should really, really look for an agent despite the miserable returns they offer--the potential national exposure far exceeds what most writers get from hobnobbing with the same people over and over again on the social media marketing circuit.

"It's Marvin Gaye. 'What's
going on?'"

Conversely, self-publishing is not the panacea to literary stardom or financial independence that people shout about. Sure there are those exceptions who make it, and immediately sign with a big traditional publishing house, but, in general, most self-published writers are too impatient with their wares, unwilling or unable to deal with the soak time and editorial bitch-slapping necessary to make their story rise above the average story that is 5-rated by friends and family and then sits, after about six months, on the shelf like another can of beans (thanks for the image Billy Joel). But it can be fun. It can be exciting to try different styles and genres without the gate-keepers. I'm publishing a book of poetry in April, after having put out a short story anthology, which was preceded by three mystery novels of considerable length. Would happen in the traditional publishing world. It makes me happy to do the side projects. Just wish it made me money...I'm honest.

"Murder! Murder! I'm outta here."

I remember taking a fiction writing class with Lee Smith in 1988 at NCSU. A well-respected agent was brought in as a guest lecturer one week to talk about her job. Like lap dogs, we all asked the normal questions, but the tone got a bit more contentious when Lee asked why the agent's share (and many other agents) had recently gone from 10% to 15%. The agent seemed a bit offended by the question, but slapped on that professional smile and said, "Well, I have to work a bit harder now to make a sale." End of lecture.

Well, I have to work a bit harder now too, and it didn't seem like a good reason for her or the industry to pick the pocket of the person producing the goods at the time. Why is it always the producer (writer, artist, farmer, fisherman, etc.) who always seems to get screwed the worst? I guess it's because we love what we do the most regardless of how we find those who appreciate it.

MMWUC - Gingerfest

Ginger Root

It's nine in the morning and my feet are soaking in a ginger root hot bath once again. Why? Well, Diane suggested it and the quad of women playing recorder in the house yesterday agreed that it will help me recover from the flu I picked up on Friday that manifested itself on Saturday and beat the snot out of me on Sunday...nasty, nasty, nasty. The house smells of ginger. Good thing I like ginger. I feel that I might have to deal with this for a few more days at least.

BUT...It did not stop me from writing my minimal 500 words yesterday. I won't look at the muddled words I put down for a while, but I put them down. Don't forget your words. As a writer, that's all you can depend upon.

I think my next book will be, "The Year of Being Sick". While nothing I've had since Thanksgiving has been deadly (well, the flu can be), no matter how much I carp about it, being under the weather for an extended period of time does lead you to have some weird thoughts that can be extrapolated into a weird semi-humorous conspiracy story. Just what was in that flu shot? My wife and I had different flus and different times. Who sneezed on me to give me the cold I had? Was it on purpose? And why can't the doctor identify the type of respiratory infection I had? What isn't he telling me? Is it really an alien parasite? So much bullhock to write. So little time. Time to heat up the ginger root water.

Write on! Write on!! Brothers and sisters, amen. Write on!!! 

MMWUC: Writers Write

Even if you listen to music
just keep on writing.

Your Monday Morning Wake-up Call (MMWUC) is short and sweet today: Write. No pretenses. No excuses. Get the cat off the keyboard. Tell the family there's cereal, bread and butter, frozen TV dinners. There will be another sunny, rainy, snowy, windy day in the future to explore the outside. 500 words. Do it! Do it, now! Don't make me get Jillian Michaels on your case to sweat out those words. I know it's math 500 words a day x 300 days is 150,000 words. Hey, it's a novel or two!

I'm guilty just as you are of not giving myself permission enough to write. Let's stop that. Before you go to the next blog, twit, Facebook picture of fuzzy kittens, go write for 20 minutes.

Okay. It's the wake-up call. And it's short. I have to go write.

- - -

Ronald stared at the girl. She was in her mid-teens, maybe sixteen if he had to put an age to her face: light blue eyes framed by thick shoulder length chestnut hair-a Maureen Sullivan look. The small button nose centered or slightly oval face, and the lips were in need of puckering, primping, lipstick, and kissing to make the fuller. She wasn't perfect, but she was perfect to him, especially when she smiled and the dimples formed. How can the mere appearance of a dimple make him almost fall to the ground and blow in reverence in her direction. The girl listened to her friend, the more iconic blond cheerleader-type chatter on and on and on. He couldn't hear her words, but heard her nasal high-pitched voice and squeals of laughter when she said something she was obviously in love with. The girl...too impersonal, she was Robin to him wore a button-down brown coat with leather trim that extended to just below her knees. Her brown boots rose to meet the hem. She had a habit of touching the cheerleader on the shoulder with her brown-gloved hands. Leather also, Ronald assumed. The action always toned down the cheerleader as though Robin sensed the one-sided conversation had grown to loud even in the open air park shortly before noon on that Sunday.

He'd seen Robin twice before, distance glances, too brief to snack on. Today, was an unexpected feast. She's been there alone for five minutes, when he first thought about approaching her, but then the cheerleader arrived. Now, twenty minutes later, whatever courage he had dissipated.

Ronald had tired of his parents' continual arguing and left with his e-reader for the park despite the cool temperatures. The weather, however, was on his side. No wind stirred and the sunshine warmed his chosen little alcove. Early daffodils, grape hyacinths, and a trio of late-blooming Daphnes filled the air with a strong fragrance. A few early strollers lingered over the smell; he suspected they wanted the small bench he occupied. Not happening. He pilfered a soft drink, three egg bagels, and grabbed a handful of jellies and jams in little packets from the kitchen when he left. He'd eaten one of the bagels with grape jelly. For him, it as a gastronomical delight. He was there for the long haul, and seeing Robin was the bonus that crowned his day.

A boisterous voice up the path to his left yelled, "Yo!"

Robin and the cheerleader looked up. His stare met Robin's for a micro-second that burned in his heart.

- - Okay, 20 minutes up. 427 words. Just do it! - -

MMWUC - New Year's Day Resolution

A Monday Morning Wake-up Call (MMWUC) on New Year's Day Eve. I don’t think that's happened to me before. I know I should write about my personal resolutions, but being a few days short of sixty, I've been too disappointed by the number of resolutions I've failed to accomplish, despite attempts to lose weight, exercise more, control temper, get a date for a prom, work harder, blah, blah, blah. I guess I'm just not that big on laying out these self-imposed, stress-filled expectations that try to make one undo what they've become comfortable with--even if what one has become comfortable with is a life-threatening habit.

"Pass the pork rinds and another Bud. I'm breaking my personal best of 36 hours in the port-a-potty lounger. Don't forget my cigs. Hey look, STARS IN DANGER OF THE HIGH DIVE. Now that's entertainment. I'm sure they'll show the best belly-flops upfront. I bet they'll have a wardrobe malfunction with a honey. Damn shame this kind of stuff wasn't around for Marlon Brando, Orson Wells, and William Conrad. Those whales in the 1980s would have cleaned out the pool."

When I was one, I wanted a second pacifier. That was my resolution, as I recall. Did I get it? No. Maybe that set a pattern for me. I don't know why it took me so long to figure out that resolutions should be kept to one or two little objectives--baby steps can lead to great strides in a long trip in the pursuit of personal perfection. But the most important thing is--do something. And yes, I'll use the old Chinese proverb, because it is so true: A trip of a thousand miles begins with the first step. And so it is with resolutions.

I wonder what kind of NYD resolutions James Bond would make? Sherlock Holmes? Nero Wolfe? So writers, what one resolution would your favorite protagonist make?

MMWUC - Holiday Preparations

Unless your soul is in need of a quick overnight fix, complete with ghosts, time travel, and spirits, there is still time to prepare for the holidays. Yes, pull out that diary that you will write in for two weeks in January, coinciding with your New Year's resolution, and start now. Capture the essence of the holiday spirit while you are within it. You know you will only keep that resolution for a short while anyway. Who'll look back with awe at your new observations in January over weight loss, new friends, digging up old friends who barely remember you, digging up old friends who'd rather still be unfound, musings over the 20 minutes' walk per day you started on January 2nd that dwindled to every other day by mid-January and that was a mythic adventure by time you watch Groundhog's Day on February 2nd.

Write about what is happening right now. Like my wife popping out of bed at 6 a.m. after going to bed at 1 a.m. so she can start the preparations for the Christmas Eve meal. A meal that we could cook in our sleep. A meal that we could start at 3 p.m. and still be ready for the horde at 6 p.m. Write about the 7:12 a.m. call, after rolling over in bed and trying to go back to sleep from Afghanistan. Taliban? Karzai? Nope. Skippy! And it's his birthday. But I already sent him an online message 12 hours before December 24th, because I knew he was that far ahead. So, not being a big telephone talker, I greet him for a few minutes, and then turn him over to wifey who loves talking on the phone. And yes, I get a few more minutes of sleep until Sydney decides it is time for me to arise and start cooking the rice for fried rice. But I know the real reason. Sydney, a 20-y-o cockatiel, awoke and saw the rice cooker. His motivation is simple. Wake daddy. He makes rice. I eat rice. It must be a special day for me. Cockatiels are so egocentric. So the tapping on my forehead forces me to rise. I hear organ music in the kitchen. My wifey was an organist. I get every Christmas choral with the ambiance of the phantom of the opera as a backdrop.

The fire has died. The house is cool, not cold. Wifey stops the nonstop chatter to Afghanistan. "The fire's out. The house is cold." I can take a hint. And so the holidays begins in earnest.

And so should your preparations for the 2013 holiday season. Capture these moments so that in July you can write a 67 page holiday story and self-publish it on Amazon in November for $1.99 and annoy everyone with your emails, tweets, Facebook postings, Linked-In announcements, Pinned pictures portraying and praising your prose, so you too can be declared a best-selling author at capturing the spirit of the holiday. It is about giving, giving back what you experienced so that we can all benefit from the rising spirit, and as George Costanzo would say, "Happy Festivus for the rest of us." Now let's arm wrestle. I know I can take Sydney two out of three times.

MMWUC: Sleeping In

I slept in this morning--to 11:13 a.m. to be exact. Sydney flew over and sat on my head, "Whatcha doing?"

I rolled over. "Not much," I replied.

And therein summed up the whole situation.

MMWUC - Handicap Your Protagonist

Me and the missus have been very sick. We've gone to the doctor. She has the flu and is recovering nicely. I have the "respiratory infection from Hell" (the doctor's words) and am a step away from living out a Stephen King horror story, BYLINA AND THE GIANT BITE-ME BUG THAT HAS NO NAME OR CURE. Great. Now, I'm a step away from the CDC coming to quarantine my house. But, I do have some meds that hold the promise of me getting some sleep tonight.

Doctor's rendition of the
infection he saw.
(bylinous supersillious)

But fighting this superbug with a lack of sleep has given me a new perspective to our crime fighting heroes and their seemingly endless good health. My next short story book, Super Good Guys with Bad Hair Days, features the following--

* watch as Columbo, everyone's favorite rumpled detective, turns an hour long episode into a made-for-TV movie, when a bad case of incurable hiccups forces every interview into a word-pulling marathon. Rather than be subject to another long-rambling, stuttered accusation, the killer reveals himself by killing Columbo. Adrian Monk has to finish up the case. Killer commits suicide.

* stuffed-up with a bad flu for which he refused the help of Doctor Watson, Holmes misses the telltale sign of the dead woman's perfume on the suspect/waiter, fails to hear the drop of the small syringe on the floor, and doesn't detect the acrid taste of the poison injected on his breakfast muffin. Holmes dies; Watson emerges from his shadow.

* observe as 300+ pound William Conrad of Jake and theFatman runs down a another black urban youth and sits on him to await the cops. In my version, he limps from gout for 50 yards as the youth taunts him by running backwards. The Fatman grabs his chest, a heart ache in the making, the kid whips out a $50 from the stash of money. "Buy a Richard Simmons tape tubby." The money floats to the sidewalk, the kid steps backwards into small hole, and twists his ankle. Conrad stumbles forward, face crimson with pain and falls on the kid, trapping him for the police.

I'm rambling, but I have an excuse. What's yours? Throw your good guy a health-inspired curve ball when he least expects or needs it. Up that ante just one last notch.

And as a bonus, you can give him the eye infection I also have for which I have to put drops in my eyes. For me, this is a torture of unbelievable dimensions, but Sydney is not prepared to be a seeing-eye bird.

MMWUC: Santa Claus, Christmas, and the Groundhog

The proliferation of holiday stories is like clockwork, and maybe I'll join in some day after the trend has weened, and I'm once again in the dust of the marketing strategy like a salesman for public pay phones. I don't have a holiday story again. I tried to write one, and maybe still will, but I haven't a clue when I'll find the time, and the story I started morphed into something where everyone dies and zombies make presents of brains to each other, each zombie hoping for Einstein's brain, still locked away somewhere. The stories of holiday mirth, redemption, and, sometimes, murderous Santas, are selling on Amazon and elsewhere for $.99 to $5.99 (seriously now!) and are from six (you kidding me) to sixty pages.

Blatant Plug For My Book (quadruple
hubba-hubba for the prairie dog)
Great stocking stuffer...really.

I've sampled a few, but I have no patience for something written in a fifteen minute morning break from the tin cup production line that was never vetted, proofread, or given more thought than the fate of Tibetan monks living without Twinkies is given. And that is really something to think about. And being original for the holidays is not an easy task.

I say, boycott the sham stories (but not mine should I write it), and stick with the tried and true: Alistair Sims in Scrooge, Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed (hubba-hubba) in It's a Wonderful Life, or Gary Grant, David Niven, and Loretta Young (double hubba-hubba) in The Bishop's Wife.

More so to the point, start working on your Groundhog Day story now, despite the fact that one of the cinema's masterpieces covers the holiday well, Groundhog Day with Bill Murray and Andie MacDowell (triple hubba-hubba). Or maybe write a May Day celebration story. At least then they may be edited in time for release and be longer than six pages. Perhaps I'll start a marketing trend for a change.

Monday Morning Wake-up Call

It's Monday. It's morning. This is your wake-up call. Since most times this blog is about writing, the craft, inspiration, stories, events, failures, or successes, I'm going to try and inspire you with the movement of dirt.

Well, not just any dirt, North Carolina dirt, which if y'all are from here, you might recognize it as most parts clay, heavy, wet gray clay or the heavier and denser than a neutron star, red clay. The road I live on is a private road, apart from the much larger part of our exurbia development. Each of my four neighbors and I own this road, which means we have to maintain it along with the beautification alongside it so it doesn't look like the setting for a horror movie like "Last House Down the Lane" or a backwoods thriller such as Deliverance. In all we do a good job of the 1/3rd of a mile long black-top road that ends at Randy's house.

But, I've had a pile of dirt alongside my road frontage. I paid a six-pack of beer for it to a tired driver who had just wanted to dump his last load of the day from the deforestation project known as the next housing development about four miles away. When I waved the common late Friday afternoon currency, he delivered. The pile sat. Oh, I'd take a wheel barrel full of dirt once in a while, separate the rocks out, and spread the dirt at the edge of the blacktop to keep it from caving in the low spots. But it was long, slow, hard work. At the rate I worked through the pile, Sasha Obama would be looking for her second term as President, and I would probably have forgotten why I was moving the dirt in the first place.

The pile loomed as a constant reminder of things undone, like a good story that needs a strong revision that you just can't seem to get enthused about. Water pooled in front of the pile, which had become a dam in the deep V ditch alongside the road. Thousands of frogs played all summer long in the rich water (clay has a lot of minerals), a black snake enjoyed them thoroughly until a broad-tailed hawk enjoyed the snake. All kinds of water plants nestled along the shoreline of the fifteen-foot long, six-foot wide impromptu pond. I even saw two small fish in the pond one day unclear how they arrived there. I was even considering leaving the bottom portion of the pile as a dam and make the pond a permanent feature, but my sister-in-law, who does not live in our development and was aghast that I'd let the pile sit for 18 months, threatened to call our Homeowners' Association and complain.

I turned to my sister-in-law, "I am the Homeowners Association Board."

It's a small association. I duly noted her complaint then ignored it.

Still, when Randy offered to help me move the pile with his baby backhoe and scoop, I took him up on his offer.

So yesterday, Sunday, we moved the pile. At some point in the four hour long process, all the other neighbors stopped by to watch the progress, catch up on each other's news, suggest ways to break up the bigger clumps of red clay, including dynamite. I thought a block party was going to break out.

The pile was moved, the pond drained, sister-in-law overjoyed, and wife relieved that the second-longest item on the to-do list was vaporized. Neighbors seemed happy that the black-top is now supported better. But this morning I was a bit sad to see the pile gone. The dirt had accidentally created an environment that made frogs, snakes, fish, and hawks thrive. Now, it's just another ditch on the side of the road like thousands of other ditches, wishing they could be more.

I guess I just miss my dirt.
- - -
Now, don't tell me you can't think about something in your life about which to write. Time to write.

MMWUC - It's not a NANOWRIMO blog

Okay, so you're not doing NANOWRIMO. That's just dandy. It's not for everyone nor is the timing always write (sic) to set aside a month to start another project that might not lead to anything. BUT, But, you can still feel the energy from NANO by signing up and getting into conversations with fellow writers that might lead you to riff a story idea for the future.

I'm struggling this year with NANO because I've got several irons in the fire, but it didn't stop me from joining the fray and riffing an idea that might, just might become something new down the road. Okay, yeah, it's weird, but for writers, the Gordon Gecko creed of choice is "weird is good."

- - -

Suck it up, McCabe. - - - - The two-dimensional vampire was trying hard, but couldn't penetrate any of the flat characters she wrote. Woe is me, the vampire thought, as the hunger drove him to desperation, sucking the life out of an unwary semi-colon and two oblivious chatting colons, misplaced at the beginnings of a pair of lists. He eyed McCabe's whining over the crappy writing she was layering on page after page. For thirty days and nights he would have to suffer this plot full of heroic werewolves. He'd never met a courageous werewolf. They were all neurotic roustabouts, running hither and thither once a month during the full moon, and then, as if no one noticed, they would sit in their own stool during the new moon when their manic stage ebbed, and they became true tortured souls. And why do all the girls they get seem so zaftig? How come after thirty days of being two-dimensional, the bloated, yummy muse with no insight gets bumped off by a pasty-faced internal editor with more opinions than craters on the moon? He sighed and the paper floated off the table. McCabe picked it up. "Harrumph. The one good line I right and it falls to the floor." She read: "The time of desperation, when the black moment overlaid the darkness, only then will we be able to see where the speck of hopeful light shines like a pinprick for us to use as a moral and physical signpost." She kissed the line on the paper and felt a sting.

The two-dimensional vampire feasted again.

- - -

There's at least three potential stories in that three minute riff. Go forth and let your writing mind expand via inspiration and silliness with other writers.

- - -

Oh yeah, my new novel, All Of Our Secrets, is available on both Smashwords and Amazon in e-book format. Paperbook format comes late this week. Enjoy, it's the best yet. And you're beating the big marketing push.

MMWUC: What if?

Hurricane Sandy is here. NANOWRIMO is knocking. Halloween is grabbing me and tossing Frankenstorm in my face. You don't need a Monday Morning Wake-up Call from me. The Dragon capsule is back on Earth with its own Andromeda strain. Should we worry that 10-20 million people will be without power as the virus spreads? Only those NANOWRIMOites will survive to an uncertain future, ensconced in their hidey-holes typing about vampires and werewolves and wizards and people on strange planets with strange names who act like your snotty little cousins down the street. We know these characters too well.

And what if this Andromeda strain is the good strain? And the bad good people are trying to save us from the hope that it brings to everyone. Maybe the strain makes us all vegans and that saves the Earth or maybe we mutate to the point where we can blink to where we want to go. No, that won't work. A couple million horny young men crashing into each other over the newest Playmate. Silly thought. But it could work.

Everybody now: put two wild ideas together and make a story. Hurricane Sandy causes the electrocution of all the wall streets bankers. Does that make the world economy better or worse?

Yes, this wake-up call is about nothing, but, what if...

MMWUC: The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

Friday night was horrible. Actually, it was more than horrible. It might be a self-published authors worst nightmare. My new novel (currently titled "Secrets") comes out in a few weeks, and this is what happened...

I'm watching cable television and the new Amazon Book Show on channel 832.3, showcasing new books every five minutes. Simple format: a 30-second snippet from the author, another thirty seconds with the host reading the back-of-book blurb followed by a one-minute excerpt from the book read by either a gravelly-voiced man or a sickly-sweet sounding woman. Finally, there is a two minute Midwest Book Review or Kirkus talking head, and then it's back to the host for a few seconds before the "word from our sponsor." There is a running ticker across the bottom the screen showing the last five books reviewed, and below it, the top five books for the past 24 hour and their sales. Below it, the Amazon Book Show Facebook page displays for everyone to go to and see all the reviewed books.

"Secrets" comes on as the featured book, but the author is some guy by the name of Sy Sakes.

"Damn, the other writers were right. The title is too common." I pound the arm of the couch. Startled, Sydney, my 20-y-o cockatiel, nips at me.

Sy says, "I wrote this during NANOWRIMO last year as my first novel." He looks at the camera with derision. "It was so easy, I didn't bother to edit it." He sighs as if he is bored. "It is the greatest book ever written." He yawns.

I scoff at his claim then laugh at his arrogance. Sydney cackles along with me. The host reads the back-of-book-blurb.

"Damn, that blurb is almost identical to mine. Don, Edith, and Peter were right. Mine was too generic. Just like this guy's blurb. Can I stomach to do it again?"

The book cover comes up onto the screen. I gasp. The gravelly-voiced man speaks:

Chapter 1

Terrified, I counted to six, and then begged Heather, "Just Breathe." I pinched her nose and covered her mouth with mine. Each time I did this, her cold lips almost made me retch from the reality of why I was doing this. I blew again. No response. My breath was returned without the hope with which I had sent it. Again.

“Please. I’ll be lost without you.” I counted while stroking her hair. Outside, the siren of an approaching ambulance pierced the pre-dawn quiet. The 9-1-1 operator kept calling my name over the phone I’d dropped onto the floor.

I blew again. “God, help me.” I rechecked her pulse. Nothing. I shook her and small items on the shelf tipped over from the force of my shaking. “Breathe, Heather, breathe.”

Desperate, I tried chest compressions on the sloshing waterbed, trying to recall first aid from Army basic training thirty years ago. “Stay calm. Think. Move her to the floor.”

Someone knocked on the front door I had left ajar. It squeaked open. “EMS,” a male voice said.

“In here, quick!” I yelled.

Two paramedics rushed from the foyer into the bedroom.

"Please. Help her."

“Come, sir.” The short paramedic pulled me away. I didn’t want to leave her, but they were the experts. He sat me at the bay window seat facing the foot of the bed. I was shaking.

A large, heavy-set man in a rumpled brown suit entered the room and stood barely inside the door frame. His walrus face was droopy and whiskered. Was he here to help?

The short paramedic waved his hand in front of my face to get my attention. “Sir, what’s your full name?”

“Bruce Wayne Neumanski.”

The heavy-set man by the door looked at me.

“And hers?”

“Heather Rachel Neumanski, my wife. Please, save her."

My eyes shifted focus to the tall paramedic bent over Heather, shining a penlight in her eyes.

"Well?" the man in the brown suit asked. His eyes were sloe-eyed, sleepy dull.

The short paramedic spun around and stepped towards him. “Detective Meeker. Where’d you come from?”

Meeker waved him off. “I was in the area and heard the emergency call.”

The tall paramedic leaned over to Meeker and spoke in a hushed manner. "No pulse. No respiration. Gray pallor, and cold. No blood or obvious wounds, but some petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes. I can’t declare her, but…."

Despite his whisper, I heard his words to Meeker.

“Oh God, it can’t be.” I folded my arms across my chest and rocked in place. “She was so full of life. She was my life.”

The paramedics looked at me. Meeker pushed through them and stared at Heather. His eyes widened. "Holy shit." He backed away, grabbing the tall paramedic by the shirt. "Bring her back!”

"But she's dead."

"Do it."

Gravelly Voice applauds this reading then salutes the author. I fall out of my chair in shock. Sydney attacks the television. "That's my book!" I scream

The reviewer comes on. "What can I say? This IS the greatest book ever written."

The host reappears. "Wow. It must be good. That is the shortest review we've ever had. And now a word from our sponsor."

I watch in horror. Some guy names Sy Sakes has stolen my novel and put it up on the Amazon Book Show claiming he wrote it. I'm freaking! The sales counter is going nuts. I never knew this show existed until now and was so popular. I'd only installed cable a week ago. In three minutes, over 100,000 orders have come in for the book. The counter is flipping over faster than the date clock on Rod Taylor's time machine in the classic movie "The Time Machine".

I dash to the computer in the office and go to the Facebook page. I can't get on. Too many people accessing it. I hear from the other room the host come back on the television.

"Due to the excitement over this book, we are rerunning the last segment again."

Obscenities fly out of my mouth like prayers from the Pope on Easter Sunday. Sydney squawks and runs for cover. I get on the site. The online tote board shows over 400,000 orders at $5.99 for the e-book and $21.99 for the paperback. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God." I've heard about these book thieves before, but never thought it would happen to me. Somehow, somewhere, he got my book. One of my first readers, I'm thinking, must have been hacked. It can't be me. I'm too cautious.

Finally, I find the number for the Amazon Book Show (ABS). I call. "Do to the high volume of traffic for orders for "Secrets," there is a four hour delay to reach an operator." I don't hang up. I wait while I think what else I can do.

After an hour of online searching and digging and hacking, while still on hold for the ABS, I find Sy Sakes. There's a picture. It's him. The bastard only lives an hour away. Keeping the call to ABS alive on my cell phone, I hop into my car and drive to Lizard Lick, North Carolina. I find his house and rush up to the door.

"Sy answer the door," I shout.

He does.

I shoot that dirty egg-sucking dog down dead.

"Welcome to Amazon Book Services, how can I service you," is the last thing I remember from Friday night.

I'm out on bail now. It's eleven at night on Sunday. Over 24,001,046 books sold in 48 hours before they halted sales. Amazon efficiency has exported the money to an off-shore account already...$84 million. Sy's wife claimed no knowledge on Saturday at my hearing, but today, Sunday, she fled on a late afternoon flight to Belize according to the cops. Her attorney vows to continue the fight for the rights to the book. My lawyer says, despite all my drafts, reviews, critiques, and copies, it will be hard for me to prove the book is mine with Sy dead. "Hard to cross-examine a dead man."

Amazon bans me from their site forever. Barnes and Noble follows suit.

Lawyer says, "Should have changed the title when you were told to do so."
- - -

I awoke from the dream in a river of sweat a few moments ago and penned a new title for my upcoming November book release, "All of our Secrets"

MMWUC: Fat Wallets and Young Dragons

Ten Dragons

What's in your wallet? $44, an old Hibachi China Buffet receipt, driver's license (with bad pic), picture of my sweetie at 17, and these cards: emergency medical identification, prescription drug, BC/BS, donor, American Airlines D2, choice privileges hotels, Sam's Club, AARP (yeah, baby, discounts I've earned), two library cards, Quail Ridge Books Readers' Club, membership to Mystery Writers of America, Supercuts (get 8; 1 free - last used 2010), and my credit card. Pretty boring, but I remember why. Big wallets in men's back pockets make for uneven derrieres and that can cause nerve damage. I need to slenderize mine. I pull out the MWA, one library, insurance cards. I can't remember the last time someone stopped me and asked if I belonged to the MWA. The one library card is for a different county. Used to stop there when I worked the census during breaks, and while waiting for elusive people to come home. My driver's insurance is in the car. Why carry another one. I ditched the receipt, but I love that place. I suppose I can dump the AA D2 card. No one asks for it any longer.

The Dragon's Call

Yes, a boring Monday Morning Wake-up Call, but, but, you've found the wallet on the ground. What story comes to your mind? How would you reconcile the older stuff (AARP card) with the picture of a young woman? Would you recognize this person as a writer, who despite a Supercuts card, has a bad haircut on the driver's license? Do you keep the money? Or, do you make efforts to get the entire wallet, intact, back to the owner because: (a) you remember how bad you felt when yours was lost and want a rewarding feeling, (b) you remember how bad you felt when yours was lost and need to make up for it with the case, (c) you're afraid you're in a sting, (d) you're germaphobic and now are flipping out, (e) you laugh and look around for cameras, or (xyz). You pick up the wallet, and snicker, thinking, "Loser..."

Flank Hawk

Before you can finish the thought, a dragon scoops you off the ground, you scream, drop the wallet. The dragon lands in a nearby 1,000 year-old oak tree and turns to the other juvenile dragons. "See. Easy pickings. I can smell and spot a loser from a mile away. Bon appetit."

Remember that the next time you're thinking about that wallet on the ground. Think good thoughts. My dragon friends will be watching and sniffing the air. They are magical, you know.

Tiny though I be, appetite large.