Steal this idea - "The Methuselah Mess"

Ah ha! Someone recognizes a problem I thought about years ago--aging criminals. You can go a lot of ways with a story idea like this. (comedy) Octogenarian inmates escape during a visit by retiree volunteers and stir up trouble in Tampa, Florida as they hunt for a hidden bounty of jewels from a 1940s heist. (crime) Septuagenarians, Billy and Bob Jones, seek revenge on the woman who testified against them in their 1949 conviction only to discover that she gave birth to a child--one of theirs--who's now a cop. (horror) Ninety-year-old Samuel Leumas is harassed by a vicious prison warden and a sadistic guard shortly before his release and then discovers he's not aging, but getting younger by the day and has revenge on his mind.

Yeah, I know, there are a few movies with aging criminals, but they are mostly vibrant (and way to mobile) sixty-year-olds.

Is my muse the past?

Am I getting old and nostalgic or is my muse my past? Memories have be rushing at me while I drive, when I dream, when I...ya know... and they come faster than I can write them down. Is there some age we attain when the past comes rushing back with a certain clarity and urgency? And what is the urgency? Are these memories the road crew of our mind trying to flag us down, get our attention, before we drive on and forget them in the wake of the information overload we deal with on a daily basis? Should I move to a cave and emerge years later with these thoughts scribble on the wall for the future to ponder them?


Oh, wait! I have paper. I have a computer. I have an Internet Web Log (blog). Nah! Who wants to read about the first spy I uncovered and what he and I did when I worked for NSA and lived in Berlin, Germany?

Where do you find inspiration?

After leaving the service and armed with the G.I. bill, I lived in a small college town for four years while pursuing my degree in English. I had selected a creative writing course for the fall term. I wanted to get a head start on my coursework, so I decided to write a few short stories during a three week period between the end of summer and beginning of fall. Splat. The brain froze at the moment of need. I needed to do something radical.

Over breakfast one morning in a local diner, I heard someone lament, "The most exciting thing in this town is watching the light change." Yeah, it's a cliche of sorts, and we did have only one light, and when schools out, there isn't much to do in a dry town in a dry county in which there are more deer than people. So I decided to test the theory. I would spend 24 hours watching the light change.

I reasoned it would be best to start in the late afternoon after rising at noon which was par for the course in the summer. Watching the light change from my post on the only bench downtown turned out to be a rewarding experience. I was harassed by a cop several times for being a vagrant (I wasn't because I had money on me). I got propositioned three times (only one seemed remotely legitimate--the other two would probably be passed out before we got anywhere--a dry town and dry county doesn't mean there wasn't alcohol). I got four items thrown at me (a beer can, empty cup of coffee, wad of paper, and a light bulb--maybe it was Diogenes' cousin). It is colder than you might think in northern Pennsylvania in mid-August in the middle of the night.

3:30 a.m. is the dead of night not midnight. At 3:30 a.m. all the drunks have made it home or have driven off the sides of the mountains and those early-bird workers haven't hit the streets yet. I saw two fender-benders, lots of trucks at night (I was surprised), a Model-T, two corvettes, had various people sit with me, but none for more than an hour (wussies), and had some woman very concerned about my mental state tempting me with chocolate cookies to come into the small downtown clinic. I was able to snatch two cookies without going in. Animals are about more than we realize, and at 4 a.m. a deer jaywalked from behind a closed frat house across the main road and through the Mr. Donuts parking lot without pausing to look both ways. She stood by a dumpster for a few minutes. Disgusted that there were no leftovers, she kicked the refuse container and left.

Did it inspire some great stories? Not until years later, but I did get an "A" in the class, primarily on the strength of my story, "I've Got Them Old Lovesick Cafeteria Blues Again".

A female townie thought what I was doing was bold, cool, daring, and I even remember a few "far outs". My last few summer nights turned out to be exceptionally exciting, and I did learn that watching the light change wasn't the most exciting thing in my small college town.
---
So where do you find inspiration?

What?

Which witch was which when we went with Wendy watching witches watering wilting willows with wet water while waning Wilbur wept wantonly without William's woollen woven windbreak which was whisked westward with windy whirs when wheezy witches winked wickedly.

Banned Books Week - 09/29-10/06

Thanks for LZ in reminding me that banned books week is coming up. This is but one link to an organization "celebrating" this week. For a more global view, there's Amnesty International's site for banned books and the authors who suffer from the process.

"At least he is not a book burner, you Nazi cow." - Annie Kinsella, "FOD"

MMWUC for September 24, 2007

EXERCISE: James Frey walks into the classroom. Students stare. The shackles of his past impede his progress. He leans forward in an exaggerated manner as though Jacob Marley's chains drag behind him like an anchor. The arrows of outrageous fortune stick to his back like porcupine quills. A large O is branded on his cheek and an editor's arm dangles from behind, the fingers clutching the torn pocket where the memory of his wallet stains his pants. Mark Twain waits for him at the lectern stone-faced. As Frey takes his place in front of the students, Twain clasps Frey's shoulder. "The truth is a harsh master, but you're a master of good writing." Frey straightens his posture and faces the students. "Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and relax. For the next ten minutes, write from a protagonists POV, 'The mirror reflected...'."

MUSINGS: It must be Writers Angry With Anyone (WAWA) week. I've run into a plethora of postings, articles, complaints, and tear-stained web pages with writers angry at agents, publishers, geckos, critiquers, editors, parents, significant others, reviewers, and mailmen. I've been known to vent a bit about the frustration of getting published, but I've never asked a million people to come read my weak writing so I can prove something to an agent and disguise it as some sort of helpful venture for other writers. Yep, the owner a self-serving site to which I won't link believes that one nasty agent needs to feel this writer's wrath by having a million people visit the site in 90 days. I visited and offered constructive suggestions to a first chapter that was serviceable but in need of an editor. I'm sure I will be ignored. I've learned with rejection, that in reflection, it's yourself that needs writing maturation. I doubt any agent will be humbled by any writer's web-based retaliation.

"The Virgin of Small Plains" by Nancy Pickard

A mystery with a solid arc that pays homage to the story's emotional centerpiece from the first to the last page. Characters react to events at two critical points in their lives, and their core values are put to the test in light of their maturity. Though I figured a few things out early on, the road to get confirmation was filled with doubt, as twists kept plopping down on the page like debris from a twister. It is a story of considerable power dealing with the choices people make throughout their lives, how they justify those choices, and how they reach for redemption later on. The few quibbles about coincidences are insignificant. Highest praises...5 out of 5.

My wife said, "Eh...another good mystery." and then went on with her beading.

Steal this Idea - "Calling All Brains"

You may be able to create a story out of this, but in any case, store this information in your calendar regarding when YOU have to sign up again for the DO NOT CALL list. Start now to write your horror story where aliens get ahold of the list and program a secret message to spread via the telephone to all the people on the list so that they become slaves to the aliens. You CAN buy it. It's a cheap and efficient way to start taking over the earth. Lot cheaper for the aliens then exposing their superweapon to Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum for destruction.

Nothing to do with anything, but the best places in the world to live list is out. Damn, I can't find Mongolia on it. Finland is tops; Eithopia is the bottom.

New Interesting Resources

I've added two links under Writing Help that may be of interest to some.
* A collection of 42,000 war stories from the BBC (thnx RH) is available to inspired your next story for those writing historical fiction.
* Podcasts about writing in general on American Writers (thnx AH) are available. Since I still work on a 28.8 modem, I've not heard the quality of the podcasts, but I've been told they are quite good.

Now let's get out there and make every adjective count. "Adjective!" Leonard Elmore squints jets of ink onto your manuscript.

True Passion

"Write!" Bubba was a man of few spoken words. He scribbled with his Number 2 pencil on yellow legal pad, smugged with grease from the brake job on which he'd been working.

Hours later, he lay down the pencil worn to the nub next to the thirty or more pages of paper. He smiled at me as he gently pulled a stick of gum from the pack like a debutant pulling a tissue from her sleeve. He growled with satisfaction as he chewed it, and then stretched like a panther ready to pounce on an unsuspecting gazelle.

With six lengthy strides, Bubba stood before the car with his large hands, calloused in ways not normally associated with a mechanic. He flipped on the compressor and grabbed the pneumatic wrench. Bubba tightened the last nut of the tire, and then lowered the car.

"Done," he said.

"Thanks." I looked him in the eye. "Sometimes you just have to strike...." I let the rest of the cliche get sucked into the garage's exhaust fan like a rank fart in a small bathroom.

"'Nuff said." He took my check.

As I drove away, I saw him get another pencil and pad. He plopped them beside his stool before he raised the next car in a long line of tired and patient customers that would keep him busy until late at night.

NANOBLOGMO?

This may be old news to some, but Blogger has partnered with the NANOWRIMO. It's no longer National; it's galactic. Get your plot and character sketches in gear for November.

First and last comments on these side notes:
* O.J. I yawn discomfortably at the media's ability to keep him in the limelight and how quickly the conspiracy theorists concocted the "Goldman set him up" defense. Almost as good as the Chewbacca defense (aside to "South Park").
* Spector. Convict him already. His impact on the music industry doesn't give him a free pass to commit murder.
* Spears. Whichever parent gets the kids, the kids lose. To quote Keenu Reeves from "Parenthood", "You need a license to drive, you need a license to hunt, you even need a license for your dog. But they'll let any butt reaming asshole be a father [or mother]."
* Lohan. She'll either be dead and sainted or a superstar at age 27. We are a forgiving society.

Now I must return to the garden and pick the bumper crop of beans, green peppers, and Jalapenos, not to mention the okra.

"You Can Do It"

Now you can discover that you are not alone in the universe...of writing...and struggling to get your masterpiece published. "How I Got Published: Famous Authors Tell You in Their Own Words" by Ray White (Author), Duane Lindsay (Compiler) is out there for you to digest. Haven't read it yet, because I'm trying to decide if it will inspire me or make me want to dance around a bonfire of my novels burning to the Heavens.

MMWUC for September 17, 2007

EXERCISE: "Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and relax. For the next ten minutes, write from a side-kicks POV, 'I watched her as she paced the ramparts mumbling...'." Students stared at their assignment written in strong block lettering on the whiteboard. One after another they powered up their laptops or opened their journals and wrote. Time elapsed. Some stopped after the allotted time and then started again as others continued on gleefully. Soon, the smells of the cafeteria down the hall foretold of lunch preparations. The clatter of plates and ding of silverware followed. No one had come to the morning session to guide them. No one had said start. No one had said stop. Some had written thousands of words. Hours later at noon, all had left to go eat.

In a tiny room with a one-way mirror to the classroom, the guest teacher smiled in satisfaction. He dimmed the light and stepped outside into the brilliant sunshine. "Writers write," Kafka mouthed before fluttering off.

MUSINGS: I've rewritten the first page of one of my novels for the 81st or 822nd time. I'm not sure which it is. At times it feels like I have an obsessive/compulsive disorder. Yet, the next morning, if I'm honest with myself, I know it will read better. It always does. It is a wonderful and frightening feeling--continual improvement continually.

Time Sensitive - Free Workshops

Registration closes on Saturday, September 15. See this site for free workshops by writers, editors, and publishers. Can't vouch for it, but since time is short, I thought I'd let you know about it.

It Rains

After 44 days without rain (the two days with .02 inches don't count), it has finally rained and continues to do so. The earth drinks in the sweet nectar remnants of Hurricane Humberto.

Nominations Needed

Nominations from authors, editors, publishers, and agents are being accepted for the following awards:

* The PEN Robert Bingham Fellowship for Writers
* The PEN/Jacqueline Bograd Weld Award for Biography
* The Laura Pels Foundation Awards for Drama
* Phyllis Naylor Working Writer Fellowship
* PEN Translation Prize
* PEN Award for Poetry in Translation
* PEN Translation Fund Grants
* Beyond Margins

101 Best Web Sites

I've added Writer's Digest 101 Best Web Sites link under "Wrting Help". Not sure when this came out or the criteria used. (One site is no longer updated.) However, there are many good sites and blogs listed. If you're pushing your book, these are probably some sites where you want your name and tagline to show up more often...buzz.

Book Titles that Hook

The auctioning of the proof for "For Whom The Bell Tolls" got me thinking about book titles that induce us to by a novel. One of my favorites titles of all time is "The Mote in God's Eye" by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle. What title makes you want to grab the novel?

Of course, you can always check out whether or not your title will bring you success using the LULU titlescorer.

To all the writers out there.

"A blank page is God's way of showing you how hard it is to be God." -anon

AMEN!!! Now let's go fill up those blank pages. I was thinking about four-toed sloths the other day when a dragon swooped by carrying a unicorn mounted by a Minotaur. How odd I thought as they flew toward Atlantis, which as everyone knows is really in the Indian Ocean near where the great meteorite fell in 5386 B.C. that created the great flood and wiped out all the dinosaurs. Whew! With thoughts like those, I'm glad I don't live in Tennessee.

Steal this idea -- Morning has Broken

I awoke after a long night with little sleep. Maybe my doctor's right. Ten cups of coffee a day is too much. I stopped counting sheep after I shot one who decided to squat. I'll have none of that in my bedroom. He must have crawled off in the dark, and now I'm left with a .45 hole in my ceiling and probably some excrement in my slippers. Most disturbing was the news report on the radio--morning has broken. Cat Stevens, yeah, he did it, but now we have to deal with the consequences. Sure ther will be lawsuits because of it, probably a few car accidents as people rubberneck looking at the broken morning like they did a few weeks ago when evening fell. It was a long night after that, and I was as busy as girl car hop at an all-night drive-in burger joint next to a male fraternity house on the Saturday night after the big win.

But now I'm going to have a busy day trying to track down the Cat and fix the morning. It needs to be done before darkness comes again. Pity me. For I am, the Sandman.